#this is just me being angry with him btw philosophically I don't think this is how the story will or should end

[vaguely-concerned]

sometimes I think of all the on-the-surface warm, well-meaning but deeply ineffectual advice and attention john gives harrow through harrow the ninth (make some soup and get some sleep! get a hobby! don't be so hard on yourself! self care harrow! as long as I need take no actual responsibility in this relationship whatsoever I would have loved to be your dad!) set up against the stark truth that with his other hand he has been staging her attempted horrific murder again and again and again like a living nightmare on the logic that it will 'put her down or fix her'. and then I find that I wish there is a hell. a special hell where twitch streamers turned necromantic death emperors go

#the locked tomb #harrowhark nonagesimus #john gaius #harrow the ninth #this is why I don't buy john as misunderstood and initially well-meaning AT ALL #this is a pattern you see with him again and again and again -- right down to his interpersonal relationships #(and indeed it's in the more grounded interpersonal relationships you can most clearly see him as he is I think #the fantasy death empire of a thousand years doesn't register quite as viscerally because it's like. heightened; not quite real #but the emotional violence and manipulation that surrounds him? oh boy that is EXTREMELY real and scarily well-observed) #there's a premeditation to so much of what he does (contracts with planets that only end 'in the event of the emperor's death' anyone? #yeah john we get it you're hilarious and I wish you weren't) #the greatest trick john ever pulled was making anyone think he's just a lil guy. what does he know he's only god #when you first read the book the complete callousness of the other adults is so horrible that john seems like an oasis of care #(though you start to get this uneasy feeling when that care never seems to translate to like... relief or soothing or resolution) #and it makes it feel almost obscene when you find out what's actually going on #it's the mercy & augustine enabler hour but at least they're completely honest in their cruelty there #while john is -- well he sure is being john huh #this is just me being angry with him btw philosophically I don't think this is how the story will or should end #(with john slam dunked right into hell that is) #it's just... harrow is so vulnerable. and what he does to her is so insidious and fucked up #john is very deeply human. unfortunately the capacity to quite simply suck so much is deeply human too

[tyrannuspitch]

fic title ask game : the hand that feeds me is my own

god u guys are always getting philosophical with this game. not complaining btw just... hmmm.

i'm feeling baz pitch for this one. call me overly literal, but baz literally does have abusive/neglectful parents who left him to either hunt or starve for his whole adolescence, and instilled him with huge amounts of shame over needing to hunt to begin with, so the point at which he realises that a) this was abuse and b) he doesn't need them in his life any more, and being angry about this (or their attitudes to vampirism as a whole) within the privacy of their home is not putting himself in mortal danger (or life debt), will be... something to behold.

of course, baz has complexes(tm) and doesn't express anger at his family easily, especially over vampire-related matters. but it's absolutely there, just below the surface, all through carry on. and getting some space and spending time with people who don't flinch at the word vampire, at very least, will give him an opportunity to start processing that. (especially if he starts talking to simon about hunting, and actually reflecting on the practicalities of it versus what he does because he's afraid/ashamed... starts taking iron supplements, going to the butcher a few times a week, etc, you know how it goes.)

to be clear, i don't want to just throw him in a fight for the drama of it all! that's not how i operate in this fandom. (*although i might still include some gratuitously angsty prequel scenes. hunting and crying about it, the teen vampire condition.) but this is something that genuinely needs to come out into the open, and i think... even if it takes his family time to process and come around to his point of view... or even if they never do... baz snapping somehow, at someone, is almost inevitable, and shouting at his family is probably a lot healthier than trying to just endlessly cope with the incessant shame they subject him to.

i'm not sure what baz's actual breaking point would be, though. it does need to be something pretty powerful. and he isn't going to start anything in front of his younger siblings, since he's not out to them. perhaps malcolm and fiona talking about vampires in front of him as if he isn't one of them, justifying violence, that kind of thing...? hmm.

so umm this has been a lot of rambling to say not very much. but: what would i write for this? Vampire Catharsis. thank u

-> send me a made-up fic title and i'll tell you what i would write for it!!

#ask meme #my writing #<- ish #carry on #baz pitch #<- since i tagged it: i don't know what happens in the sequels and i don't care so don't correct me. that's not real <3 #anyway. thank you anon <3 <3 <3 #sorry if this is vague i haven't written actual words for this fandom in. years at this point #but i still like thinking about it. and one day i WILL return

[boop-le-snoot]

🔹masterlist🔹taglist🔹

Spitfire

So it's 3am and I should be asleep but...

