Hi. I'm Kitty. I write fanfiction about sad gay people. Some of them are pretty good. I also art now, I guess.
Icon & banner from Batman/Nightwing: Bloodborne (2002). Blog title came from a sleep-muddled conversation with a friend.
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She/They | Multifandom | Prompts open! | Find me on AO3 here!
I'm Kitty. I go by she/they. I'm a fanfiction author, amateur artist, and mother of a dastardly cat. All my written works are posted on my ao3. I also have a writing sideblog/archive at @kittyswritingcorner. I've been here for a while.
This blog is for me to share my writing, art, interests, and/or other hobbies. Feel free to drop an ask or slide in my messages if you fancy a little chat—I don't bite! :D
My current fandoms are: MCU/Marvel Comics (mainly Stephen Strange/IronStrange), DC's Batman (Batfam/SuperBat/BatLantern, frankly anything Bruce Wayne-centric, as well as the rest of DC by osmosis), MP100 (Reigen Arataka/SeriRei especially), and most Holmes media but mostly BBC Sherlock (mainly JohnLock). I may dabble in other fandoms from time to time but I'll do you a favour and not list them all.
This is my own space and I have the right to express myself and my opinions freely here, although I will rarely engage in anything with heavy discourse/debate and the sort. I don't tolerate hate or untoward behaviour.
Tags, prompt rules, etc under the cut!
Tags
Despite the messiness of my blog, I do, in fact, use some tags for my own original posts. Surprise, surprise.
I use #my writing or, more recently, #kittyswriting for all fics I've written,
#my art for art I've posted,
#ask for basically all the asks I've answered,
#personal when I'm sharing something about myself, IRL updates, or how I'm doing,
#ramblings for random thoughts or things I decided are worth sharing in my blog,
Occasionally #writing when I share (hopefully) relatable stuff about writing or when I'm sharing my experience in it, and
#kitty makes up scenarios for when I share thoughts and scenarios about fictional characters.
Prompts
Do send prompts in my ask box! A couple things to keep in mind before sending a prompt:
I am not a fast writer. I may not respond to your prompt immediately. It could take me weeks, months, and maybe even longer to get to you. I have prompts in my ask box that date to literal years ago and have yet to get to them for varying reasons, though I respond quicker to short-form prompts. If a prompt isn't doable for me there's a likely chance I'll send it back/refuse.
I would prefer if you'd leave some space in the prompt for creative liberties and to not put in too much detail. It takes away the fun for me. If you'd like it in a very specific way, you may want to consider writing it yourself! :)
Ships I write for include ironstrange and serirei but I also love ekurei, ekuserirei, wongrange, and strordo. Feel free to also send in genfic/no romantic relationships requests.
Soft Nos/themes I can do only lightly: alcoholism, child abuse, sexual harassment/abuse.
Underage sex is a definite no. I'm alright with some light non-con (though I don't imagine myself ever writing a full-on explicit non-con scene) and some dubious consent, though, but I don't tend to go very descriptive with those.
Physical de-aging is OK, but I won't do ageplay or age regression—whether it's sexual or not.
Yes, I am open to writing NSFW but do not send me anything about mpreg (squick).
I don't write/read x reader or reader insert.
I do not write "Not [X] Friendly" fics. I do not like character bashing.
I will not write any minor/adult or incest ships.
Rules may update from time to time. Please check them before sending requests.
Last updated 23/04/25
Follow-up on prompt rules: my preferences
I'm not exactly that picky of a person, but I do have preferences when it comes to reading and/or writing. And I would greatly appreciate if you'd take them into consideration, as I want to enjoy doing requests as much as you do when reading it.
I tend to prefer Hurt!Stephen or Whumpee!Stephen in h/c or whump scenarios, but I am not opposed to writing him being a caretaker. In the Sherlock fandom I prefer Hurt!Sherlock and Hurt!Reigen in MP100 but, again, totally open to otherwise.
I love a lot of various tropes and themes but am practically obsessed with whump and hurt/comfort and angst. I like the nightmare trope, too. I write fluff as well, but it usually requires a certain mood, and I'm not particularly great at it. With that said fluffy requests may come later than angsty ones.
Other things
Be reminded that I am an amateur author and a human, so, despite me not being averse to constructive criticism, it'd be appreciated if you would kindly hold your opinions to yourself instead of sending hate asks/comments.
I post from a lot of fandoms. This is not an IronStrange- or SeriRei-exclusive blog. Filter tags if and when necessary.
Minors are allowed to follow as I do not post anything too explicit; at least without tagging them. They would be tagged #tw suggestive for mildly explicit content or #tw explicit for actual NSFW. I do however advise you to beware as I can be... a little bit... unhinged, sometimes. And this is tumblr, so.
Ask me if you want to translate my works or publish them in a different platform. You must have my written permission. Otherwise I do not allow my writing to be posted anywhere else even with credit. It is however fine to download them for safekeeping.
If you disagree with me (e.g. you characterise/see/view [Character A] as ... but I write them as ...), please keep in mind that all of this is fiction and everyone is allowed to have their own opinions.
Please don't hesitate if you want to chat/interact! ^-^
I thiiiiink that sums up pretty much everything. If you've read this far, thanks for letting me waste your time!
Shout out to that one tumblr post that was like: "You know it's not just trans people who ponder their gender, it's healthy for cis people to take a look inside and be like! Yep that's all good!" And I read this post and was like.... like what do you look at inside though T O T??? I asked my boyfriend how he knew he was a boy and he said he just felt this unexplainable intrinsic feeling he was a boy... and I'm like... I HAVE GENUINELY NO IDEA WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT WTF 😭😭😭!!!!!!!! So apparently its like. Normal for people to feel this inexplicable 'Gender' feeling or whatever,,, I feel like how asexual people feel when they discover people around them aren't making up the fact they experience sexual arousal T O T
Obviously all my sciency stuff is just speculation! But I'm the type of person who believe that everything has a rationale behind it, and like an adopted child who is curious about their biological parents, I am just interested in my origins! The field of genetics still is mostly just like,,,, hmmm we think this whatever MIGHT be a contributing factor to a person turning out this way... maybe. If you are more interested in the topic I discussed, just look up 'epigenetics' and there should be some more stuff OuO!
