#dubcon marvel

[d-z20]

The Therapist's Touch (NSFW)

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x Reader

Summary: You sought out Dr. Harkness for clarity, for someone to help untangle the mess in your mind. But as your sessions progress, the line between guidance and something far more intoxicating begins to blur.

- OR -

Agatha manipulates you and your mind and uses it as a way to start fucking you in the name of 'therapy'

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, dubcon, smut, Dark Agatha, gaslighting, manipulation, other toxic behaviour, fingering (R recv), praise kink, lots of 'good girl', talking through orgasm, mild choking at the end

Words: 2.9k

A/N: Just to repeat: this fic contains dubcon smut, gaslighting, and manipulation so if that is something that triggers you, please do not read. Requested Fic

AO3 | Master List

You met Dr. Harkness after a particularly bad week. You hadn’t been sleeping, your thoughts a tangled mess of self-doubt and frustration. Friends—if you could even call them that anymore—had started pulling away, and work was becoming unbearable. It was one of those situations where you weren’t sure if you were the problem or if everyone else was. You needed clarity. You needed someone to untangle the mess in your head.

And Agatha was perfect for that.

The first few sessions felt normal, even helpful. She was warm but not overly so, sharp-witted with a knowing smile that made you feel like she already had you figured out. You liked that. You wanted to be understood. She had a way of pulling things out of you, teasing out the thoughts you hadn’t even fully realized were lurking under the surface.

"You feel like you're being abandoned," she told you during a session, her voice smooth and steady. "Like the people around you are slipping through your fingers, and you don’t know why."

You nodded, relieved that someone finally understood.

"It must be frustrating," she continued, tilting her head slightly as if weighing her words carefully. "To always be the one reaching out, only to be left in the cold."

Your breath hitched. Was that true? You hadn’t really thought about it that way, but… now that she said it, it felt right.

"Maybe you expect too much from people," she mused, watching you carefully. "Or maybe they don’t appreciate you like they should."

A quiet pressure built behind your ribs, something heavy and unseen. That wasn’t a comforting thought, but there was something… validating about it. Like all the hurt you felt wasn’t just in your head.

"Maybe," you admitted.

She smiled, pleased. "I think people take advantage of your kindness. You let them, don’t you?"

You did, didn’t you?

—

The shift was slow, insidious. Agatha never outright told you what to think—she just guided you there, nudging you toward conclusions you weren’t sure were yours or hers. Your relationships became strained, but Agatha was always there to reassure you.

"You’re growing," she told you after a particularly emotional session. "You’re starting to see things for what they really are."

Warmth unfurled in your chest, wrapping around your ribs like a protective embrace. The weight of her gaze felt like an anchor, steadying you in a way nothing else had.

Agatha was dangerous in the way that only truly intelligent people could be. She never raised her voice, never forced an idea on you—she simply led you there, guiding you through your own thoughts like she was pulling a thread loose from a tangled knot.

And God, she was beautiful.

You noticed it in pieces at first. The sharp line of her cheekbones, the way her eyes stayed locked onto yours just a little too long, the elegant way she moved. She always dressed immaculately, sleek dark blouses that clung to her just right, lips painted in deep shades of red or plum. And then there was her voice. The kind of voice that settled into your bones and curled up there, wrapping itself around your ribs like it belonged to you.

It was embarrassing, really. You were falling for your therapist. But she made you feel seen in a way no one else had. And she never discouraged it.

Not directly.

"You hesitate when you talk about what you want," she noted, her voice gentle. "Why do you do that?"

You blinked, caught off guard. "I—what?"

"You second-guess yourself." She studied you carefully, fingers tapping lightly against the arm of her chair. "I’ve noticed it. You’ll start to say something, then stop. Like you’re afraid of being too much."

Your pulse fluttered. "I guess I just… don’t want to be a burden."

Her lips curled into something almost like amusement. "A burden?" she echoed, as if the idea itself was absurd. "Who told you that?"

You hesitated. Everyone, you wanted to say. Every time someone stopped texting back, every time you felt like you were grasping too hard to keep people close.

Agatha hummed, tilting her head just slightly. “Who have you been talking to about this?”

You blinked. “What?”

Her gaze was steady, expectant. “You said you feel like a burden. Who put that thought in your head?”

You hesitated. “I mean… I don’t know. I guess I mentioned it to a friend the other day, and they—”

Agatha tsked softly, shaking her head. “And what did they say?”