18+! Soft!Stephen. Fluff and smut. Stephen's POV. Cunnilingus from his POV, creampie, lots of sass. Mostly plot.

Alt!Reader (kind of), some philosophical ramblings and a story about how I got drunk & passed out in an anthill. That's a true story, btw. Word count 6,3k.

"Not interested," the voice, however feminine, is low and completely unamused.

It catches both Stephen and Tony off-guard, Rogers being ahead of them by a mile: the good captain has an enhanced hearing and a penchant for protecting women. The situation seems to be very clear and totally not uncommon: some creep isn't taking no for an answer.

"You should give me a chance," said creep persists in that self-righteous, overconfident way that only mediocre men seem to be capable of. "I promise you, I'll give you a great time."

The object of the man's amorous attentions remains unimpressed. Stephen can see the side of her face; round nose scrunched in disgust and a lone raised eyebrow that reminds him a little too much of Tony.

As the sorcerer takes in the image, he has to resist the laugh bubbling in his throat. The woman is definitely out of the creep's league. Out of his, too, probably, Stephen thinks to himself, but quickly smashes the brief moment of insecurity by telling himself he's outgrown people who insist on stocking their wardrobe with things only found at Hot Topic.

If not for the serious face and the smile lines on it, Stephen would have thought the woman was an angry adolescent.

"Are you begging me?" Her tone takes on a teasing sort of colour.

The creep, predictably, sputters. "No, I am not!" So much indignation for such a little man.

"No, you're totally begging me," the little punk crosses her arms and widens her stance, somehow managing to look down at the creep despite her shorter stature. "Then do it properly at least."

"What?" The man is thrown off kilter as people around him not-so-subtly try to hide their embarrassed chuckles. Hell, even Stephen spares a vague noise of amusement, a little noise that drowns in Tony's hearty laugh.

"I said," the little spitfire leans into the man's personal space, unbothered by his tense shoulders. "Get down on your knees. And beg." The words are quiet and firm, but the tension in the room carries the noise all across the bar and away, over the tables full of eavesdropping patrons.

There's muted laughter coming from around them; the woman's triumphant smile glistens cruelly as the creepy man flushes and clenches his fists. For the lack of anything to say, he turns on his heel and leaves, carelessly throwing a few crumpled dollar bills on the bar.

"Asshat," the bartender mutters at the man's departing back, unwrapping the money. "Ma'am, you're my hero," addressing the woman who's spouting a bad case of Cheshire grin, bartender's own face quickly loses it's sourness.

"Don't sweat it. Just be happy your bar's intact and glasses aren't flying over your head," her voice bears crumbs of annoyance and agitation.

Stephen catches himself thinking that yes, she would have had no qualms about smashing a glass or two over that douchebag's head. Would have he been a little less famous in the city, he would have most likely even joined in.

The bartender raised his hands. "Hey, none of that. This is a peaceful establishment," before popping open a bottle of beer. "It's on the house."

"Lovely," she palms the beer, pointing the tip of the bottle towards the fridge, a few dollar bills in her hand. "Three more please, I got company."

Stephen's eyes follow her line of sight; sure, three more women are sitting at a table not too far away, all of them dressed in similar fashions, all of them sheepishly grinning at their friend. A stocky blonde, both of who's arms are covered in colorful tattoos, mouths something suspiciously similar to "can't take her anywhere" and the rest of them laugh, lips glistening and faces flushed.

"Put it on my tab," Tony's voice rings loudly, over the sound of rock music and noisy people. "Least I can do to repay for a good show is to buy beautiful women their drinks."

Stephen doesn't need to see Tony's face to know the engineer's mischievous wink in the direction of the giggling women.

The star of the show turns around, scanning their table with sharp eyes. In Stephen's not-so-humble opinion, she's stunning: clever features, soft curves and a smirking mouth full of sin. He has to swallow the saliva that suddenly gathers in his mouth, hyperaware of the heat creeping from under the collar of his robes.

"Thanks, Mr. Stark," whatever she was looking for, she finds it. Her features soften and as the bartender uncaps the rest of the beers, the woman gives a mock tip of her invisible hat to the entirety of their superhero table.

Steve perks up in his seat and Bucky's grin is a mile wide; Tony and Clint are just about as smitten, Stephen's own mouth turning upwards against his will. All of them are frozen, expecting - well, attention, people asking for autographs, pictures. It's not unusual for women to throw themselves at them these days.

But no, the little spitfire grabs the beers between her fingers and sashays off, frayed edges of her distressed shirt rhythmically swaying in tact with her steps.

"Quit droolin', Strange," Bucky's chortle is quiet.