I'd love to hear how this 'inexplicable gender feeling' feels to gendered individuals! For those willing to share, I'd love to listen!
Look I love unconditional devotion love stories as much as the next person, but there's really something so deliciously raw about conditional devotion.
I have served you and I have loved you for decades, but I will not give up my principles for you. You cut out part of my heart and took it with you down that path that you insist on walking, but you walk it alone. Even when the bleeding, gaping hole you left in my chest kills me, I will not follow you.
forever thinking about the traumatized eight-year-old that lives in bruce wayne’s head.
and also thinking about dick grayson nightwing who should tell bruce to grow up and stop being stuck in the past like any sensible person would except dick is never sensible when it comes to bruce so instead he goes. aww. so cute. i am going to enable this and defend the crazy decisions the traumatized eight year old side of your brain makes because #nobody gets you like i do.
Classic ironstrange friends to lovers trope/get-together fic, ft. awkward!Tony and oblivious!Stephen.
Word Count: 6,402
Rating: Explicit
Characters/Relationships: Tony Stark/Stephen Strange, James "Rhodey" Rhodes, Pepper Potts
Tags: Awkward Tony Stark, Oblivious Stephen Strange, Explicit Sexual Content, Humor, Friends to Lovers, Not Beta Read
AO3
If asked about what he’s learnt of Tony Stark over the years, Stephen can say in certainty about three things: one, that the man is ridiculously brilliant; two, that the man can be ridiculously stupid; three, that he makes a decent, if slightly unusual, friend. But then again, unusual is his entire theme, so what say does Stephen even have in that?
In any case, friendship with Tony Stark is a novel experience for him, for more ways and reasons than he can immediately explain. And not only for the fact that it had been unexpected, that something like friendship can bud from the quasi-rivalry they started off of and the uneasy camaraderie they built up to.
Friendship itself isn’t a novel concept to him, obviously, but on account of his deficiency in skills of the interpersonal relationships kind… It comes as no surprise at all that what best constitutes as friendship in his current life only exists in the form of what he has with Wong—other Masters and fellow sorcerers of Kamar Taj he only ever interacts with on a rudimentary level, as the Master of the New York Sanctum, and as a trainer to students and novices seeking knowledge of the Mystic Arts, and little else.
And before that, on a previous life—or what feels like it anyway—he hadn’t been the best with friends, either. There was Christine, but what they had was not quite friendship, or even what one would call lovers, but they were neither of them too bothered with a label there. And his coworkers at Metro General hardly count as friends; he knew then—and winces at the memory now—that most of them had despised his guts, be it borne of envy or general contempt at his then-brash-and-overconfident nature, which he didn’t and doesn’t blame them for. And before that, he had been a naive farm boy in a big bustling city, full of young desperate hope to escape the darkness that lurked back home, to make something of himself, too focused on running a race he is always left behind on than to form any meaningful relationships.
So no, apparently he has no real basis of comparison when it comes to friendship, and Wong, bless him, isn’t nearly as sufficient data. But if he is to really compare them, there are a few things in his friendship with Tony that he doesn’t immediately find in Wong, and vice versa; knowledge of personal boundaries, for a start. Wong has always respected and understood his boundaries the same way Stephen does his. He has never pried into subjects Stephen has made clear he prefers not to discuss—unless absolutely necessary, and by that he means things like, Stephen did you steal a book from the library again or Stephen where the hell did my tuna sandwich go or Stephen that broken vase better not have anything to do with you or any number of little petty grievances he likes to blame Stephen for that day—and he does not push when Stephen says no.
Tony, however, seemingly cannot mentally digest the word no, like being rejected is some foreign intricate concept requiring elaborate mental gymnastics and geometrical reasoning to make any semblance of sense. Which says a lot about him as a person, billionaire-from-birth, and supposed only child. Go figure.
“Like I said, Tony, I will be busy,” he says to the man for the millionth time on the phone, hovering over his ear as he shifts through several pages of a book he is still planning to return to Wong’s library later. Which he will. Eventually.
A dimensional anomaly has stranded a small, mostly harmless creature here, and they have contained it safely but have not tracked down the rift it came from, and not only that but he must first find its origin, and find out if there are things one may need to be wary of about it, but after pouring through several relevant books he had so far turned up with no such luck. The cloak floats over with what it probably assumes would be a helpful book, and Stephen skims through that quickly, mostly to appease it. The cloak likes to feel helpful.
So yes, he’s made it clear that the last thing he should do is join an Avengers-and-associates-exclusive party Tony is holding in celebration of surviving their recent battle.
“Aw, come on. The world isn’t gonna end if you take a single evening off.”
“It in fact has every possibility to, actually.”
“Oh, please. It’ll be fine. Get someone else to handle it for once.”
“You know I can’t—”
“There’ll be free drinks! And someone is for sure going to get sloshed as all hell trying to drink Cap or, god forbid, Thor under the table—not me, I learned from last time—and you are going to want to be there to witness it. We’ll have so much fun, I promise. I’ll pick you up at three tomorrow.”
“Tony, I told you I can’t—”
But of course Tony has already hung up, because the man does not understand that not every instance they’ve succeeded in avoiding universal extinction for at least a couple more weeks is a call for celebration. He sighs, clicks his phone off and portals it god knows where—anywhere he wouldn’t get disturbed by it anymore. The cloak will know, it always seems to know where to find it when he asks. So he turns back to his research, squinting at the small, handwritten latin of an ancient grimoire, and tries not to think too much of the dreadful tomorrow.