“They told me I was overthinking.”

A slow, knowing smile curled her lips. “Ah. Overthinking.” She leaned back, fingers tapping lightly against the arm of her chair. “That’s an easy way to dismiss you, isn’t it?”

You frowned. “I don’t think they meant it like that—”

“But it made you feel unheard,” she pressed gently. “Didn’t it?”

Your breath came a little faster. “I… maybe?”

Agatha nodded, like she’d expected that answer. “It’s interesting,” she mused, voice low and thoughtful. “How often people minimise your feelings. How quickly they brush you off.” Her gaze flickered back to yours, something soft and reassuring in it. “I would never do that to you.”

A tightness bloomed behind your ribs, bittersweet and impossible to ignore. “I know,” you murmured.

Her lips curled in satisfaction. “Of course you do.”

She leaned forward slightly, voice softening. "They made you feel that way," she spoke, like it was some kind of revelation. "Not because you are a burden, but because they don’t know how to appreciate you properly."

Something about the way she said it made your stomach twist.

"They don’t see you the way I do."

The words hung between you, electric.

You exhaled slowly, suddenly hyperaware of how close she was, how intimate these sessions had started to feelThe space between you felt thinner than before, her voice dipping into something softer, closer—like a secret meant only for you.

And then, like she knew exactly what you were thinking, she smiled.

"Tell me," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "When’s the last time someone truly listened to you?"

Your pulse hammered.

It should have set off alarms. But it didn’t. Because she was listening. She was there for you. More than anyone else has been.

Had anyone ever really listened?

—

The next session, Agatha watched you with something unreadable in her expression. Like she was studying a puzzle, waiting for the pieces to click into place.

“You seem tense,” she noted, her voice low, honey-smooth.

You huffed out a quiet laugh, but it came out strained. “Yeah, well. Life’s a little stressful.”

She tilted her head, gaze sharp, like she was peeling you apart layer by layer. “You hold yourself so tightly,” she stated, studying you like a specimen under glass. “You don’t even realise it, do you?”

Your brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“Your shoulders.” A flick of her fingers. “Your jaw. Your hands.”

You followed her gaze, your fingers curling instinctively before you forced them to relax.

“I think,” she continued, voice slow, deliberate, “you’ve spent so long bracing for impact that you don’t know how to let go.”

A strange heat curled in your stomach, something unspoken threading through the air between you.

She leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on her knees. “Would you let me help you?”

Your stomach flipped. “Help me how?”

Agatha smiled—calm, measured, soothing. “A simple exercise. One that might help you process the tension you’re carrying.”

You hesitated, but there was no reason to refuse. It was therapy. She was your therapist.

“Okay,” you said finally.

Her smile deepened, approval warm in her gaze. “Close your eyes,” she instructed.

You obeyed, exhaling softly.

“Now,” she assured, “I want you to focus on the weight of your body. The way your spine curves. The way your breath moves through you.”

Her voice was hypnotic, her words weaving their way into your bones.

And then—

Fingertips against your jaw.

You startled, eyes flying open, but Agatha hushed you gently.

“Shh,” she soothed, thumb brushing along your cheek. “It’s alright. You trust me, don’t you?”

Your breath came a little faster. The warmth of her touch was dizzying. “I—yes,” you whispered.

Her lips curled in satisfaction. “Good.”

Her fingers trailed lightly, tracing the curve of your throat. You swallowed, pulse hammering against her touch.

“Your body reacts before you do,” she noted, head tilting slightly. “You don’t even realise how much you hold back.”

Heat rushed to your face. You couldn’t tell if it was embarrassment or something else entirely.

Agatha’s grip firmed just slightly—not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind you she was there. “I want you to let go,” she murmured. “Trust me to guide you.”

Your mind spun, tangled between this is fine, she’s my therapist and why does this feel so good?

But you trusted her. So you nodded.

Her smile was slow, knowing. “Good girl.”

Your stomach flipped again. A rush of warmth curled through you, unsettling in its intensity.

She let her touch linger a moment longer before finally pulling back, leaving you bereft. “See?” she said, as if the moment hadn’t just unraveled something inside you. “You hold onto so much. But I can help you carry it.”

You swallowed hard, clinging to her words like a lifeline. “…Thank you,” you murmured.