"Fuck off, Barnes," Stephen mutters, downing the rest of his own beer, forcing his eyes away from the conspiring group of women several tables away.

Her side is turned to them and he can still see the ghost of her features in his peripheral vision; she stands out like a splash of bright, vivid colour amongst mundane patrons of the bar. Even with her group of such, ahem, colorful friends, she takes the centerfold - her smile and personality shines through: laughter follows her voice every time she says something out loud.

"Just ask for her number," Tony's eyeroll is heard rather than seen. "Worst case, she'll humiliate you into spontaneously... How do you call it?.. Astral projecting."

"So he'll faint?" Barton's laugh makes Stephen's blood boil. Barnes is howling at the joke, too, and Rogers doesn't even attempt to hide his smirk.

"One more word from you and I'll send you where even Vishanti hasn't been," Stephen growls in response, but even to his own ears it sounds pathetic.

Tony rolls his eyes, again, and motions for the bartender. "Let the ladies know their drinks are on me. Some hot wings, too, if they want," swipe-swipe goes his credit card. Bartender's look is all too knowing.

The night goes on. The men keep chatting amongst themselves, about everything and nothing in particular, quietly happy over a night out that doesn't involve violence or villains of some kind. Drinks flow, fries are delectably crispy and wings are both tender and juicy.

Sam joins them at some point, plopping noisily next to Rogers as Barnes eagerly tells the previous events; in minutes, Sam is cackling, ribbing Steve over not stepping in sooner to protect the honour of an American citizen. It's familiar and comfortable: Stephen, too, bickers with Tony, trading quips and playing a companionable game of verbal ping-pong.

It is, to say, quite a lovely night.

Until some great idea strikes a particularly inebriated patron; the karaoke machine is turned on, scratchy microphone emitting static, and the bar is instantly filled with noises worthy of a haunted house. The drunk man invites a friend onstage; accompanied both by boo-ing and vaguely supportive screeching, they embark on a journey to make everyone else's ears bleed.

Drunk on beer and scotch, Stephen doesn't seem to mind the terrible noise. Both Barnes and Rogers nurse a flask of Thor's liquor themselves and companionably hum along to the song they don't know. Barton is mostly deaf, so Stephen tries not to focus on him. Tony's singing could be considered good for that it's going directly into Stephen's right ear.

"I'll go next," Sam declares, leveling all of them with a holier-than-thou look.

Falcon isn't bad. What he lacks in skill, he makes up with enthusiasm; that simply means the man is making googly eyes at the nearest single-looking female. It's funny. Stephen can't remember when was the last time he laughed so much in a single evening and Tony is right there with him, having put on his sunglasses, that Stephen is convinced are filming the entire show.

Up next is the heavily tattooed blonde from the Spitfire's group of friends. Stephen allows himself to look in her direction: there she is, a glass of amber liquid in her hand, arm leaning on the now-empty chair next to her. Her skin glistens in the yellow light, slight sheen of sweat covering every exposed inch of her. She's well into her drinks and is looking directly at him.

Looking directly at him. Fuck.

The right corner of her mouth crawls up, revealing a sharp incisor that reflects the overhead light. A pink tongue sneaks out, attracting his eyes to the red muscle as it swiftly licks away a stray drop of alcohol from the corner of her mouth.

She winks. She raises her eyebrow. There is nothing but shameless curiousity in her eyes. They're half-lidded, weighed down by thick, dark lashes, sliding slowly over his reclined body.

Stephen's throat bobs as he comes to the realization he is currently being undressed and fucked in someone else's head. A bead of clear sweat trickles down his forehead, landing directly on his own eye; he has to blink it away, and when his eyes open again, the woman is staring attentively at her friend onstage.

The blonde's singing is pleasant to the ear. Tony's nodding along, bouncing to the bass, ever the lover of classic rock, he finds the blonde's choice of song and smokey vocals to be right up his alley.

"Are they in a band? They look like they're a band," the engineer's train of thought is understandable even though his voice is beginning to slur.

Stephen finds himself agreeing with the observation. He could definitely picture all of those women on a stage or on the cover of a music magazine.

Tony claps obnoxiously loud, whistles even, and the rest of the drunk men are eager to join in. Hell, the rest of the bar seems to exhale a loud, collective breath, having had cleansed their auditory palates after the drunken screeching.

It's getting dark outside but the stream of people is never-ending; the bar runs out of tables quickly. Just as Steve loudly considers going home, as the five of them occupy a table that can easily host ten people, the bartender approaches them on quiet feet.