The thing is, Tony doesn’t so much cross his boundaries as he flattens them like a raging bulldozer demolishing everything within its general line of sight. It’s almost as though he isn’t even aware Stephen had refused; his attempts at saying no are like squirrels ground into dust beneath the strength of his juggernaut, and Stephen can only really do nothing more than watch. It certainly annoys him, greatly in fact, but it is just another in the line of things you get used to once you let someone like Tony Stark around in your life.
Though for some reason he, in equal parts, finds it fascinating, to live with the kind of impulsivity that Tony does, to do things simply because he wants to, without regard to anything in the way or anything that it might entail, and sometimes it isn’t all that bad to get roped into doing something he had initially refused to do simply because Tony asked (read: forced) him to.
And then even more interesting is when this is paired with his not insignificant paranoia—how does one choose to live in quite the way Tony does, oscillating constantly between afraid and uncaring? But then again he doesn’t have much say in the matter himself. It’s not like Tony had been the one to face death in the eye and strike a bargain with it, of all the ridiculous, unthinkable things.
Of course, that impulsivity and inexplicable sense of adventure has its benefits to their friendship, even though it isn’t always the best trait to carry into the field. Tony has such an approach to life that is curiously intriguing to him—often Stephen would be roped into doing random activities with the man on an unsuspecting day, and sometimes it’s something ordinary like bar diving, but other times he rings Stephen out of nowhere and says things like, so there’s this museum in Iceland that’s whole thing is displaying preserved male genitalia—anyway you can portal anywhere in the world, right? or ever heard of competitive butter sculpting? No? Nevermind that, I’m coming over, you better have butter in that creepy kitchen of yours. His idea of fun is as confounding as it is, well, admittedly, fun.
But then there are moments like this, where Stephen’s genuine, plain refusal goes flying right over Tony’s head, and he has to deal with having to free up time tomorrow, and also mentally prepare himself for a social outing, and also find someone to keep watch of the Sanctum for him, and also also choose a presentable outfit from his severely lacking wardrobe, maybe they wouldn’t mind him showing up with a black turtleneck again for the bazillionth time, wait is he expected to bring something to the party, and oh god he hasn’t replaced the wards, Wong is going to kill him, what if something terrible happens while he’s away, what if Mordo suddenly decides to go on a killing spree, what if this mystery creature of theirs goes on a rampage in the wild streets of New York, what is he going to do then.
But of course, tomorrow comes anyway, and so he goes, because Tony asked (read: forced) him to.
—
So admittedly the party isn’t so bad. Or at least it starts out fine. He drinks and chats and mingles and tries not to feel incredibly out of place. Tony occasionally shoots him a smirk from across the room when they aren’t in conversation with the rest, and he isn’t sure if it’s meant to be reassuring or what. The bar has a selection of basically every alcoholic beverage thinkable, but Stephen sticks with a simple glass of beer, which he sips at incrementally, just to have something to occupy his hands. Thankfully they’re in good shape today—or at least as good as they can get these days, anyway—so hopefully the shaking isn’t too noticeable.
And then at some point things become quite a bit much, as they tend to after one spends a good chunk of their social battery, so he falls quiet and just sits there, watching everyone. At some point he decides to slip out onto the balcony to get some fresh air, standing against the railing, nursing his drink, watching the city, the darkening sky.
He gets a few moments of solitary peace before the balcony door slides open.
“There you are, I’ve been looking for you. Thought you left,” Tony says. Stephen nods at him, smiling faintly. “You’re not, though, right? Leaving, I mean. Not like it’s your first time ditching a party by jumping off a balcony. Which, Christ, you gotta stop doing that.”
“I always have the cloak with me.”
“Well, when you jump off a balcony the average witness’ first thought usually isn’t, oh don’t worry he’s got a flying cape, he’ll be fine.”
Stephen snorts. “Cloak.” The cloak, who has winded itself around his neck as a scarf, flutters as if in offense.
“Yeah, whatever. Tomato to-mah-to.”
Stephen only rolls his eyes at that. Then they fall silent, quietly drinking their respective beers, watching the scenery.
“So. Listen. I’ve been—meaning to ask you something.”
Stephen arches a brow, turning to him. “Okay.”
“Right. So here, look. You and me, we had a rocky start, when we met, right?”
“I’m not exactly to blame for that, I believe.”
“Great, wonderful, you’re ten years old. Also, that is some major fucking historical revision there, but I’ll let it slide. What I was trying to say,” Tony leans forwards, licks his lips, shuffles on his feet, leans back again, all the while blinking rapidly. “What I’m trying to say,” he begins again, stops, then starts again, and Stephen wonders if the man had maybe hit his head at some point during their last mission because all signs were leading to a concussion of some kind. Brain damage is also possible. “Look, you and me, we may have started out on the wrong foot, in the beginning, but where we are now, right, how our relationship—as in, professionally, but also as like—like friends, you know, we’re not—we are better, right, like I mean—we’re good. We’re in a good spot. At the moment. As friends. Right?”
Stephen frowns. Not only is Tony acting strange, and rambling erratically, he is not making any sense at all. Where the hell is Tony going with this, he wonders, but then again it is impossible to decipher the man’s line of thought most of the time. Has he had one too many beers? But that doesn’t make sense, Stephen is sure this is his first one. “...Right,” he says obligingly.
“Okay. Good. Because I mean, that’s great. And the thing is, right. I was wondering, you know. I mean, I’m not— I don’t want to make assumptions or anything in case this isn’t the case, you know, but when we met I sensed… You know that feeling, when a guy has certain preferences? Like, guys like us can sense it. You know. But again! I’m not trying to make assumptions or anything. But me, personally, I am— I go out with all sorts of people. Like, I’m not picky in that department.”
Stephen only frowns very, very deeply. “What on Earth are you implying?” he asks. “Are you trying to hook me up with one of your exes as an attempt to escape them?”