“We’ll work through it together,” she promised.

You believed her.

You wanted to believe her.

Even as something in the back of your mind whispered that maybe—just maybe—you shouldn’t.

—

The session after that felt different from the moment you stepped into the room. The air in Agatha’s office was heavier, charged with something unspoken. It coiled around you, wrapping tight around your ribs as her eyes tracked your movements, assessing, waiting.

“Welcome back,” she said smoothly, gesturing for you to come further in. You obeyed, feeling strangely exposed under her gaze. She hummed, studying you. “You look tense again.”

You exhaled sharply. “I mean… I guess?”

Her smile deepened. “You’ve been thinking too much. Haven’t you?”

Your breath caught. Because—yes.

She chuckled softly. “I told you, darling. You carry everything too tightly.”

You swallowed.

“I want to try something different today,” she announced. “Something a little more… physical.”

Your brain short-circuited at the word.

She leaned forward, voice dipping into something lower, more intimate. “Have you ever done guided breathwork before?”

You shook your head.

She nodded, as if she expected that. “It’s about control,” she said. “Releasing what no longer serves you.”

Your breath hitched.

“May I touch you?” she asked, voice velvety smooth.

“Y—yeah,” you stammered, your pulse pounded in your ears.

She stood, stepping behind you. The air shifted as she moved closer, the heat of her body ghosting along your back before her hands settled on your shoulders—firm, warm, grounding.

“You’re so wound up,” she murmured, her thumbs pressing in, kneading slowly. A soft sigh slipped from your lips before you could stop it.

“Breathe with me,” she instructed, her lips near your ear now. “In…”

You inhaled shakily.

“Good,” she praised. “Now out.”

Her hands moved lower, gliding down your arms, her touch light but deliberate. “Again,” she hummed.

You obeyed, and as you exhaled, her hands skimmed lower, fingertips ghosting over the curve of your ribs, her thumbs teasing at the sides of your breasts. You stiffened, heat pooling between your thighs, but she only hummed in approval.

“You’re still holding back,” she whispered, breath warm against your skin. “I need you to let go.”

Her hands drifted lower, over your waist, her grip firm as she guided you back against her body. A quiet, shuddering exhale left you, your head swimming, warmth pooling low in your stomach.

“Good,” she praised, voice like silk. “You’re doing so well for me.”

A shiver ran down your spine as she pressed closer, the solid heat of her flush against your back.

“This tension you carry,” she sighed, her breath hot against your skin, “it needs to be released.”

Her hands slipped lower, over your hips, nails scraping lightly against fabric. A slow, deliberate drag that sent fire licking through your veins.

“Let me help,”

And then her hands moved lower. Your whole body went still.

Agatha hummed in approval. “You feel that, don’t you?”

A sound—something between a gasp and a whimper—escaped your lips, as your body burned with arousal.

“Good,” she praised again, like she could feel you unravelling beneath her touch. “You’re doing perfectly.”

Her touch dipped between your thighs causing a sharp gasp to tear from your throat as your body jolted, nerves alight.

“Shh, this is part of the process,” she soothed, her lips grazing your ear, the warmth of her breath sending shivers down your spine. “Trust me.”

You did. You shouldn’t, but you did.

Her hands were steady, patient, coaxing you back against her body. Heat seeped into your skin where she pressed, her perfume—something dark, heady, intoxicating—curling around you like smoke.

“This is what you need,” she declared, her fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles over your clothed clit. “A full release.”

Your body arched, a broken moan slipping past your lips before you could swallow it down.

“There it is.” Agatha’s voice was rich with satisfaction, her free hand dragging lazy patterns over your torso, her nails grazing just enough to make you shiver. “That’s my good girl.”

Shame curled low in your stomach, but it was drowned out by the pleasure winding tighter, by the way she spoke like she knew you better than you knew yourself. Maybe she did. No one else had reached this part of you—no one else had understood what you truly needed.

Only Agatha.

“You’ve been holding so much inside,” she mused, her fingers dipping beneath the waistband of your underwear, teasing the sensitive skin beneath. “I think it’s time to let me take care of you.”

You whimpered, your breath coming in uneven bursts, but you didn’t pull away. You didn’t want to.

A pleased hum vibrated in her throat as she pressed her fingers against your slick heat.

“Oh, darling,” she cooed, her lips brushing against your temple, “you do need me.”