"The nice ladies you bought drinks for proposed to join seating arrangements with you guys, if you don't mind," the man cheerfully shoots Tony a look. "Or perhaps we can place you at a smaller table?"

"Go 'head, invite 'em over," Sam interrupts the bartender with a triumphant grin. "Man oh man, finally some decent company." The man gleefully rubs his hands, scooting closer to the wall to free up space.

Stephen feels his traitorous blush creep up his neck and over his prominent cheekbones, reddening his already alcohol-flushed face. "You wouldn't know decent company if it fell in your lap," the grouchy remark comes out as a force of habit.

The giggling women pad over to their table under the envious stares of other patrons; while nobody had dared approach the superheroes, there have been definitely multiple photos taken and curious looks thrown aplenty in their direction.

"Sup," the blonde waves, before noisily flopping next to Steve. "I'm Ethan and I'm gay," the abrupt statement makes Steve pale, then flush as the rest of the company begins to laugh.

"That's an A+ on social skills," the spunky woman remakes dryly, setting her glass right next to Stephen's. "Oughta put a muzzle on you." The interaction between the two reminds Stephen of his and Tony's antics.

The other two women introduce themselves - Moira, the brunette, and Laura with the wild, purple locks - as they find a spot in between the superheroes. All of them seem strangely immune to the charm that Tony and Bucky exhume; perhaps, indeed they are in a famous band, perhaps it's just the alcohol.

"Can you sing?" Tony addresses the woman, who had accepted her nickname to be Spitfire - the only token of Sam's flattery she had acknowledged so far.

"Sure can," she nods, eyeing Stephen through her lashes. "And you? Something tells me your teachers had to wrestle you to be in the school choir," the unceremonious way of speech leaves Stephen slightly flabbergasted.

Well, because she's right. "Unfortunately," the memories aren't overly fond.

"I'm a solid contralto, so I feel your pain," other than that, she offers no condolences even as Stephen's face visibly sours at the prospect of having to go on stage again. The solidarity, is nonetheless, pleasant.

"Are you guys in a band or something?" Steve asks the question that has been bothering all of them; the conversation descends into more or less mundane topics after that.

Concerts they've been to, places they've gotten ridiculously drunk at and dumpsters they'd woken up in. Barton's incredulous habits are definitely a hit with the ladies, even as he describes the stench of a container three-days-full, the laughter doesn't die down.

"... and then I was like, why does everything smell like rotten garbage? And I sat up, and looked around, and realized - it's me! I'm the garbage!" Clint's beer bottle swayed dangerously where his arm had accidentally almost tipped it over.

Moira steadied it, clutching onto her stomach with her other hand as she struggled not to explode from laughter.

"You said garbage, I raise you an anthill," Spitfire's giggles stopped long enough for her to string together a semi-coherent sentence.

"An anthill?" Tony's voice bled pure joy. "That's exotic even for me!" He exclaimed, referring to the topic at hand: strangest places they've woken up drunk.

"I must've been fifteen or sixteen at the time," Spitfire's hands wiped at her eyes, smearing tears of joy and black eyeliner all over her cheeks. "Me and a couple of friends from school had this great idea to liberate a bottle of scotch from this crackhead we knew. Went into the woods, found an abandoned train station and next thing I remember," her friends howled, evidently well familiar with the story. "Was waking up in a pitch black forest, surrounded by trees and with the entirety of my left side covered in ant bites. I was still drunk as a skunk when I tried to navigate back home but then I hallucinated," with that said, the woman folded over laughing once again, as everyone else followed suit.

Stephen couldn't hold back anymore. "Sweet baby Jesus, how much did you drink? That's alcohol-induced psychosis," he couldn't help his medical training slipping through.

"I've no idea, I barely remember," his outrage had no effect on her raised spirits whatsoever. "I hallucinated that zombies were chasing me so I ran through the forest for a while until I got back on the tracks. I walked for about an hour until I got back to familiar grounds and went to my friend's house," people were full-on guffawing as the pitch of her voice rose.

Tony's snorts invoked another layer of joy that even Stephen couldn't resist. His sides hurt.

"They were both asleep so in my intoxicated state, I decided that breaking a window was a great idea," there were tears streaming down her cheeks. "Right over the room where they were sleeping." Sweat dripped from her hairline. "Imagine the view - you're sleeping off your first real taste of booze and suddenly, the window cracks open and something that resembles a skinwalker crawls in and says hello."

The seat creaked pitifully as Clint and Moira both fell over, no longer able to even keep upright. Rogers' empty glass rolled over the table under the combined force of two supersoldiers absolutely losing their shit.

