you’ll always be that sunburn on me

Even the rain gently pattering at your window isn’t enough to soothe Jean-Paul back to sleep.

He’s stiff as a board, sitting upright on the mattress next to you, his mind racing. You’re sound asleep next to him, comforter tugged up to your chin, blissfully unaware of the horrors he’s experiencing.

He should wake you up. He knows he should—you’d asked him to—and yet, he can’t. You’re too peaceful, too warm, too wrapped up in the cozy comfort of whatever it is you dream about every night. He wouldn’t dare disturb you, not for something as silly as this.

Still, the things he’s done as Azrael continue to plague him when he closes his eyes, blurry visions of gore burned into the backs of his retinas. 

He swipes a few long, blond strands from his face and reaches to the nightstand to put his glasses back on. Squinting at the alarm clock on your nightstand, he cringes when he sees the time. Well past three in the morning.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed, mind set on washing those few extra dishes you’d left in the sink before bed. He’s not getting sleep anytime soon, he might as well make himself useful.

He’s just about to stand, half of his weight already in the balls of his feet pressed against the floor, when he feels your soft touch on his wrist.

He glances at you over the shoulder, forcing a smile when he sees the sleep-ridden concern on your face. Your eyes are still half-closed, lips pressed into a thin line.

“Jean?” You yawn, “what time is it?”

“Late, sweetheart.”

You nod, tugging at his wrist, drawing him into you. He gives in, letting himself flop back into the mess of pillows and blankets, laid flat on his back next to you.

He frowns, “did I wake you?”

“Told you to wake me if you couldn’t sleep.”

The guilt sets in, a new weight over the already unbearable weight he carries every day. “I’m sorry.”

“S’fine,” you murmur, rolling over to lay on his chest.

He’s warm, chest radiating heat like the sword that plagues him. You press a hand against the bare skin of his stomach, snuggling close to him. Jean drapes an arm over your side, pulling you in.

“What was it tonight?” You ask.

“Same as usual,” he admits quietly. “Thinking about the things I—Azrael did.”

You look up at him through your lashes, tracing soft circles on his skin. Goosebumps raise where you drag your fingers, muscles relaxing beneath his skin.

You press a kiss to the side of his pec. “You’re not your past.”

“I know, it’s just—“ 

Sometimes the voice get so loud. Sometimes they roar at him in the dead of night until it’s all he can hear. Punish the guilty, be the avenging angel, seek vengeance.

“It’s too much,” he admits. “Some nights, it’s just too much, and the world is so quiet and—and my head is so loud.”

You prop yourself up on an arm to look at him properly. “What helps to quiet it?”

He pauses for a moment to think, remembering the techniques he’s used to get himself through nights much worse than this one. Nights before you were at his side, before the safety net that he finds in your arms came to be.

“Stories, mostly. About the Saints and other things.”

“Tell me one,” you say.

And he does. He starts to regale you with a story about a Saint you’ve never heard of, spouting off each detail like it’s second nature to him. The sound of his voice soothes you, has you relaxing back into his chest, your breathing steadying.

Telling you the story has him soothing himself, too. The voices aren’t so loud, the guilt doesn’t plague him as heavily, he doesn’t see the snapshots of violence behind his eyelids anymore.

Before he knows it, he’s reached the end of the story. You’re fast asleep on his chest, chest rising and falling rhythmically. He finds his own eyes feeling heavy for the first time tonight, sleep finally clasping his hand.

He brushes a thumb over your temple, “I love you so much.”

dc masterlist | navigation

It's a random Tuesday as Bruce, and you stand in the middle of your grandfather's beloved attic. The wooden floors creak under your weight, dust particles moving in spirals as the early rays of sunshine flit through the glass panes of the dormer window. Your mother had asked for your help in cleaning your grandparents' place, and so you pulled in Bruce - offering him a break from his corporate duties, which he gladly agreed to.

"Wow, I did not realise my grandad hoarded so many things", you say, looking at the vast number of trinkets and boxes stacked along the walls on both sides of the attic. Each was well organised, with a label pasted on the top.