Your head lolled back against her shoulder, your lips parting in a breathless moan as she circled your clit with practiced ease, teasing and coaxing you into submission.

“Such a sweet thing,” she remarked, her other hand coming up to tilt your chin, guiding your gaze to hers. “Look at me.”

Your eyes fluttered open, dazed and glassy, and the look she gave you made your stomach tighten.

“There’s my good girl.”

The praise sent a pulse of heat through you, something deep and desperate unraveling at the sound of it. You wanted to please her. To prove that you trusted her.

Her mouth slanted over yours, swallowing your gasped moans as her fingers slid inside you, slow and purposeful. A sharp cry left you as she stretched you open, her thumb still circling, teasing, never letting you sink too deep into mindlessness. She wanted you present. Aware.

Your body jerked, overwhelmed by the sensation, but her hands were steady, guiding you through it. “Breathe,” she instructed, her lips brushing against your cheek. “In through your nose… there you go, good girl… and out.”

You tried. You really did. But every exhale was a stuttering moan, your body trembling against hers.

“That’s it,” she soothed, her fingers curling just enough to make you keen. “Let yourself feel it. Let yourself fall.”

Your fingers grasped at her sleeve, desperate for something to hold onto as she worked you open, dragging you closer and closer to the edge.

“You’ve spent so long running from this,” she murmured, voice low, hypnotic, each word coiling around your ribs and pulling tight. “From what you need. From what I can give you.”

You shook your head weakly, barely processing her words through the pleasure threatening to swallow you whole.

“No?” She tutted, her fingers never ceasing. “Then tell me, darling… why are you shaking?”

You couldn’t answer. She had you undone, every nerve alight, every thought consumed by her.

“Let go,” she commanded, her voice velvet-soft but unyielding. “Let me take care of you.”

As the pleasure coiled tighter, your body trembled against her, every muscle wound impossibly tense. Agatha’s touch never wavered—precise, knowing, relentless.

"That's it," she murmured, her lips grazing the shell of your ear. "You’re so close, aren’t you?"

A breathless whimper escaped you, your hips bucking into her hand, chasing that final push. She chuckled softly, her fingers maintaining their rhythm, teasing you to the brink.

"Good girl," she praised, her voice dipping into something darker, richer. "Give it to me. I want to feel you cum on my fingers."

Your breath hitched, your body straining under the weight of pleasure, but she didn’t let you fall just yet. Her free hand dragged up your torso, nails grazing along your ribs before curling around your throat, a light, possessive pressure that made you gasp.

"You've been holding onto this for so long," she crooned. "But not anymore. Let. Go."

Her grip on your throat tightened ever so slightly as her fingers curled against your g-spot, pushing you past the point of no return. A sharp cry tore from your lips, your entire body arching as the pleasure finally snapped, pleasure ripping through you in waves.

"That’s it, my sweet girl," Agatha cooed, her voice dripping with satisfaction. "Ride it out—just like that. So perfect for me."

Your walls clenched around her fingers, the aftershocks making you shudder, but she didn’t stop. Not yet. She drew out every last pulse of pleasure, her touch easing from devastating to indulgent, dragging you through the bliss until you were nothing but a boneless, gasping mess in her arms.

"Such a good girl," she muttered, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple as her fingers finally stilled, her palm resting possessively against your slick heat. "I knew you could do it."

She let you catch your breath, but her fingers traced slow, lazy circles over your sensitive skin, teasing, reminding you who had brought you to this point.

Your breath still came in uneven shudders as she finally pulled her hand away. You barely had a chance to process the loss before she brought her fingers to her lips, her darkened eyes never leaving yours as she sucked them clean.

Heat flared in your cheeks.

Agatha only smiled.“We’ll continue this next session,” she promised, brushing a stray bead of sweat from your forehead. “I think we’re making real progress.”

-----

In this AU Agatha totally only became a therapist so she could mess around with people's minds and get paid for it.

N.B Agatha's behaviour is extremely toxic and manipulative due to the power she holds over reader. This work is purely fiction and such actions have no place in the real world.