"I was covered in dirt, twigs and ant bites. My friend got so scared she threw up."

Stephen's hand grasped the side of the table as Spitfire drunkenly staggered into his lap, short snorts of near-hysterical laughter continuing to emanate from his lap. His other hand was busy supporting Tony who had run out of breath and was now simply heaving into his palm, equally sweaty and disheveled.

"I can't," the engineer wheezed. "I can't even imagine," he attempted to right his swaying body. Tony didn't bother to continue his train of thought, gasping out a terse: "Water!" to the bartender that came to investigate the noise.

"God is dead," Ethan solemnly announced to the entire table, swallowing down the dregs of her laughter. "She killed him. In cold blood."

"Thor is very much alive but I'd rather she not challenge him to a drinking duel," Steve's uncharacteristically cheerful voice rang over the clinking glasses and bottles. "I'm not sure who'd win and I definitely don't want to find out."

Stephen, now free of Tony, helped the woman back into her seat, taking note of the perspiration gathered on her skin. The make-up smeared around her eyes, the full, flushed lips- and promptly shut down that train of thought, knowing damn well it could lead into dangerous waters.

Like this, open face and shiny eyes, she looked irresistible. Good enough to eat.

"I don't have a drinking problem, I swear," that shameless smirk was back, stretching her treacherous mouth into a sinful curve.

"Sure you don't, honey," Tony sassed.

"You would know," the reply came immediately. Stephen quietly applauded her quick wit, once again feeling, rather than seeing Tony's eyeroll.

"We're thinking about heading out," Steve cast a not-so-subtle look over the various empty glasses and disheveled people.

"Any one of ya' ladies livin' near Brooklyn?" Bucky picked up the cue, receiving a curious nod from Laura. "We'll get ya' home in no time, sweetheart," the nickname slipped off Bucky's lips easily. Laura didn't protest.

"I'll call a driver. Any one of you Manhattan-side?" Tony's phone made an appearance as he shot a quick text to Happy.

"I can find my own way," Ethan replied, pulling other own device.

"You sure? Pepper would have my head if I let a drunk woman wander the city streets alone," the hint Tony dropped wasn't subtle, but for Ethan, that was enough. She pocketed her phone, nodding gratefully.

Clint and Moira had been conversing quietly prior to this; it didn't come as a surprise that the archer offered to get the woman home safely. To who's home? That remained a mystery.

"If I hear any complaints, I'll come at night and slice your balls off," Spitfire remarked conversationally, raising an eyebrow towards Stephen.

"Duly noted, ma'am," Steve's cheeky response had Tony quietly whistling into his glass of water.

"Capsicle got moves," he fake-whispered to Sam, who chortled in return.

"I'm a hundred and two, not dead," Asgardian liquor was a recipe for sass, coming from the good captain. Bucky simply grinned, wolfishly, sticking out his tongue at Sam in a final moment of defiance before the darker man disappeared into his taxi.

The summer night was hot, noisy, as the city that never sleeps geared up for the streets to cool off and be full with rivers of young people out seeking a thrill. Stephen felt slightly misplaced in his work attire: dark blue robes and the overcoat draped carelessly over his shoulder, his clothes a stark contrast to the relaxed tee-and-jeans combo of his companion.

That's what you get for spending all your time at work, he mused lowly to himself, sticking both of his hands in his pockets.

"Cat got your tongue?"

His eyes landed on the woman, now walking backwards in front of him. The strap of her tiny messenger purse threatened to slide off her shoulder with every step. Seemingly unbothered, she shrugged it back on.

"You are criminally pretty," Stephen observed, words unusually clumsy, his thoughts muddled by alcohol. It's been so long since he last allowed himself to partake in it so carelessly, he'd almost forgotten how it felt to be tipsy, with the world swaying at the heels of his feet.

"I'm not sure if criminally is the right word," she pretended to think about it for a moment. "But I've been arrested several times. And then let go," she chewed on her lip. "So you are at least partially right."

"How so?" Whiskey-tipsy, the confession barely made a dent in his attraction towards the woman. If anything, it solidified her vibe in his mind as a sort of a fallen angel.

"Usual teenage bullshit," she grinned knowingly. "Skipping school, smoking, vandalising government property."

"Getting drunk on anthills," he couldn't resist adding obvious to the list.

"That too," she didn't skip a beat. "Although these days I do prefer the comfort of a bed. My back is not the same as it was back then," the invitation was clear in her voice.