"Your grandad was a man of culture", Bruce chuckles, looking at the various band posters from the 40s and 50s. There were even autographs from some of them, neatly preserved.

Both of you got to work immediately, knowing it would be hours before everything was cleaned out. You had decided to split the work by concentrating on different ends of the triangular room.

Bruce had struck gold by ending up in the corner where your granddad had seemed to store much of the photo albums and cassettes, stacked on top of each other, labeled in detail about what the insides contained. It gave Bruce an insight to your family, a family from looking at the albums that had photos from back since your grandparents got married, having their daughter — your mother, to her getting married, and having you.

He had seen a lot of your photos since the early days of dating, but these were different. Your grandfather was an avid photographer, and Bruce could sense it through the varied angles and poses that he made everyone do.

"Having fun, huh?" you mumble, looking at Bruce as he suppresses a chuckle while looking at the pictures of you — a two-year-old, wearing a princess gown and a wand gripped tightly within your grubby fingers.

"You get stuck with the more fun part, while I have to dust some old documents", you grumble, looking at files and files of documents.

"Do you wanna exchange, sweetheart?"

"Nope," you say, emphasizing the 'p' as you shift to the next box, "Besides, I like hearing you laugh, even if it comes at the cost of my pictures"

An hour passes by.

You had finished four out of the twelve boxes. Heaving a sigh, you decide it's time for a well-deserved break. And what better to do than annoy your beautiful husband?

"Bruce, Brucie Wayne," you turn to look at him at the lack of any response "Bruce?"

Bruce doesn't answer, his broad back turned towards you. There is something different in the air from a few minutes ago, almost tinged with melancholic fragrance. You move towards, hoping to see what made him go so still, only to let out a gasp when you see it.

There you were, maybe five or six years old, wearing a large doctor's coat that reached well beyond your limbs, dragging onto the marble floor and a cute pink stethoscope around your neck. But that was not what made you gasp; it was the couple you were standing with in the photo.

Thomas and Martha Wayne.

Both of them were crouched next to you on either side. Thomas Wayne in his fitting black suit paired with a dark blue silk necktie embellished with motifs, while Martha Wayne wore a simple black silk dress paired with a blue plaid jacket.

There was a tiny piece of description below the photograph, a little shabby, like your grandpa wasn't sure what to write.

' Y/N & famous couple from Gotham (VHS #155)'

Bruce let out a laugh— loud but bittersweet. It made sense for your grandad to not know them, considering the only people he thought to be rich were the Queens.

You looked at Bruce, his eyes a little glazed as you cupped his face, fingers rubbing against the expanse of his cheek. Pressing a small kiss on his forehead, you whisper, "Shall we watch the VHS tape?"

He hums as you both try finding the exact tape among two hundred of them. Once retrieved, you dust the Toshiba VCR at the corner, pulling it slightly towards the center. You and Bruce try to get it to start since it probably hasn't been used in a while.

After a few minutes, the VCR lights up. Inserting the tape, you press play, and both of you stand back, Bruce's arm over your shoulder as you lay your head on his chest, arms wrapped around his waist.

The VCR displays a blue gradient before buzzing to a grainy film of you in a purple and pink frock , smiling widely at the camera. There's a lot of noise around you — people clapping , speeches being read as your grandad records the stage when Thomas Wayne was giving his speech. Bruce shifted a little, hand holding yours a little tighter, from hearing his father's voice after so many years.

The video then shifts to you, standing in front of the couple, wearing a pink stethoscope and a white coat a little too large for your frame. Martha Wayne smiles , a smile so radiant, before crouching down to her knees as she shakes your hand.

"Hi, there. What's your name?"

You say your name before letting out a giggle at her calling you beautiful.

"You want to be a doctor when you grow up?" She asks, hands pointing at the instrument hanging around your neck.

"Yes, ma'am. I want to be a heart doctor," you say, peering at the woman beside you. Thomas Wayne smiles before exchanging pleasantries with your grandfather.

"Oh, that's wonderful! You will be a great doctor one day, my dear."

And with that, the VHS comes to an end.