“No, no, god no.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Okay this isn’t really going well, is it? Look. My point is. I’m just, you know. I was wondering if you’d be interested in—”
The balcony door slides open and in pops Rhodey’s head. “Hey Tony, you gotta get in on this, they’re running a bet for—”
“Rhodes,” Tony says tightly, and he has never heard the man speak in such a tone at his presumably best friend of years and years, nevermind call his name like that.
Rhodey quickly spots him standing beside Tony, and does a double take before going, “Oh shit, right, my bad,” and slips back inside. Whatever the hell that was about.
“Right,” Tony turns back to him, nervously pulling at his collar. “Uh. So.” He clears his throat, a little too loudly. Stephen is beginning to get concerned for his state of mind, frowning intensely in puzzlement. “I was wondering if you would be amenable… if you would like to maybe, sometime, or—or any time you’d like, really, in the foreseeable future, if you would like to… to…” Stephen continues to watch him, trying very hard to understand the words coming out of the man’s mouth, and he sees the moment Tony changes his mind, eyes turning suddenly downcast. “I… Nevermind. Just—nevermind, forget I said anything.” He turns for the door, but Stephen catches his arm quickly.
“Wait,” he says, and Tony stops reluctantly, not fighting against his hold but not looking at him either. Tony is chewing on his lip. “Where are you going?”
“I— I gotta leave.” Stephen only frowns deeper. Tony Stark does not leave parties. This is a known fact. He either started them, left them to do otherwise inadvisable things, or saw them to the end, which means there is always a likely possibility one would find him passed out in the morning in somebody’s arms or draped across a piece of furniture, and one would be lucky if he is half dressed. “There’s some—boring board meeting I have to attend tomorrow, non-negotiable. Which means Pepper will flame my ass if I don’t at least show up, okay? Sorry.”
“Bullshit.”
“What?”
“You’re not looking at me,” Stephen tells him, releasing his arm. “Which tells me you’re lying.”
“Since when do you think you know shit about me? Just—I need to leave, alright.”
“You were going to ask me something.”
“And I said to drop it.”
“It sounded important.”
“It’s—look, I’ll ask another time, okay? Just, you know, not now.”
“You can ask now,” Stephen insists, “Is it about last week’s mission?”
“No, it’s not about— It’s not.”
“Then spit it out,” Stephen says, “What the hell are you trying to ask me?”
Tony huffs a frustrated breath, then—“Out!”
“What?”
“That—dammit, that’s what I was going to ask you.”
“Out of where?”
“Fucking pigshitting godfucking cocknuzzling motherfucking god, will you just—fucking forget it, I’m leaving.”
“Tony, wait, what do you mean by—” And then his brain comes online. “Ask me out,” Stephen realises. “You were going to ask me out?” There is a slight upward lilt at the end there which implied a question, but he didn’t mean for it to come out as one.
Tony is just watching him, silent for a moment, eyes flitting about, analysing the lines of his face. Stephen just watches back. “Yes,” Tony mutters after a moment of this, then quickly looks away in—embarrassment, for god’s sake. The man’s embarrassed. “Look,” Tony says, and his voice has changed. “I know, alright, it’s ridiculous. Just—forget I said anything. It’s stupid.” He turns away. “I have to go.”
“No,” Stephen says, and Tony stops in his tracks.
“What.”
“No, I can’t… just forget what you said.”
“Goddammit, Strange, do you gotta make everything so goddamn difficult?”
“No, I just meant…” Stephen falters here, and Tony turns back around to watch him. “I didn’t know you had that kind of… interest. In me. I didn’t realise that was a possibility for you. For either of us.”
For a beat too long, long enough he grows uncomfortable under Tony’s eyes, a silence hangs between them. Then, with what sounds like some cocktail of realisation and a comically great deal of exasperation, “You didn’t…” Tony runs a hand down his face, huffing out a laugh. “God. Of course. Stephen, I’m more than a little interested, is the thing. Have been for some time now.”
“In me,” Stephen thinks aloud.
“Yeah.”
“I think I am, too,” Stephen blurts out. “In you, I mean.”
“Oh,” Tony says, and if that doesn’t make him feel ridiculous. Of course. Of course. All these years of dancing around each other, and he had thought it was strictly playful flirting. He had thought there couldn’t possibly be a chance Tony would be at all interested in him in that way, that it was only by some playboy instinct that Tony considered hitting on him at all. But looking at Tony now—could it be possible he had been wrong? Could it be possible that the thing he had not allowed himself to think of, the thought he had never allowed himself to entertain, is a very real and likely possibility after all?
In a flash something cold and frightening runs through his middle. Reality is beginning to rapidly set in—is this real? Did they just… do what he thinks they had? Is this happenning?—and it takes a while for him to realise he has not, in fact, answered Tony’s question yet.
It’s just that—it’s been a while, is the thing. It’s been a while since he’s allowed someone in, in that particular sense. Not ever since Christine, and even that particular wound hasn’t sealed itself completely shut. And then there was finding Kamar Taj, and the Mystic Arts, and everything that came afterwards—he has come to terms with the fact that this kind of life does not allow space for romantic entanglements, or anything that requires any sense of commitment.
Then again, if there is anyone who understands the kind of things this line of work demands, it would be someone who knows what it’s like, deep in their bones, the need to do good, to protect this fragile life of theirs, the fallibility of every human life, the need to shield their loved ones from the terrible dangers of the universe—someone like Tony. But there is the other thing, the unnameable, terrifying thing, that if they are to involve themselves in such a way it would only put them both at risk, and Stephen cannot afford that. The last thing he needs is his enemies finding a new target, a way to exploit the weakness that is his human heart.
