on like semi-indefinite hiatus lol

ship: tony stark/bruce banner (mcu) word count: 2467 rating: e

it’s essentially secret under-the-desk blow jobs in inappropriate situations okay

Kick me three times if you want me to stop.

Tony stared at the message from Bruce in confusion, but didn’t have time to over-think it before pushing open the door and leading, with his best and brightest fake smile, a small group of major investors into his office. He hated these things. Pepper called them meetings but it was closer to feeding time at the zoo, each of them trying to get a bite of him in an environment where they knew as well as he did that Pepper would have his balls on a platter if he tried to duck out of it.

He walked around to his desk, gesturing at the three chairs in front of it for them to take a seat, and pulled his chair in closer. “Right. So what is it that Stark Industries can do for you today?” He said, forcing the words out with as much sincerity as possible when there were a million other things he would rather be doing.

Plus, Bruce was in town. He regretted it, sometimes, forcing him to apply to universities further afield. He regretted it every time he jerked off and thought about how easy it would have been for the kid to go to NYU, like Bruce originally planned, and he could have had him whenever he wanted. But no, someone had to be the bigger man, and the whole point of this was Bruce getting the absolute best education money could buy. The last thing he wanted to be doing was talking to these idiots when Bruce Banner was in his reach for once, but according to Pepper, sex marathons were not a good enough reason to take time off work.

ship: dan egan/jonah ryan (veep) word count: 1786 rating: t (honourable mention to canon-typical foul language lmao) tw: panic attacks 

He can't bear to watch any more, but he can't tear his eyes away. His phone rings insistently in his pocket but he already knows what Kent is going to say, and he doesn’t need to hear it. Dan Egan isn't new to this rodeo.

Vermont businessman. Popular, well known, employs--directly or indirectly--one in six citizens of this frozen over New England hellscape. It should have been a cakewalk, a stepping stone to bigger campaigns, better candidates. A Senate race, potentially. Dan has it all planned out. And then congressional candidate Phil Mayford tries to take a selfie with the crowd at a rally, falls off the front of the stage and breaks his leg. In front of two hundred walking fucking cell phones and the local press. Ten days before election day.

It's over. They may as well pack up and go home now. Mayford’s toothy smile and fucking Dumbo ears taunt him from the posters plastered on every flat surface of the campaign headquarters, a harbinger of doom sent to personally pave his way to career purgatory.

His other phone rings, the personal one. The caller ID says Amy, but it's probably Ben, or Kent or god fucking damn it maybe even Selina herself, because this travesty of an administration is barely managing as it is and they've just lost another seat in the house, and … well, he's fired. Fired and blacklisted from D.C. for the rest of his life.

Or maybe just left to decompose in a skip in a Whole Foods parking lot, if POTUS gets her way.