Bruce sniffles a little , his hands holding your waist, chin placed on top of your head. Silence fills the space along with the sounds of your nieces playing around the house. You don't know how long the both of you stayed like that, but it could have been forever, and you didn't mind at all.

Bruce is beyond happy. While it may not be visible to the naked eye, you could feel the joy emanating from the open crevices of grief and gaps of affection. He was happy that you —his wife, the love of his life — had met his parents. And they had gotten the chance to meet you.

Perhaps both of you really were soulmates.

You cup her face and she leans closer like she can't help it. The thought that you could make her lose her control sends a giddy feeling through you.

You turn her head and press a kiss to her jaw, leaving a bright red mark behind.

She exhales through her nose. "Really?"

You admire it with a satisfied grin as her hands settle on your hips. "Done."

She lets her forehead fall against yours.

"Can we go now?" she asks.

You shake your head.

"What now?"

"I need a kiss."

"Of course you do." She mutters, but gives in anyway. 

masterlist

The first one arrived on a Tuesday.

You were in the common room with your phone, half-watching something on the TV and not really tracking it, when the notification came through. SHIELD internal. Debrief document, your name in the subject line, sender ID: AGT-J.B.BARNES-2245.

You read it once, then you read it again.

Asset demonstrated exceptional situational awareness during the extraction sequence. Threat neutralisation was efficient and tactically sound. Of additional note: asset's decision to reroute through the east corridor rather than the designated path resulted in the successful retrieval of secondary intelligence that would otherwise have been lost. This was not a lucky call. This was good instinct. Recommend continued field partnership.

This was not a lucky call. This was good instinct. You put your phone face-down on your knee, then picked it up to read it again.

Nobody had ever put that in writing before.

You were smiling before you'd fully registered. It was the kind you had to press your lips together to keep reasonable, and you looked up at the TV without seeing it and thought, huh.

Across the room, Bucky watched your face do something he didn't have a word for and felt a pull in his chest he chose not to examine.

You were on your phone a lot. He'd noticed. But, he wasn't keeping track or anything. So, he looked back at his coffee.

The second report went out three weeks later, after the Rotterdam job.

Bucky wrote it the same night, still in the post-mission quiet when everything felt slower and more honest. You'd been good in Rotterdam. Better than good. You'd held a position under pressure that most people would have abandoned and you'd done it without being asked.

You hadn't mentioned it in the debrief at all, just moved on like it was nothing, and it was very much not nothing.

He wrote the report, and he did so carefully. He added a line he took out, then put back in, then reworded three times:

Asset shows consistent pattern of underreporting her own contributions in verbal debrief settings. For accuracy of record, this document reflects observed field performance rather than asset's own account, which trends toward omission.

He looked at that for a while. Then he hit send, BCC'd himself, and closed the laptop.

You got it during breakfast.

Sam watched you pick up your phone mid-bite, watched your expression shift into something soft and private and a little delighted. He watched you put the phone screen-down with the careful precision of someone protecting something.

"Good news?" Sam said.

"Mm." You picked your fork back up. "Just — yeah. Good news."

Sam looked at you. He then looked across the kitchen at Bucky, who was reading the newspaper with the focus of totally not listening into the conversation.

Sam looked back at you, but he said nothing. He was mentally storing all these signs.

Bucky noticed you were doing it more.

The phone thing and the quiet smile. The way you'd look up from whatever you were reading with this expression like something had settled right in you. Then you'd put it away carefully, like you were folding something you wanted to keep.

He'd assumed it was texts. Someone's texts. Someone who made you look like that on a random Thursday morning over coffee, and he sat with that for approximately forty-five seconds before deciding he didn't want to think about it anymore.

He opened his laptop that evening and pulled up the debrief for the Lisbon job. Standard stuff, you know, like routine retrieval. 

Except you'd done this thing mid-mission where you'd talked down a civilian who was about to make everyone's life significantly harder, just calm and steady and completely unbothered. It had taken maybe ninety seconds and saved the whole operation two hours minimum. Nobody had commented on it. It was the kind of thing that disappeared into the noise.

He started typing.