And even more dangerous is himself. It has been proven time and time again on numerous occassions that relationships are not exactly his forté. Exhibit A: Christine. One way or another, Tony will get hurt, whether directly or indirectly, because of him. Not that he thinks Tony is any better in that department, either—with how things ended with Pepper, bizzarely amicable as they are now, he gets the sense that he isn’t the only relationship fuck-up. But that doesn’t make things any better.
All in all, this is a recipe for disaster. It wouldn’t end well at all. No, it is far better for him to avoid that kind of fuss, to avoid tangling himself in such a situation again. The temporary joy is never worth the pain of the aftermath.
But then… But then Tony is drawing near, and nearer, and nearer still, and too late he realises he’s been frozen, almost paralysed on the spot as he spirals into deeper and deeper thought. The thing he thought dead in his chest begins to pound and ache, and in his panic he recoils a little, and Tony must’ve noticed this because his face does a minute shift, and he draws back some, and—no, wait, that was not what he wanted to happen, he didn’t mean—
“Stephen,” Tony is saying in this low, tentative voice. Stephen swallows. “Is this…” Tony comes nearer again, and there is a thread of need in his voice, in his beautiful eyes—is he allowed to think that now? Is he allowed to acknowledge how unfairly beautiful this man is?—attention honed completely, solely on him, “Tell me if this is okay,” he says. The cold feeling runs down his spine again, the fear, the knowing of what he is about to let himself be led into… The door of possibilities they are about to push open would be more akin to Pandora’s box than anything.
But there is something inexplicably earnest in Tony’s eyes, and when those eyes flick down to his lips, he thinks: fear is for people who have never executed a flawless free-hand extraction of a hardened bullet from inside a brain.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, and their lips meet.
It feels—indescribable. He wouldn’t know where to begin if asked.
It’s like he’s back again, all those years ago, in that time The Ancient One thrust a hand upon his chest and slammed him backwards into the realm of things unseen, things unknown, things undiscovered, opening his eyes to the vastness of their reality. All the things he only knew of in the theoretical sense, only knew of intellectually, and so much more than that, he suddenly saw clearly, viscerally, tangibly—an infinite terrible and beautiful and bizarre and impossible things, insurmountable in its boundlessness, incomprehensible in its complexity. Kissing Tony Stark feels like discovering new secrets of the universe.
“Oh my god,” Tony says when they part, “Stephen.”
Stephen makes a sound, he isn’t even sure what, but he needs to put his lips on Tony’s again. Suddenly what he thought he knew in absolute certainty only moments ago was not completely true, and it is like his entire worldview is being shifted by a single kiss.
Tony Stark is interested in him. Tony Stark has been interested in him for some time, which implied a timeline, which implied planning. It makes so much sense now—the nervousness, how he responded to Rhodey walking in on them, the incredibly vague tip-toe-y broach in asking Stephen about his sexuality. It makes him feel light, heady with the knowledge. Tony is kissing him like he means it, and—how could there have ever been a doubt? Of course. Of course.
He presses the line of his body close against Tony, who has a hand on his waist and the other pulling him nearer by the nape and—oh Jesus, those fingers are carding upwards into his hair, pulling slightly, making him shudder and moan, and is this the right time to point out he has particularly sensitive follicles? Doesn’t matter, Tony is licking into his mouth like he’s carving something out in there, walking him backwards until his back is braced against the railing, and he can’t think of anything else but the press of their bodies, the slick slide of their tongues, the shocking masculinity of their goatees rubbing against each other. They are about to trip off the goddamn balcony and he doesn’t even find it in him to care.
“Wait,” Tony pulls back, sounding as breathless as he feels. He is keeping their hips apart, and Stephen knows it’s because he doesn’t want him to be aware of the evidence of his arousal, but Stephen just presses back, letting his tenting hardness press against Tony’s hip instead. Tony lets out a low groan, hips bucking against him. The thought that he has the same effect on Tony as Tony has on him is—god, he feels like his head is being steadily filled with helium, ready to float away. “Fuck, wait. I want to do this right. God, I wanted to do this right.”
“You planned,” he rasps, “You had all this planned in your head.”
“Yes, fuck,” Tony laughs, “I was gonna— I wanted to take you out, someplace nice, maybe, we were supposed to have dinner, this beautiful evening, I was going to charm the pants off you, I was imagining something—slower.”
“You wanted to woo me.”
“Well I mean, I wanted to ease you in.”
“Forget about easing me in,” Stephen decides, “We’ve waited long enough.”
“Fuck, you’re right, baby, come here,” Tony murmurs, kissing him again, and that word—baby—makes him feel all sorts of things in his chest, and perhaps a bit lower. “You think they’ll notice if we ditch?”
“Since when does courtesy matter to you?”
“Well we can’t walk out there with full fledged boners.”
“I can make portals.”
“Oh,” Tony says, “Right. I forgot that. Excuse me, my brilliant brain did not think of that, on account of the fact all my blood seems to be down south. Will you fucking portal us out, please, because I am about ready to explode in my pants, here.”
“What happened to taking things slow?”
“Stephen, I swear to fuck, any slower and my balls are going to fall off.”
Stephen laughs, and then obeys, because Tony asks (read: forces) him to.
EPILOGUE
“Stark. Your phone,” Stephen rasps at him, nudging him awake with needless force, and then giving up to instead bury his head underneath the pillow. Tony rouses from his sleep at the insistent buzzing noise, blinking confusedly, and dear god, will it just stop.
“Jesus Christ,” he groans, hand blindly searching for the source of the obnoxious sound vibrating the entire goddamn room.
“Incoming call from Ms. Potts, sir,” FRIDAY chimes helpfully from above. Tony makes a vague noise of acknowledgement.
What’s got her panties up in a twist this time? Tony considers burying his face underneath a pillow also, but then Stephen’s rumpled head pops out and he says, “I am going to portal your phone into the Sahara if you do not get it to stop making that goddamn noise.”
“All right, Jesus. It’s a custom model, kindly do not.”