Stephen found himself at a crossroads. In the past, such simple pleasures were a norm for him. There had always been someone to keep him occupied at night, someone to keep his hands busy and his bed warm. It wasn't hard to find a willing body: he was successful, wealthy and attractive.

The accident and his broken hands had put a tamper on that lifestyle. It was insecurity at first, but then new responsibilities grew on him like a persistent fungus, spreading their spores and bleeding into every aspect of his life. Was he lonely? Sometimes. But there was still so much to learn, so many books to read.

His eyes once more strayed back to the woman, who had fallen in step with him and was intently eyeing a lone ice cream stand a few yards ahead of them. Stephen liked to think she was simply being polite by pretending to not notice his internal struggles.

"What's your favourite?"

"Chocolate," he answered honestly, fighting the urge to smooth back her damp hair that was sticking out in odd directions ever since they had succumbed to childish laughter back in the bar.

A soft-serve cone traveled into his hand from hers, an indentical one already being devoured by the woman as he took a tentative lick of the cool, sweet treat. On a humid night in July, it felt like pure heaven. Stephen groaned, collecting the already-melting ice cream running down the sides of the cone.

"You're awfully pretty," she spoke with a slight mock.

Stephen felt her eyes settle somewhere just south of his mouth. "How so?" He parroted her previous statement.

"Those cheekbones are absolutely wasted on a man," she scanned him, his face, the silver at his temples. "You're like a painting come to life."

If he was being honest with himself, he'd heard that before. But words coming from a drunk, a happy one at that, tended to leave a bittersweet aftertaste: brutally honest as they were, it was unlikely that they held any real meaning outside of the confines of their encounter.

"Thank you," he replied, for a lack of other things to say.

"You know," she looked up at him, speaking the words around a mouthful of ice cream. The treat gathered at the corners of her lips, sticky. "This city is so weird. You got all kinds of people living here, scurrying along their stupid little lives and pretending that their neighbor isn't a ten-foot-tall green giant," her face turned thoughtful. "And I can't help but wonder, are they really that blind or they simply choose not to see? There are amazing, wonderful, unusual things. More to discover and more to feel," the frayed strap of her bag slid down again and she adjusted it. Pure reflex.

"It's not always wonderful and amazing," Stephen replied, eyeing the fresh scar on his forearm, courtesy of an interdimensional space monstrosity. For him, it was a Thursday.

"Yes, but..." She twirled the half-eaten treat in her hand. "I think it's worth it. Humans are capable of amazing, terrible things. Most times it goes hand in hand," the end of her sentence got bitten-off; suddenly, she noted the furrow of his brow and her tone turned shy. She left some things unsaid.

Stephen looked back at his life before the accident and after it; he did recover, in the end. Not in the way he had hoped he would, but he'd carved another place out for himself in this, at times, cruel world. He was still able to save lives, do good. For the sake of humanity.

He did not resist the smile that curled on his face. Comfortable, like his favourite sweater. Quiet, like his favourite environment.

The woman gave an equally secretive grin in return; side to side, they walked along the dirty sidewalk, their hands brushing against each other with each unhurried step. Cars and people zoomed past them in a lazy summer haze but they paid no mind to the background noises, each of them drunk on the sense of understanding that had blanketed over their weary minds.

"That's my stop," finally, they came to a halt in front of a brownstone. There were plants hanging out every window and the brass-coloured gates of the property surrounded the building with lace woven metal. "Care for a nightcap?"

"Lead the way," Stephen replied firmly, gently, reaching for the warmth of her hand. The gesture was sweet; her hand drowned in his as he drowned in the warmth of her amity.

The doors clicked shut behind them with a soft thud. The woman lead him deep into the spaceous silence of her apartment as a line streetlight cast shadows of the window panes on the dark leathers of her couch.

Stephen let himself be pushed onto it, pulling the woman into his lap as she shrugged off her bag on a nearby table. His outer robes landed on top of it, the dark blue fabric scrunched and sticky with sweat.

Her bare skin sizzled under his fingertips. She was hot - the day's sun had soaked into her body that now radiated warmth and comfort, soothing the everlasting ache in his scarred, trembling hands. The weight of her offered a luxury, the moisture of her breath on his lips - a promise.

Stephen's own mouth, chapped and bitter with whiskey, closed around the woman's lips, sucking her into the passion that was beginning to stir in his gut. A dextrous tongue sought entrance to it; he let her, allowing her to steer the kiss when he felt her hand in his hair.

She was lazy, like a cat in the mid-day sun; in the best of ways. Like this, kissing slow and steady, in the twilight of her apartment, time lost all meaning, it became more useless than ever: Stephen measured secondary with each glide of her clever tongue against his lips. Spit had collected at the corners of his mouth. She sucked his bottom lip between her teeth, savouring the taste of him.