He wrote the standard sections firstL objectives, timeline, outcome. Then he got to the additional notes field, which SHIELD technically used for anomalies and escalations, and which Bucky had been using for other things.

Asset's interpersonal management under pressure warrants specific notation. The civilian stabilisation in the market was executed without backup, without prior briefing, and without any apparent increase in the asset's stress response. It is the opinion of this agent that this represents a skill set that is both rare and consistently undervalued.

He was adding a final line — something about recommended commendation, which he'd never put in a report before, and which he also chose not to examine — when the chair next to him scraped back and Steve sat down.

Bucky tilted the laptop slightly away, reflex.

"Working late?" Steve said.

"Report."

"Which one?"

"Lisbon."

Steve glanced at the screen anyway, as he had no sense of boundaries that Bucky hadn't explicitly built a wall around. He read exactly enough to go very still in the way that meant he was trying not to have a reaction.

"That's very thorough," Steve said.

"I'm a thorough person."

"You recommended a commendation."

"They earned it."

Steve opened his mouth, and Bucky closed the laptop.

"The report," Bucky said, "is classified."

"It's an internal debrief document —"

"Goodnight, Steve."

Steve stood up. He walked out of the room at a completely normal pace.

Steve found Sam in the gym the next morning. He looked up from the bench press, while Steve held out his phone. Sam read the screenshot — received at 11:43pm, the text reading just you need to see this with no other context — and set the bar back in the rack.

They looked at each other.

"Do they know?" Sam said.

"They don’t know."

"Does he know?"

Steve's expression answered that. Sam picked the bar back up. "We're not telling either of them."

"Absolutely not."

"This is the most entertaining thing that's happened in six months."

"I know."

"Your best friend is writing this person love letters and filing them with SHIELD."

"I know, Sam."

You'd started saving them.

Not in a folder or anything organised. Just — you hadn't deleted them. You'd read the Lisbon one four times. On the fourth read you'd hit the consistently undervalued line and had to put your phone in your pocket and go do something with your hands for a while.

Someone on the team was writing these. Had to be. The mission details were too specific, the access too internal. Someone who'd been in Rotterdam, in Lisbon, on the extraction job in February.

You were running the list in your head while you made coffee, not really tracking the room, when you said out loud: "Do you think it could be an analyst? Like someone in the documentation department who just — sees the same names a lot and —"

"No," said Bucky, from the table.

You turned around. He was eating cereal and looking at his phone. He didn't look up.

"I mean, it's possible though, right?" you said. "They review everything. They'd have context."

"Analysts don't do field commendations. That's agent-level sign-off." He turned his phone over. "Whoever it is has been in the field with you."

You stared at him. Nonchalantly, he ate his cereal.

"That," you said slowly, "is actually really helpful, thank you."

"It's a logical deduction."

You turned back to the coffee maker. You were smiling again. You could feel it.

Behind you, Bucky looked at the back of your head with the expression of a man who had just realised he might have a problem.

The fourth report was the one that got away from him.

It was after the Geneva job, which had gone sideways in three different directions and then come back together.

It was entirely because of a call you'd made that Bucky was still thinking about four days later. It wasn't even a dramatic call. That was the thing. It was quiet and fast and so precisely right that he'd had trouble focusing for the rest of the op.

He sat down to write the report and he wrote the standard sections and then he got to additional notes and he just — kept going.

He wrote about the Geneva call. He wrote about Rotterdam again, because he'd been thinking about it. He wrote:

This agent has now worked alongside asset in eleven field operations. Pattern of observation across this period leads to the following assessment: asset is the kind of person who makes every operation better by being in it. This is the conclusion of eleven data points and one agent who has been paying attention.

Then, because Geneva had also produced something worth noting — genuinely, this part was professional — he added:

Of additional commendation: asset developed a partner communication system mid-mission, Geneva operation. Implemented in under thirty seconds, zero errors. Examples: "wrong floor" for abort, "you owe me coffee" for stand down. Effective. Recommend standard adoption. For the record, the coffee was never collected.

He read that back. He sent it before he could think about it differently. BCC: himself. B For Bucky. Private and safe.

