#fic!

Mala Longxia Cookie was sitting at his bed, The Chip has came to his room.

SCC: What's up! Uh...

He greeted but got a bit worried.

SCC: Is something wrong?

MLC: Damn headaches...

SCC: Ouch.

MLC: It's not that kind of common headache, it's from a sharp time with the flame fever.

SCC: What?!

MLC: I was succumbed by that earlier.

SCC: Gasping meatballs... That's gotta be a lot more painful than I expect...

MLC: Exactly!

...

SCC: Should I help you relax or something?

The former omen took a bit to decide, but he accepts it anyways.

MLC: Sure. Let me just...

He lies down on his stomach.

He started massaging his shoulders first.

SCC: Damn, you're stiff.

Quietly spoke the chip.

SCC: Looks like there some knots to deal with.

He pressed his finger like rubbing his friend's upper back, Longxia crosses his arm above his face, as he groaned.

SCC: Does you've been feel? Feel good?

MLC: Whatever you do I'll be accepting your choices.

The cookie mutter on his sleeves.

A few moments later he finished his upper back, with the cookie almost asleep, now he is doing to his lower back but...

He startled as his friend's hands was touching his back of his first bottom ribs.

SCC: Are you okay?

MLC: No...It's just a reflex.

Quietly spoke.

Without hesitation, he smirked and started massaging his lower back, the lobster reacted starts covering himself, "it tickles!" he tried so hard not to crack.

SCC: Oh? I guess I need to get another strategy.

He started massaging his lower back(where connects to his sides & hips). It took a few seconds which he started to crack. He started to giggle quietly as he continued it.

SCC: Never let your guard down.

MLC: N-No! No-hohoho...

He tried to curve himself but can't due of Chip sitting behind his knees, so he lightly slam his fist on the ground while other is covering his face.

SCC: Why are you hiding yourself?

MLC: Stop doing that you rasca-hahaha-l!!!

He giggled louder. So he rolled on the side causing the chip to fall in a mini impact.

SCC: OW! Now you've done it!

He rolled him making him lay down in his back and sits on top.

MLC: W-Wait! I can explain!

SCC: You need to think twice, before doing it!

Now he is tickling his midriff.

MLC: GAHAHA!!! CHIP NO-HOHOHO!

He tried to pushed him by grabbing his arms.

SCC: Did you learn your lesson?

The cookie was laughing like from one of his ticklish spot.

MLC: W-WAIT! AHAHA! PLEASE! I LEARNED IT! I ACTUALLY LEARNED IT-HEHEHEH! ALRIGHT! STOP STOP!

SCC: Well alright, if you insist, my friend.

As Chip responded, he stopped his attack, and the lobster was relieved that it was over.

MLC: Maybe the headache is going away... thanks to your attacks.

SCC: Your welcome, bud!

MLC: And MAYBE I'll be planning to return you a favor...Keep in mind.

Confused the magma cookie, tilted a bit and turned it back.

SCC: Okay, I'll make sure. Welp, I'm ahead out, see ya!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe.

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

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

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

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

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

Natasha's hand lands on your shoulder firmly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then she turns away and walks out.

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

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

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

You wait until the doors slide closed again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

requests | masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Say My Name by citsiurtlanu (2.6k, G)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

whistling dixie by @starvels (1.4k, M)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Going Blacksmithing by @bladeofthenebula27 (1.5k, T)

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

RATING: the prettiest cowpoke you ever did see 🥰🤠

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

BONUS!!!

1872 Meta/Propaganda by @ghosthan

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