Their hairstyles surely matched now. He felt his neatly combed tresses stick out in odd directions when she pulled back; if her smirk was anything to go by, he was already gone. So fucking gone. The urge to mirror her was overwhelming.

"Shower or no shower?" She pondered the myriad of belts on the kaftan of his robes.

"Probably," he breathed, suddenly aware of the way the fabric was sticking to him.

She hopped off, removing her t-shirt in the process. Without an ounce of shame in her body and soul, the clothes dropping noisily, the woman lead him towards her bathroom, opening the door to a surprisingly spacious shower. Like everywhere else in her spaces, Stephen noted, the source of light was dim and yellow.

It gave the impression almost... Magical. Far from the sterile, white lights of the hospital. The opposite of Stark's scalding arc-powered projectors.

Stephen stepped under the stream, sighing as lukewarm water rained over his overheated skin. They stuck together where she was pressed up against him; neither could be bothered to part from one another than strictly necessary. It was as if once their bodies connected, the only way to truly let go of one another was to finish what they had started.

To let go.

Stephen pondered his body's sudden, demandingly hunger for touch; he ran his palms over the woman's back, covering most of her shoulder space with just his hands.

She shivered, looking up at him. Water droplets dripped down her eyelashes; and oh, my God, that sight alone, Stephen was sure, will follow him even in his dreams. To distract himself from the rapidly swelling flesh between his legs, Stephen reached for the soap, lathering up the woman's arms, her back and shoulders, never once breaking eye contact as she patiently withstood his strange affections.

There were no words that could describe the relief, the simple joys of performing such a basic act of service.

Steadily, he dropped to his knees to continue washing down her belly; soft and warm in his hands, like putty; the man could not resist pressing a gentle kiss on the spot, soap bubbles be damned.

A hand landed on his shoulder as an amused giggle escaped the woman's lips. "Tickles," she explained, giggling even louder when Stephen petulantly blew a raspberry in the same spot. "You're gonna get soap in your mouth, silly."

"A small price to pay for you to keep making those cute noises," he dutifully reached between her legs, hiding a grin at her hipbone when she gasped at the sudden touch. "That, I like that too. More of that," his teeth gently nipped the skin of her hip.

"Let's at least wash the soap off, you scamp," she admoshed him, but there was no real heat to her voice.

Stephen let her explore his body, much like he mapped hers; every scar was documented with soft fingertips and carefully placed kisses. She kissed the one near his heart first, murmuring something that he couldn't hear over the water pouring over his face. The liquid was invigorating, washing away years and years of accumulated discomfort down the drain. At the soles of his feet, it felt thick, viscous with sweat and grime of his grief. It was a heavy burned to carry.

When it came to his hands, she didn't ask. In the dim light, the shadows painted anguish and distress onto Stephen's already angular face; no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't wash away the marks left on his body by his own reckless idiocy. But her lips soothed the sting of it, at least.

Toweled off, their skin now glistening with clear water instead of sweet summer sweat, Stephen finally pulled the woman into his large embrace at the foot of her bed. Their lips met once more, now familiar with each other; reveling in the intimacy, each movement only added to the tally of sparks shooting up his spine.

Barenaked lust, it's skin to skin and soul to soul; he allowed himself to take hold of her breath much like she conquered his pain. Even if it was a momentary relief, he was a beggar, a sucker for the most simplistic pleasure the world had to offer.

Her neck, soft under his hand and blooming with marks of his affection once he could get his mouth on her, the arch of it was utterly delicious. Stephen tasted her moans and drank in the faint taste of her skin, flipping her onto her back and bracketing her smaller body in his arms.

"You taste like heaven," he confessed, voice breathy. "My sweet girl."

She responded with a keen noise of her own, body doing most of the talking. A trail of gooseflesh followed in the wake of his breath; her nipples pebbled, beckoning him with their need. His hot, wet mouth wrapped around one bud as his fingers made quick work of the other. The woman was wonderfully responsive, neverending melody falling from her lips.

"Fuck," she breathed, wrapping a leg around his torso.

Stephen could easily feel the heat, the desire radiating from the apex of her thighs. The thin patch of hair on his tummy was sticky with her already.

"That's the plan," he couldn't resist the sass.

Accompanied by her breathless chuckle, Stephen made his way down her stomach, taking care to mark and tally every available inch of her skin. Mouth, tongue, teeth - he utilised every available resource to him, to temporarily make her nothing but his own. His beard left a trail of tender discoloration where he dragged it on his way to her cunt.