You got it during movie night.

You felt your phone buzz, glanced at it, saw the sender ID, and made a decision in real time to read it right now that you would later question.

Asset is the kind of person who makes every operation better by being in it.

You made a very small sound that you hoped nobody heard. Sam definitely heard it.

This is the conclusion of eleven data points and one agent who has been paying attention.

You were smiling so hard your face hurt and you were staring at your phone like it had personally done something kind to you. You were going to need a moment, you were going to need just a —

You kept reading.

"Wrong floor" for abort. "You owe me coffee" for stand down.

You stopped smiling. You read that back.

Those were yours. The system you'd built in a Geneva stairwell in thirty seconds because you'd looked at Bucky and done the math on how the next hour was going to go.

You'd whispered the whole thing to him while checking the corridor and he'd said got it and that had been that. You hadn't written it down. You hadn't told debrief. Nor, had you mentioned it to anyone because it had felt like — it had just felt like a thing between the two of you.

For the record, the coffee was never collected.

He'd put that in a SHIELD report. You looked up.

Bucky was looking at the TV with his arms crossed, jaw slightly set. The specific stillness of someone who had decided in advance that they were going to look at the TV and they were going to keep looking  no matter what.

You looked at him for a long moment, realisation configuring in your head. He didn't look back. You looked down at your phone, then back up at Bucky.

Sam looked at Steve, who just looked at the ceiling, avoiding any stray gazes. Nobody said a word.

You locked your phone, very carefully, and put it face-down on your knee. On screen, something exploded.

The room stayed very quiet.

# fic inspo

Who you can request for:

anyone who has been featured on this blog that has less than 3 fics

anyone else who has little to no fics on tumblr (just ask!)

anyone from the list below :)

How to request:

choose your fave neglected character

choose whether you want fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, slice of life (anything but smut!)

if you have any extra details you want to include, feel free!

Neglected Characters:

— DC:

any of the DC women <3

Booster Gold

Ted Kord

Simon Baz

Connor Hawke

Grant Emerson

Jean-Paul Valley

Victor Stone

Garth

Duke Thomas

Jaime Reyes

Garfield Logan

Bart Allen

Superboy Prime

Guy Gardner

Oliver Queen

— Marvel:

Angel

Colossus

Sentry

Clint Barton

any of the Marvel women

— Resident Evil:

Chris Redfield

Jake Muller

Ethan Winters

Carlos Oliveira

any of the women

— Overwatch:

any of the OW heroes <3 minus robots & animals

— if you have another fave who isn't on the list, feel free to ask <3

— characters will be updated as i write for them ^^

Masterlist:

A Night Apart - Jaime Reyes

Color Your Night - Piotr Rasputin

Whenever you make out with Jason, there is one thing that you were never poignantly aware of before—that he was able to unlock a new avenue of sensation. After all, before you met him—you had never really been with anyone before.

And you had definitely never even been with someone that you could readily make out with. And you had never been with anyone that was able to take you down this avenue of…tactile discovery.

Because that was the thing: every time that the two of you kissed—there was a flare of heat, a blooming of insistent need that would take reckoning of you whenever the two of you shared both space and privacy.

But one thing was for certain: every time that Jason got you alone, he would alone have the privilege of being able to enjoy the sanctity of your mouth against his.

Much as he does now, as he holds you on the terrain of the couch, his mouth pressed against yours. His hands searching out the details of your body, roaming up the width of your thighs wrapped around the spread of his thick waist.

You can feel the instinctive grind of his body against yours, against the junction of your legs. This lets you become quite aware of something burgeoning with lustful intent. As if the ways that he was making you come undone with his mouth was no clear indicator.

And oh, the things he's doing with his mouth right now—the way that he takes his tongue and presses it at the seam of your lips. The way that your mouth opens to give him access, and how he takes what you've given him without any hesitation.

And you can feel his tongue scrape against yours—and encounter the beaded pearl piercing that dots the center of the muscle.

There's an exquisite shiver that blooms inside-out as you feel the way that his tongue laves at the spot, desperate to commemorate the taste of you against him.