-----

taglist: @aceday @danveration @alwaysharmony @idkwhatever580 @jujuu23 @lostbutlovely33 @sweetmidnights @6ange19

[gloomskulls]

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚LIMERENCE PT 2 [tasm!peter parker x reader]

pairings: tasm!peter parker x reader

part 1

⇢ ˗ˏˋ SUMMARY ୨୧ after finding the courage and the balls to ask you out, Peter couldn't help but test the waters.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ WARNING ୨୧ reader is drunk and drunk people cannot give consent), terribly written smut (i'm a virgin i'm sorry, I have no idea what goes on actually in the bed), oral (fem receiving), drinking, drunk reader, overstimulation, everyone is 18+ here lemme know if I missed any. MINORS DO NOT READ

If you don't want to see my dark stories in the future please block the tag #madi: dark content

A/n: I'm sorry this took a whole ass while, it's probs 90% story and 10% smut. Like it's probs shit, the smut's the reason why I couldn't finish this sooner because I had no idea where it was going. Also tried to write 2012 slang, idk if it even sounds right. don't steal any of the shit I've written or else I'm going to turn you into Victoria Heyes from terrifier ❤️🫶/srs

Peter shuffled in his sleep. Tossing and turning. Sleep never found him, how could it? He did something so unforgivable. Having an obsession with someone who barely acknowledges your existence is one thing, but sneaking into her house, completely crossing every single line, and then jerking off to the scent of your panties while imagining you on top of him, riding him as you creamed his cock with your cum.

The air felt heavy and there was an almost stifling silence in his small bedroom, while his mind worked in the manner of a broken machine, looping thoughts.

Every single thing about you — your laugh, the spark in your eyes when you spoke of something you loved, the way you uttered his name — his mind kept replaying like a broken record. Each one felt as fresh as if it had just taken place a moment ago, and each one pulled at something deep within his chest.

He had spent years arguing with himself about what he was doing. He told himself that viewing you from a distance was merely innocent fascination, a little crush. But that had been a lie. What he had done the night before, sneaking into your room was not a mistake; it was a deliberate decision.

Peter was filled with doubts, a regular person would call him lovesick, a creep even. Is she really worth it? Peter admits something he'd been avoiding for a while.

He wanted you.

Not as a classmate. Not as a partner for a stupid project. He wanted you in a way that was raw and desperate and consuming. Oh, he wanted you to look at him the way you look at the rest of the world with trust, with affection, with the same ease that made you laugh at his dumb jokes.

The realization hit him hard. The weight of it sank into his chest like a boulder, but there was a rush of something else too-something darker, more intoxicating.

Peter sat up abruptly, there's only one way or another, heart hammering as he snatched up his phone. Tapping out a quick message, he did so with trembling hands.

"Hey, u free 2nite? Was thinkin maybe we could finish the proj & grab dinner after. My treat. :)"

He stared at the screen, his thumb hovered over the send button. The fear crept back in, whispering in the back of his mind. What if she thought he was crazy? What if she rejected me outright? What if everything he'd built up in his head came crashing down?

Many thoughts crowded his mind, neither of them was good

As he stared at the text, his finger quivered. His stomach tightening in knots. The reply was already forming in his mind—would you say yes? Or perhaps he was weird for asking, for suggesting anything other than school?

But what if he didn't ask? What if he kept on pretending that this crush wasn't eating him up from the inside?

I've got to do this; he tried to steady his breath. This would never come again.

Deep breath and then Peter clicked "send."

Time seemed to stretch into eternity. His mind was racing, spinning out into the worst-case scenarios. You could just say no or even laugh it off and tell him it wasn't a good idea. It's a biology project, after all. That's what it was supposed to be—right?

That crumbled page of biology scraps lay on his desk as evidence of the project you both were working on. It was supposed to be a simple collaboration, probably will last for a few weeks if he was lucky, and then he'd just go back to being invisible to you.

But he didn't want to go back to being invisible.

He sat there at the edge of the bed, hunched over in an awkward position, his elbows rested on the stretched knees, and he stared his phone, convinced that at any moment it would leave his grip. He had typed the message, the own words glowing brighter as he waited.

He had redone it like at least a dozen times, but all versions felt way too casual to too formal. His current message was just right; friendly, innocent enough but still an invite.

What if you think it is strange? What if you don't even reply at all?

He shook his head to stabilize his breathing. It's alright, he told himself. His not asking for something crazy. It's only a dinner.

But it wasn't just a dinner. It was the convergence of years of quiet yearning, stolen glances, and missed opportunities. This was the first real step toward something more, if only he could find the courage to take it.