Stephen plops his face back down, voice muffled when he says, “You can afford another.”
Tony does not dignify that with a response, instead choosing to clamber over the pile of limbs beside him to get to his phone, which clatters to the floor when he reaches for it. He mutters a word that would impress a sailor and bends down for it, knocking his elbow on Stephen’s arm in the process, who doesn’t even budge or protest. Figures he’d be dead asleep again already—the man probably hadn't been sleeping for a while now.
He accepts the call, because declining Pepper’s call is suicide.
“Anthony Edward Stark.”
“Oh no,” he says. Middle name means nothing good. “Good morning to you, too, Pep. And speaking of which, it is barely six in the fucking morning.”
“Yes, and you should be up.”
Tony rubs up and down his face. “There are worse sins than waking after dawn, you know. Homicide. Animal abuse. Milk before cereal.”
“Sloth is the root of all those,” Pepper responds without missing a beat. “You have a board meeting in an hour, which is ample time to nurse that hangover and go over the notes I sent you.”
“What notes,” he rasps, “And I’m not hungover.”
“Oh?” Pepper says across the line. “Is that so.”
“That so.”
“Fine. Check your email. I need you to at least consider the points I made there. The last thing we need is you offending the shareholders.”
“I’m never offensive. I’m plenty likable. I always know the right words to say.”
A sigh crackles across the line. “Check it regardless. And you better not be late.”
Tony shifts to a more comfortable position, sighing at the pleasant ache in his muscles, courtesy of last night’s vigorous activities. “Can’t you push the meeting, I don't know, to tomorrow at least?”
“No!” Pepper says exasperatedly, “I’ve told you how important this is, Tony, I’ve told you that—”
Suddenly his phone is snatched off of his hand.
“Good morning, Miss Potts,” Stephen says pleasantly, “I’ll be sure to send Tony off in time for his meeting. Rest assured he will not be late. Good day.” And then he clicks the phone off.
“You asshole,” Tony says when Stephen hands him back his phone, who then promptly pulls the blankets back up around him, like the blanket-hogging monster he is.
“So you weren’t lying about the meeting. Good to know. Wake me up when you need a portal,” the lump in the blankets says.
“Asshole,” Tony says again, “Unbelievable.” But then he couldn’t quite contain his laugh, because now he is imagining what Pepper’s face might look like, after Stephen’s little stunt. Well, not the first time Pepper is accidentally privy to the people he takes to bed. Except, of course, Stephen isn’t just someone he’s taken to bed, because this sure as hell isn’t going to be a one time thing, and it sure as hell would entail a lot more than helping each other get off.
A smile tugs up his lips as he skims through his phone notifications, ignoring Pepper’s and a million other emails in favour of scrolling through the litany of text messages, stopping to click into Rhodey’s.
Hope I didn’t mess it up for you and the good doctor, the text says.
Nah, he types. Actually it went very well.
Oh? Rhodey immediately replies, and Tony isn’t surprised he’s awake at this hour. Military habits, he thinks. How well?
Stephen suddenly turns to him, draping a heavy arm across his chest and pulling him down. “Mmmmgfffhhhh,” the blanket hogger says. Tony chuckles fondly, bending down to kiss his forehead. Stephen’s nose scrunches up adorably, and then his eyes are open. His hair is a torpedo, his eyes are puffy, and he looks deliciously gorgeous.
Well as in, I need to go now, he shoots back at Rhodey.
You’re kidding, he manages to catch, but misses the several other messages popping up, setting his phone on the nightstand. He bends down to kiss Stephen’s cheekbone, the edge of his brow, the side of his nose, then down to his lips. Stephen reciprocates easily, sighing into the kiss, hand reaching up to cup the back of his neck.
“Mm,” Tony hums, “We’ve got an hour to spare. You know, just to put it out there.”
“Looking to put that time to good use?” Stephen rasps. God, how can a voice be that sexy? it’s criminal levels of hot. “How about those notes Pepper mentioned,” he suggests.
“I was thinking of something else.”
“Oh yeah? Like what?”
“Like this,” Tony says, and kisses him again. They kiss languidly, and Tony is struck again with the same kind of surprise he was last night, when he found out how enjoyable kissing can be with Stephen Strange. Normally kissing is just an overly moist prelude to more exciting activities, but with Stephen, just the act of kissing is pleasurable in itself.
He gently lays Stephen back on the bed, pressing his weight down purposefully just to hear that delightful catch in his breath. Slowly he trails kisses down Stephen’s neck, collarbones, chest, making a stop to catch a nipple into his mouth, earning a groan from above, and then further down still to hover over his prize; Stephen’s morning wood stands proud before him, and the sight makes Tony lick his lips.
He starts by kissing the head first, languidly stroking the long, gorgeous length of the shaft. He licks along the slit teasingly, fondling the balls, smirking slightly when Stephen’s hips buck up in desperation.
“Tony,” Stephen says from above, already a hoarse, broken thing.
“Shh, baby, let me take care of you,” he murmurs lovingly, finally pushing his mouth down and bobbing his head slowly. Stephen throws his head back and lets out a delicious groan, neck straining. Tony keeps his eyes on the man as he takes his time.
He plays with Stephen’s balls some more before letting his fingers dip lower, down to his perineum. Stephen’s voice cracks on a moan, breathing raggedly.
“Please,” Stephen groans, “Oh god, please.”
Deliberately, Tony swallows him down to the hilt, nuzzling down until his nose is pressed flush to his trim pubic hair, letting him feel the clench and contraction of his throat, then drifts a finger lower to press into his hole, still a little loose from last night, crooking it just so.
Stephen lets out a cry as his hips buck up involuntarily, rope after rope of cum pulled out of him that Tony swallows obediently. He sucks him a bit more, letting Stephen ride his orgasm to oversensitivity, until he shakes and shudders, and only pulls back when Stephen begs him to.