And his hands, while already exploratory, become so much more desperately hungry for more. They grab in avid handfuls to ensure that you will remain trapped under him—a captivity that you're happy to endure.

He knows you like it; after all, the moan that you make into him, that he swallows with another slick lap of his tongue against yours—the heady rush of sensation from the crown of your head that jolts straight between your legs—

He knows what effect it has on you. He understands all-too-well how much it drives you wild, and he'll do his best to ensure he can continue to encourage those reactions out of you. He searches for the back of your teeth with an expert swipe of his tongue; your hips roll into him with an instinctiveness that you cannot resist.

Jason only pulls away when the necessity for air demands him to, so that he may admire the flustered state that he has reduced you to. So that he can see the glassy manner that your eyes arc up to him with, the boozy smile that you take aim with.

He huffs an amused breath through his gritted teeth—after all, he can't resist the grin at this prize that he's got below him. Not when he's been able to undo you in such manner.

"You like when I kiss you, sweetheart?" He asks, his eyes mercurial—dark with intent to fulfill his duties to the very letter. All that you can do is nod with unabashed glee, unabashed mischief that spreads your smile wider.

"Are you gonna keep doing it?" You ask him with a sly undertone to your voice. He doesn't miss it; if there's one thing your boyfriend is good at, it's picking up on a hint.

"Sure am." He groans as he begins to consume the distance that has elapsed between you both. As he seizes his mouth against yours, and takes care to finish the job that he started.

dividers and banner made by me, Jason Todd art drawn by @/deathstar_soy on instagram

taglist: @colonelfish @just-peachy-babe @thescrawler @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @bestmannequin2018 @cassiecasluciluce @mortisetspei @lettucel0ver @paankhaleyaaar @lala131lsjsl @bozosprout @bubbletae7 @inkievoid @moonchxrm @newangelle @kimmylikesthemall @nocturnalbruiser @clownstheyreeverywhere @yoru-ichi @inkievoid @starego @ficcharsimpsblog @unicvnthlle @ella-rowen @minandras @pixie2k5

On the edge of the silk sheets, you held the position with a commanding, effortless grace. You were on all fours, your spine arched in a receiving curve that directed each scene of the night.

Every time Tony drives into you, his body slamming against yours with a frantic, desperate energy, a performance even. He was exuberant, his eyes darting toward the lens in the corner as if checking to ensure the angle was perfect, his movements calculated to maximise the visual impact for the man who would eventually watch this.

His large hands were wrapped firmly around your chest, pulling your breasts upward and back, forcing them to bounce in a rhythmic, hypnotic cadence that synced perfectly with the heavy, punishing thrusts of his hips.

He wanted it all captured: the sweat glistening on your skin, the way your head tossed back in a display of effortless pleasure, and the sheer, unbothered dominance in your gaze. There was no guilt in the room, only a shared, dark intoxication.

As he groaned, a low, guttural sound of pure, manic devotion, he leaned in to whisper against the shell of your ear, his breath hitching with every heavy lunge. "Look at the light, baby... make sure he sees how much you love this," he urged, his voice thick with a twisted kind of pride. He was helping you dismantle a man, piece by piece, through the sheer visual evidence of your satisfaction. 

You didn't even bother to look back at him with affection; instead, you cast a sharp, predatory glance toward the blinking red eye of the camera, a smirk tugging at the corner of your lips.

You were the architect of this chaos, and Tony was your most willing, most enthusiastic demolition crew. Every time his hips collided with yours, sending a jolt of sensation through your core, you felt the delicious weight of your power.

Don't get anything wrong here, you weren't someone mourning of a lost love. No, here, wrapped in his strong arms with the zooming lens ahead— you were someone celebrating a conquest.

As Tony’s hips pushed into you with a bruising, rhythmic intensity, you let out a low, melodic laugh that sounded more like a challenge than a moan. You tilted your head back, eyes lidded and sharp, catching the glint of the camera lens.

"Hey, Tony," you purred, your voice dripping with a sly, effortless confidence that made his breath hitch. "You sure this camera is ultra 4K? It better be. It needs to catch every single detail from the way my tits bounce to the exact moment he sees how much better this feels than him."