He shunned his phone flat on the bed thinking that might ease the tension in his chest, but it didn't. His heart raced as seconds ticked by on the clock, each second feeling like an eternally long wait.

What if you didn't reply?

What if you did?

His thoughts were interrupted abruptly as his phone buzzed.

He grabbed it with trembling hands.

"Sure! I'm totally in. Where r we meeting? 7?"

He read the message over and over again: You're saying yes. Relief was an actual weight that was just lifted as disbelief flooded him as he blinked at the screen, rereading the message to make sure it hadn't been imagined.

For a moment, he allowed himself to smile, but it quickly disappeared. Now that he got the answer, a different kind of panic struck.

What happens next?

"Yea 7’s cool, I’ll pick u up @ ur place"

He looked up at the clock-6:30. In thirty minutes, he needed to get ready. Thirty minutes within which he needed to figure out how not to screw this one up completely.

Peter fell out of his chair and quickly rifled through his closet for something fresh and unique that didn't look like it had just been thrown on five minutes ago. His room was strung out in a mess of hoodies and T-shirts that didn't do any good as he tried on piece after piece-each feeling wrong.

"Relax," he murmured at himself while gazing at his reflection in the mirror. Hi hair looked like he just crawled out from under the bed, his face was red, and no matter how many adjustments he attempted on the clothes, he still looked like the awkward kid he'd always been.

Peter raced around his pod-sized room in search of a shirt that didn't scream "high school loser." The bed was a battlefield littered with crumpled hoodies, a checkered flannel, even his Midtown Science Academy T-shirt.

"Peter?" Aunt May's curious sounding voice called out from the hallway.

"Yeah?" he shouted back while looking through his closet and listening.

"Why does it sound like a tornado hit your room? Are you okay in there?"

Peter groaned and threw another hoodie onto the pile he was amassing on the bed. "I'm fine!"

The creaky door slammed open a moment later, and Aunt May peeked her head in. Her sharp eyes traveled the disaster area that was his room, from the piles of clothes, and even down to the one sneaker he was wearing.

"Uh-huh. Fine." She crossed her arms, leaning against the doorframe. "What's all this about? A wardrobe crisis?"

He sighed at her and rubbed the back of his neck. "Nothing serious, okay? I just… I'm going out."

May raised an eyebrow as her lips twitched as if trying hard not to smile. "Going out? As in… on a date?"

"What? No!" Peter's voice shot up as he spun around, waving his hands. "It's not a date! It's just dinner. For a project. With a friend."

By now, she wasn't even trying to hide her grin. "A 'friend,' huh? Is this the same 'friend' you've been talking about nonstop since this biology project started?"

"I don't talk about her nonstop!" protested Peter, turning into a shade of tomato. "Oh, you definitely do," Uncle Ben countered from outside the hallway and into the room, sporting the knowing smirk of someone who has heard too much. "Half the time, it's, 'Oh, she's so smart,' and the other half is, 'She's so good at this lab thing.'" He said with a dreamy tone

"Okay, okay, so I get it!" he groaned while burying his face in his hands. "Can we not do this now?"

Ben laughed and slapped Peter on the shoulder. “Relax, kid. We are just teasing, and you've got this.”

May walked into the room and picked up one of the forgotten shirts from the bed. Holding it up, she said, "What is wrong with this? Nice but casual, not slobby."

Peter squinted at it. "It's too—I don't know; plain?"

"Plain is better than looking as if you are trying too hard," she said, tossing it to him.

Uncle Ben nodded sagely. "It's right." "You don't want to go full tuxedo on a first—uh, not a date," he added quickly, holding up his hands when Peter glared at him.

Peter huffed but pulled the shirt over his head anyway. "You two are the worst," he muttered, though his tone lacked any real bite.

May smiled and reached out, smoothing the collar of his shirt. "We are not the worst. We are just proud of you. It's good to see you putting yourself out there."

"I'm not—," Peter began, but Ben cut him off.

"You are," Ben said firmly. "That's a good thing. Just be yourself, Pete. If she's as great as you say she is, she'll see what we see, a smart, kind, slightly awkward but very lovable kid."

Peter's face burned. "Yea, you really know how to give a pep talk."

"Hey, it worked, didn't it?" Ben fired back with a grin.

May handed Peter his second sneaker. "Here. Don't forget this, unless you're planning to really impress her with your one-shoe look."