Only once he’s finished does Tony become aware of his own pressing need.
“Let me—” Stephen tries to sit up, but Tony only pushes him down.
“On your side,” he orders, unsurprised by how gravely he sounds. Stephen obeys, turning onto his side. Tony settles behind him, and adjusts them so that he has his cock pressed between those strong thighs. Stephen’s hand wanders backwards to clutch at him, murmuring, “Come on, sweetheart, fuck my thighs.”
Tony does not need any further prompting. He starts off slow, finding his way, and only begins thrusting in earnest when Stephen presses his thighs together tighter. He’s leaking just enough to slick the way, and dear god, the flex of those muscled thighs will be the death of him, he’s clutching at Stephen’s shoulder by the end of it, groaning endlessly as he spurts his load all over the mattress and Stephen’s thighs.
He lays there for a moment, enjoying the post-coital bliss. Stephen’s hand has reached up to start a slow, gentle scratch up and down his head. After a while he gets up, planting a kiss on Stephen’s temple as he goes, who hums contentedly. He smiles as Stephen stretches like a cat, curling, soaking up the warmth of the bed with an open yawn.
He heads to the bathroom for an epic piss. When he returns, it is with a damp cloth, which he uses to wipe away the drying cum between Stephen’s legs. Stephen cranes his head back to kiss him in thanks.
Once finished Tony settles back against the sheets, sighing. He turns to watch the New York skyline stretched across the floor to ceiling windows of his glass-and-steel behemoth of a modern minimalistic penthouse. He can see the little A perched atop the Tower from here, buried in a sea of skyscrapers. He has never noticed it before, but the Tower stands vaguely to the East—which means that as the sun rises and her rays unfurl to the slowly bluing sky, he can see the light catch at the very top of it, marking the beginning of a new day; the branches of possibilities spreading out before him.
He’s got half an hour to spare, he thinks. Half an hour to enjoy this new, fragile, beautiful thing—and maybe even several years more of it. He smiles faintly, heart alight.
“Hey FRIDAY,” he calls, “Book a reservation in The Algonquin tonight, will you?”
“On it, sir.”
“Thanks.”
“So we’re actually getting that date now, are we,” comes the rumbling voice beside him.
“We kind of did everything in reverse, but hey, I meant what I said last night.”
“Which part? Because most of it was hardly decipherable.”
“Asshole. It was a good speech.”
A snort. “I was convinced you were either drunk, concussed, or suffering some form of brain damage. Or a combination of those. It was less a speech and more like watching an active forest fire.”
“Well at least I made a move. Which was more than what you were planning on doing.”
Stephen makes a humming noise, which is technically a response but linguistically useless. He is obnoxious like that.
“Anyway, what I was saying. I meant it when I said I wanted to do this right. Even though we sort of caved the first night, but you know. Sometimes you gotta take them to bed before taking them to dinner. Not that I think you don’t deserve to be wined and dined, because god knows I can treat you right that way, I just mean—look, it’s not my fault we practically climbed each other the moment we could, even though—okay, wait, what I meant to say is that I’d really love to—”
Stephen rumbles out a low, pillow-muffled chuckle. “Like I said. Active forest fire.”
“Asshole,” Tony says again, face flushing. But he laughs along anyway, because when you have Stephen Strange looking gorgeous in the morning light and laughing a beautiful laugh like that, you can’t help but be filled to the brim with joy and disbelief at this wonderful miracle the universe has landed in your life.
They’re still laughing quietly with each other as he turns to fold Stephen into his arms, curling against his back like wings. In his head he imagines all the future possibilities, of tonight and of the many nights and days ahead, all of the sorrow and ugliness and beauty and miraculousness of them, all of them shared with the man tucked comfortably to his chest.
Batlantern, dialogue-only ficlet, rated T for mildly suggestive talk. Apparently my first time writing this pairing AND this particular type of fic, but oh well.
—
"I've got an order of extra salty pretzels and an order of nachos here for you boys."
"Thanks. Oh, and one more thing, please."
"Yes?"
"How about an order of your number?"
"Not on the menu, sweetheart."
"Damn."
"Pff."
"Shut up, not like you can do any better."
"Jordan, I cannot emphasise how I very much could."
"Well, lucky you, you've got the money and the looks to back it up."
"The money, sure."
"Hey, don't be like that. You get laid like twenty times a week. Or so the tabloids say."
"You read those?
"Who doesn't? Look, what I'm saying is that the ladies—and guys, I assume—climb you like a goddamn tree any chance they get. You get to give your physique a little credit."
"My physique is being held by steel pins and chewing gum."
"Yeah, but your physique can also do a great deal of things, and trust me, even I'd jump at the chance of seeing it in action, if you're getting what I mean."
"Did you just... come on to me?"
"Well, yes. Thank you for noticing. I mean, not like that's anything new."
"...What?"
"...Bruce. Do you honestly— You're telling me they've been flying over your head this whole time."
"I... didn't..."
"Jesus Christ, they have!"
"Well how was I supposed to know? I've been operating under the assumption that you hated my guts."
"Well, sort of, but only when you're being a fascist. Seriously though, how much more obvious can I be? I know your exes like Talia or Selina or some other million people I couldn't begin to know the names of are probably more... forthcoming, but I didn't realise that was a goddamn requirement, Spooky."
"You could've just said something. What? Don't look at me like that."
"Christ, you're unbelievable. Why do you think I pull your pigtails all the time?"
"Why do you think I pull yours?"
"...Huh. Well, that's a thought. Bruce Wayne flirts like a fourth grader. And here I thought you said you could do better than me."
"Your technique isn't much better. But... Well, If I had known sooner you were at all interested..."
"Yeah? What would you have done then?"
"How about dinner, for a start."
"Dinner, huh?"
"Yes."