It glistened, puffy and swollen. It called for him, her clit pulsating as his breath hit the top of her mound.

"Don't tease, Stephen," she whined, trying to impatiently wiggle in place.

The man chuckled coarsely, forcing another wave of shivers to run over her body.

"You look good enough to eat."

"Well, what's stopping you?" She pouted, raising her hips barely for a tenth of an inch. That was how much wiggle room Stephen's strong arms left her.

"Nothing, just enjoying the view," the man flexed his fingers on the outside of her thighs, much to her whiny disappointment, tucking his smile into the crook of her leg.

Without a warning, Stephen's tongue licked up a broad stripe over the seam of her sex. The woman yelped, thighs tensing, abs flexing. Stephen repeated the gesture, sneaking the tip of his tongue deeper into the folds of her cunt, savouring the taste of her slick.

Her next moan resonated with his. "What a sweet cunt," his arms forced her open to the sweet assault of his mouth. "Could spend all night like this," he came at her with kitten licks, lavishing each side with so much attention that the woman was practically writhing by the time he got to her clit. "Nothin' but you in my mouth. All night," making sure she heard him right, Stephen dipped his tongue inside her opening, drinking her straight from the source.

Above him, the object of his affection howled. Her mouth was open, wide, in a silent scream; eyelids tightly shut, the line between her eyebrows betrayed the intensity of her experience.

"Fuck, please, Stephen, please," she begged for relief, without an ounce of grace or reservation.

The slick drooling from her cunt was simply too delicious to resist; it was the most direct proof of everything he'd been missing. Flattening his tongue against her clit, Stephen flicked the engorged nub until the tell-tale signs of her orgasm appeared in the tremble of her voice and limbs.

His arms kept her pinned to the bed as her back arched and more and more of the precious fluid poured into his mouth; Stephen drank from the torrential rain of her sex until she began to try and squirm away. The urge to retaliate was unbearable: he placed claiming marks on every inch of her yet free from him as he made way back to her.

Hazy and dreamy eyes stared at him. Round, like the sun, and full of warmth and comfort.

"I want you," even if it was a demand, there was no power in it. He'd broken her and put her back together.

Stephen hissed as he palmed his neglected cock, running his thumb over the pre-cum that had collected at the very tip of it. Her lips parted; he took the cue and placed the shaking digit between them, her responding hum of pleasure traveling straight to his cock.

It's blunt head nosed at her sensitive cunt, slipping through the slick. They both hissed at the contact, nerve endings in their bodies coming alive with intimacy and longing.

"Fuck," she exhaled her wonder right in his mouth.

It was a snug fit. She fit him like a tailored glove, so hot and wet and maddeningly sweet, all pulsating black hole of euphoria around his throbbing cock. How long had been?..

Stephen dismissed that thought, gritting his teeth with a guttural growl as he bottomed out, his pelvis flush with hers. He breathed the shared oxygen, waist bracketed by her trembling thighs and eyes focused on the awareness leaving her body with every heartbeat he felt around his cock. The glassy look was enough to cause an addiction, it made something curl inside him, something dark inside his ribcage that threatened to burst right from his mouth.

"Good?"

"Please, move," she sounded pained. Impatient.

"As my girl wishes," it was easy, calling her that in the moment, especially the way she melted into him the moment his words turned so sweet.

His hips picked up pace, steady at first, but with the need consuming them both, it soon became a race between demand and patience. Their bodies demanded immediate release but their minds latched onto one another, hoping to prolong this moment into an eternity.

Stephen had felt like he was tethering off his stage the moment that smirk had reached his eyes at the bar. He'd wiped that clean off her face until nothing but desire remained.

"Oh god," she moaned, catching his bottom lip between her own. It lasted only a second. "I'm gonna come, fuck," the suprise on her face only spurred Stephen on.

"I'm right here, right with you, darling," he held onto her waist and he shoulders, he closed his teeth around her skin, he drowned himself in her when her cunt convulsed for one last time, sucking him dry in an instant.

Stephen let go.

The aftershocks were just as intense; an echo chamber of lust. The throb of his cock resonated with a pulse of her cunt; his seed shot deeply into her, every spurt powerful and determined. Stephen physically felt the weight leave his weary body.

"You're so good to me," he mumbled into her hair, somewhere between awake and asleep.

"Ya think?"

Unbelievable. There was still some sass left in her! Stephen snorted, rolling off the woman, vowing to himself to fix her attitude in the nearest couple of hours. Morning, maybe.

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