Peter rolled his eyes but could not quite hide the grin that crept onto his lips. "Thanks, Aunt May."

So Ben called after him as he grabbed his jacket and headed for the door. "And remember, kid—Italian places usually give you breadsticks first. Don't fill up before the main course!"

Peter groaned loudly. "I'm going now! Bye!"

He was there, at your door, heart pounding heavily, as if wanting to burst out from the body. He lingered for a while, staring at the doorbell.

What if this is a mistake?

But before you could think otherwise, the button pressed his finger.

And then echoed the sound of the bell from inside, and Peter felt that the earth would open up and swallow him whole in an instance. He heard footsteps, and then the door opened.

There you were.

"Hey, Peter!" you said, smiling that effortless way that made his breath catch in his throat, stepping aside and gesturing for him to come in. "You're right on time, I just need a minute to grab my bag."

Peter managed a small smile and stepped in, wiping his sweaty palms against his jeans. "Yeah, of course. Take all the time you need."

You disappeared into another room, leaving Peter hanging awkwardly at your door, his eyes darting about. It was a very warm and inviting house, in harmony with the kind of person you were. The faint hum of a television in another room was muffled, someone talking, and he could hear that easily.

Your presence returned with your bag slung around your shoulder and you ignited the nerves again in Peter.

“So,” you said, smiling at him, “where to?”

Peter hesitated just a beat too long, his mind scrambling to come up with an answer. "Uh, I was thinking Italian? That okay with you?"

"Italian sounds great," you said easily as your smile widened.

Peter's heart raced as you stepped out the door, walking beside him toward the small restaurant a few blocks away. The night air was crisp, and for the first few minutes, he was too caught up in his own head to say much. But then you started talking, asking him about his day, about the project, and the sound of your voice eased some of his tension.

You made him feel like he belonged, even without having a word to say.

When the restaurant came in sight, Peter turned to you. Nerves still there but mixed with something else: a quiet and hopeful excitement.

Maybe just maybe, tonight will be the beginning of something real.

The walk to the restaurant was such a nerve-racking experience. Each step Peter Parker took beside you felt like a step closer to something he wasn't ready (or was actually hoping for). His hands buried deep in his jacket pockets, fingers curling and uncurling, while trying to keep steady pacing alongside you.

But you appeared to be at full ease. You talked about the cool evening, how the trees' leaves were beginning to rustle with the cold wind blowing, and even the faint smell of roasting chestnuts from a street vendor a few blocks away. Peter heard everything, nodded, and punctuated things now and then with the occasional "Yeah" or "Totally," but as for his thoughts, they were running wild within him.

This is well. This is the standard. This is alright, He didn't over hypothesize for the hundredth time.

As much as there was relief in now having something solid to focus on, Peter was panicked that it all became real at that moment.

He opened the door for you, his hand trembling slightly as he held it.

"Thanks," you said, giving him a swift smile before stepping inside.

"Uh, yeah. Of course," Peter mumbled as he hung his head and followed you in.

The hostess took you to a corner besides the glass window, a cozy little spot with a flickering candle in the middle of the table. Peter's hands trembled as he took the chair and gestured you to sit on it.

The menu in front of him could be in another language as he stared dumbly at it, words bringing into a blur while the thoughts buzzing in his head were getting harder to put to rest.

Don't be weird. Just be normal. What does "normal" even mean? Stop overthinking! You've got this!

"This place is nice," you commented as you scanned the menu. "How did you discover it?"

"Oh, um, my aunt used to like it here," Peter said, grateful he could answer such a question. "She says the lasagna is the best."

You grinned. "Aunt May has good taste. I will try that."

He nodded, yes, but could not stop the rush of nervous thoughts flooding his mind. He glanced at the menu as if studying it although he already knew what he would order. But his mind was instead filled with every possible thing he could screw up tonight.

Don't talk too much; don't laugh strangely; don't look like an idiot.

Here came the waiter, and you ordered effortlessly, laced with a polite smile as you handed him the menu. Peter stammered out his order and felt his palms sweat as he gave it. When the waiter walked away, Peter could feel your eyes on him, and it took everything he had to meet your gaze.

"So," you said, leaning in with elbows planted on the table, chin cradled in palm, "what's your thing, Peter?"

"My thing?" he said, taken aback. "Like, my thing?"