Tony let out a choked, manic sound, half groan and half laugh, his grip tightening on your waist until his knuckles went white. He loved it. He loved the sheer, unapologetic cruelty of your satisfaction. He leaned down, his chest pressing against your back, his voice thick with a twisted kind of pride. "It'll be perfect, baby. Every inch of you. He won't be able to look away even if he tries."

He drove into you again, a deep, punishing lunge that forced a sharp, satisfied gasp from your throat. You didn't shy away from the sensation; you leaned into it, arching your back to present yourself even more brazenly to the lens. You were a masterpiece of calculated hedonism, and you knew it.

"Good," you whispered, a predatory smirk playing on your lips as you felt him shudder against you. "Because when he watches this, I want him to feel every single thrust. I want him to see exactly what he lost, and exactly how much more a real man can give me."

Tony let out a guttural groan, his movements becoming frantic, almost desperate to satisfy your demand for perfection. He'd lost himself on fucking you solely, his hands were almost worshipping you, trailing over the smooth expanse.

Tony’s breathing was a ragged, desperate thing, his chest heaving against your back as the intensity in the room reached a fever pitch. He was obsessed with the spectacle of you, satisfied to the brim.

With a low, predatory growl, he shifted his weight, his hands sliding down from your waist to the insides of your thighs. He gripped you firmly, spreading your legs just a little wider, angling your hips to ensure the camera had an unobstructed, intimate view of your most sensitive parts.

"Watch this," he hissed, his eyes fixed on the red blinking light, a manic glint in his gaze. "Watch how she takes it."

As he continued to drive into you, he reached down with his free hand, his long fingers slick and expertly poised. His thumb found your clit with a precision that was almost surgical. He began to rub, a firm, rhythmic friction designed to be as visually stimulating as it was physically devastating.

He made sure to do it right in front of the lens, a deliberate display of how easily he could unravel you.

"Look at her," he groaned, his voice a dark, gravelly rasp as he watched your reaction. "Look at how she's fucking breaking."

The sensation was overwhelming, a tidal wave of heat that started at the point of his contact and radiated through your entire body. You didn't hide the pleasure; you leaned into the vulnerability of it, letting your head fall back against his shoulder, your head tossed back in a display of sheer, unbridled ecstasy. Every gasp, every sharp intake of breath, was a deliberate note in the symphony of your triumph.

"That's it, baby... give him everything," Tony urged, his voice a feverish command. He increased the pressure of his thumb, his movements becoming faster, more relentless, ensuring the camera caught the frantic twitch of your muscles and the slick, glistening evidence of your arousal.

He was driving you toward the edge, watching your eyes glaze over with pleasure, knowing that this exact moment of vulnerability would be the most devastating thing your ex had ever seen.

The tension snapped. A shuddering orgasm ripped through you, your pussy clamping tightly around him as you cried out, a sound that was half sob and half triumph. You arched your back so hard, your breath coming in jagged, desperate hitches.

The sensation was so intense it felt like you were being unmade, but even in the throes of your release, you kept your eyes flicking back to that red light, making sure the visual of your undone state was captured in high definition.

Tony didn't let you settle. He used your release to fuel his own, his thrusts turning heavy and punishing as he chased his own peak. He watched you with a hunger that was almost terrifying, his face illuminated by the manic joy of a man who had just helped his queen win a war.

He leaned down, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your shoulder, his voice a wrecked, triumphant whisper. "There it is... look at that, baby. He's going to fucking die when he sees this."

The sterile, cool air of the lab was a sharp departure from the feverish heat of the penthouse, but the tension hadn't dissipated. It had simply evolved into something more cerebral, more dangerous.

You prowled lazily through the rows of humming servers and glowing holographic displays, the soft soles of your feet silent against the polished floor. In your hands, you held a sleek tablet, the screen casting a cool glow over your face as you scrolled through the raw footage.

"Damn," you murmured, a slow, satisfied smirk tugging at your lips as you watched the high definition playback of your own arched spine and the way his hands had gripped you. It was visceral, a masterpiece of spite captured in 4K.