"Mm. I don't know, are we talking like a bro-to-bro male bonding kind of outing, maybe we can head back to my place afterwards and watch football, I'll get out some of those good beers Ollie left at my place last time we hung out, oh maybe we can even—"
"You are ten years old."
"Heh, and you just asked me to dinner. Alright then, I'm free Friday."
"That's perfect."
"Cool. Anyway, I need to head out, Carol's blowing up my phone, she's probably nagging me about those flight logs. Which I have been delaying on account of saving the universe for the billionth time, but she doesn't care about that now, does she."
"All right."
"'Kay, then. And Bruce?"
"Yes? What are you— mphff."
...
..
.
"In case it wasn't obvious enough. See you Friday."
me when other people tag me in things: this person??? thought about me???? i'm so flattered??????? 🥺💕🥺💕🥺💕🥺💕
me when i consider tagging someone in a post: i am annoying!!!! i am overstepping every single boundary!!!! i am making an absolute fool out of myself!!!!!!
Batlantern, dialogue-only ficlet, rated T for mildly suggestive talk. Apparently my first time writing this pairing AND this particular type of fic, but oh well.
—
"I've got an order of extra salty pretzels and an order of nachos here for you boys."
"Thanks. Oh, and one more thing, please."
"Yes?"
"How about an order of your number?"
"Not on the menu, sweetheart."
"Damn."
"Pff."
"Shut up, not like you can do any better."
"Jordan, I cannot emphasise how I very much could."
"Well, lucky you, you've got the money and the looks to back it up."
"The money, sure."
"Hey, don't be like that. You get laid like twenty times a week. Or so the tabloids say."
"You read those?
"Who doesn't? Look, what I'm saying is that the ladies—and guys, I assume—climb you like a goddamn tree any chance they get. You get to give your physique a little credit."
"My physique is being held by steel pins and chewing gum."
"Yeah, but your physique can also do a great deal of things, and trust me, even I'd jump at the chance of seeing it in action, if you're getting what I mean."
"Did you just... come on to me?"
"Well, yes. Thank you for noticing. I mean, not like that's anything new."
"...What?"
"...Bruce. Do you honestly— You're telling me they've been flying over your head this whole time."
"I... didn't..."
"Jesus Christ, they have!"
"Well how was I supposed to know? I've been operating under the assumption that you hated my guts."
"Well, sort of, but only when you're being a fascist. Seriously though, how much more obvious can I be? I know your exes like Talia or Selina or some other million people I couldn't begin to know the names of are probably more... forthcoming, but I didn't realise that was a goddamn requirement, Spooky."
"You could've just said something. What? Don't look at me like that."
"Christ, you're unbelievable. Why do you think I pull your pigtails all the time?"
"Why do you think I pull yours?"
"...Huh. Well, that's a thought. Bruce Wayne flirts like a fourth grader. And here I thought you said you could do better than me."
"Your technique isn't much better. But... Well, If I had known sooner you were at all interested..."
"Yeah? What would you have done then?"
"How about dinner, for a start."
"Dinner, huh?"
"Yes."
"Mm. I don't know, are we talking like a bro-to-bro male bonding kind of outing, maybe we can head back to my place afterwards and watch football, I'll get out some of those good beers Ollie left at my place last time we hung out, oh maybe we can even—"
"You are ten years old."
"Heh, and you just asked me to dinner. Alright then, I'm free Friday."
"That's perfect."
"Cool. Anyway, I need to head out, Carol's blowing up my phone, she's probably nagging me about those flight logs. Which I have been delaying on account of saving the universe for the billionth time, but she doesn't care about that now, does she."
"All right."
"'Kay, then. And Bruce?"
"Yes? What are you— mphff."
...
..
.
"In case it wasn't obvious enough. See you Friday."
we need to have a conversation about how the "everyone is 12" theory of politics now doesn't only apply to conservative men who want to kick the bad guys' asses and then go home and eat a steak their bangmommy made just for them (NO VEGGIES!!!) but also to adult women who are literally afraid of other people having sex and being sexy. it's like there's been this massive regression among women in their 20s where we've gotten rid of feminism and replaced it with a new form of purity politics that requires never saying anything bad about another women unless you find a new and creative way to call her a whore. the misuse of "she caters to the male gaze" as a new form of enlightened slut shaming, labeling any woman who wears a short skirt or has sex with a man as "not a girls' girl" and "a pick me," the intense overreaction to celebrity affairs or even just shit like the summer house mess where a woman is now dating another woman's ex even though there was no overlap and the "relationship" was just kind of a situationship that fizzled but now these little girls are online demanding both people involved in the new relationship lose their jobs and not get any brand deals, the panic over mildly sexual content in literally any capacity like ads or an instagram post in a crop top, the compulsion to link everything back to the epstein files, the monthly meltdown over sex scenes on tv and in movies. everyone is 12 and AFRAID of sabrina carpenter.
Valerie D'Orazio, a comic writer and editor, posted on twitter in 2023 about how she was sexually harassed/assaulted by Stephen Wacker, Marvel's newly chosen Editor in Chief. More detail under the cut.
comics industry so miserable for women that a man putting his hand under a woman's shirt in the workplace with "flirty" intent does not even rank in the top 10 worst things men have done to her. not unexpected but still fucking awful. and her #1 is still a guy in the industry. ok. we have to start running these men over in cars
WHERE is that poem about that person learning all about their partners hyperfixation before getting dumped the last line is like "love is a stack of books on my nightstand with a bookmark near the end" I need it to feel whole help me please
He loves history. He wanted to write a biography of John Quincy Adams. I, shamefully, knew almost nothing about John Quincy Adams, so I went online and bought every biography of him I could find. One day, he called me, claiming that we wouldn’t work out long term. He said he loved me but that we had different interests. “What does love mean to you?” I said. “That’s an impossible question,” he replied. I, however, find love to be quite simple. Love is the stack of biographies on my nightstand with a bookmark near the end. — Julia Nicole Camp