Tony didn't even look up from his workstation, his fingers dancing across a holographic interface with the practiced ease of a man performing surgery. He was focused, his brow furrowed in concentration as he meticulously cropped the footage.

He was careful, surgical in his precision, cutting away the recognisable lines of your faces, leaving only the intimate, anonymous geometry of your bodies, the rhythmic motion of your hips, and the undeniable evidence of your pleasure. He was making sure the mystery was just as enticing as the act itself.

"How are we leaking this, though?" you asked, leaning against a sleek metal workbench, your eyes never leaving the screen. You tapped a finger against the edge of the tablet, your voice lilted with a casual, teasing curiosity. "I like the idea of videos, but 'leaks'? It sounds so... messy. Uncontrolled."

Tony finally paused, his fingers hovering over the holographic display as he turned his chair toward you. A slow, wicked grin spread across his face, the kind of expression that made it clear he had been thinking ten steps ahead of everyone else.

"It’s not a leak, baby. A leak is an accident. This? This is a targeted strike," he said, his voice dropping into that low, confident register that always signaled he was about to show off. He tapped a command, and a complex schematic of a network architecture bloomed in the air between you. "I’m not just uploading this to some random site where the whole world can see it and dilute the impact. That would be amateur hour."

He gestured to the glowing nodes of the diagram. "I’m building a private, localised server. It’s going to be a digital ghost encrypted, high security, and completely invisible to standard scrapers. But here’s the best part, I'm going to manipulate the environment variables so the access is incredibly narrow. It’s not going to be a wide open URL that anyone can stumble upon. Instead, it’ll be a gated, high level protocol. I’ll set the permissions so the server only recognises a specific set of IP addresses and device IDs specifically, your ex's phone, his laptop, and the devices belonging to his closest circle of friends."

He tapped a sequence of commands, and the holographic nodes pulsed a deep, menacing violet. "To anyone else on the internet, the server won't even exist. It’ll look like dead space, a ghost in the machine. But for them? It’ll be the most high definition, inescapable humiliation of their lives. They’ll get a notification, a direct link that bypasses every firewall they have, and they’ll be forced to watch you take exactly what you want, exactly how you want it.

Most people would have felt a chill at the sheer, surgical malice of his plan, the idea of a digital trap designed specifically to haunt a handful of men. But as you watched the violet nodes of the server architecture pulse in the air, your smile didn't falter, but it widened, turning sharp and hungry.

"That sounds great, actually," you said, your voice smooth and utterly devoid of hesitation.

Tony’s eyes locked onto yours, and for a moment, the genius engineer vanished, replaced by a man completely intoxicated by the darkness in your soul and the unadulterated joy of your shared depravity. He lived for that look the way your eyes glinted with a predatory satisfaction that most people would find terrifying, but to him, was the most beautiful thing in the world.

You turned away from his holographic masterpiece, your eyes drifting back to the raw footage on your tablet one last time. You compared it to the edited version on his screen, noting how the subtle blurring of your faces only heightened the voyeuristic intensity, focusing the viewer's attention entirely on the raw, rhythmic friction of the act itself.

It was perfect. It was anonymous enough to be a haunting mystery, but intimate enough to be a direct slap to the face.

"After this, I'm riding you," you called out over your shoulder, your voice echoing through the vast, high tech expanse of the lab. You paused at the threshold of the hallway, a mischievous, wicked glint in your eyes

"Hey, we could even make this a cam series," you added, letting out a final, melodic laugh that drifted down the hallway like a taunt.

Tony sat in the silence of the lab, the blue light of the holographic displays reflecting in his eyes. He didn't answer immediately, since he didn't really need to. He simply watched the empty space where you had just been, a slow, reverent smile spreading across his face.

He was a man who had spent his life solving equations and mastering complex systems, but you were the only variable that truly mattered. He would build empires, destroy reputations, and rewrite the very laws of digital privacy just to see that wicked, triumphant glint in your eyes one more time.

He would do absolutely anything for you, and the most terrifying part was that you didn't even have to ask.