"Yeah, like… what do you do for fun? What are you really into doing when absolutely no one else is watching and judging?"

Peter blinked, trying to think of something that wouldn't sound lame. "Uh, well, I like photography," he said. "And science, I guess. Experiments, stuff like that."

You perked up. "Photography? That is cool. What kind of pictures do you take?"

"Mostly city stuff," he said, his voice gaining a bit of confidence. "You know, like weird angles, shadows, reflections. It's probably not that interesting to most people."

"I think it sounds interesting," you said. "I would love to see your pictures sometime."

Peter's heart was pounding so hard. "Really? Uh, yeah, sure. I mean, if you want."

That made the conversation flow more easily. You told him about your love-hate relationship with math, how sometimes you spent too long procrastinating by watching cooking shows instead of doing your homework, and how one time you tried to make crème brûlée and almost burned your stove.

“I had to open every window in the house,” you said, laughing. “My mom came home and thought I’d burned dinner. I didn’t tell her it was supposed to be dessert.”

Peter grinned, feeling just a little bit more at ease. “Maybe stick to cookies next time, huh?”

“Noted,” you said with a mock-serious nod.

Then it was time to eat. You both started digging into it while still keeping up your conversation. Peter quickly found himself becoming much more relaxed, finding it absolutely easy to talk to you when he didn't over-analyze every word. You burst into laughter each time his jokes finished, and whenever his eye fell into yours, everything around faded.

There was little doubt that he was doing this because he was desperate enough to strike a topic that wouldn't make him sound like an idiot; this was the reason why he asked, "You, uh, good with the whole project?"

You leaned back, fiddled with the napkin on the table, and said, "Yeah, it's actually been fun. Well, I mean, we work well together, and you're much smarter than I had thought."

Peter blinked. "Wait, you thought I wasn't smart?"

"No, I just-" You smirk, it's clear you're enjoying his reaction. "You always seem kinda… busy with stuff, you know? You're not exactly the loudest guy in the room."

"Well, I, uh…" Peter rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "I'm, uh, more of a behind-the-scenes guy. You know, less talk, more… action?"

You laughed, the sound light and easy, and Peter felt himself get a little more relaxed. Maybe you weren't judging him.

'This place have wine?' you ask all of a sudden, not looking up from the menu.

Peter blinked. "Uh… I think so?"

You smirked and put your feet up on the table after throwing the menu on it. "Perfect. I could use a glass."

Peter was at a loss on how he should respond. It just didn't seem like the kind of person who would order wine to go with dinner-at least, not in his limited and admittedly romanticized view of you. But when the waiter came by, you ordered an entire bottle without hesitating, barely glancing at Peter for confirmation.

"Um, yeah, sounds good," Peter said weakly, even though the thought of drinking anything stronger than soda made him nervous.

The waiter nodded and disappeared, leaving the two of you alone in an awkward silence.

But the waiter was back again, this time with a bottle and two glasses, which he laid down with a polite smile. And before you knew it, the deep red liquid was already swirling around in your glass because you had poured it in haste from the bottle.

Want some? You asked, already halfway through your first sip.

“Uh, maybe later,” Peter said.

You shrugged and took another long drink before putting the glass down with a satisfied sigh. “Suit yourself.”

The most casual kind of conversation developed between you: you asked Peter about what he was interested in, and he managed to stumble along throwing together great lengthy descriptions about why he loved photography and science, and the words came out too fast for him to think them. It almost seemed like you were listening to him, however, because he went on to nod before even asking follow-up questions, which made him for the first time in a long time feel that he wasn't entirely invisible.

By that time, he was becoming aware, as the hours slipped away, that you were filling up your glass more and more often. The bottle was now half empty when the food came, and you were already sporting rosy cheeks when the alcohol was pouring into your system.

“This is good,” you said, hardly bothering with your plate in order to gesture with your fork at it. "I mean, really good. Good call, Parker.”

The smile that appeared on Peter's face was that of nervousness. "Thanks. I'm glad you like it."

Now you leaned back in your seat, holding your glass up to the light. "You know, I don't really do stuff like this. I've kind of never had dinner with classmates. It's just a little… weird, you know?"

Peter sank a little. "Weird, how?"

"Not bad weird," you said immediately by waving your hand. "Just… different. Like, generally, I would just be at home watching some lousy reality show and trying to forget how much homework I have to do."

Peter chuckled, even though he had no idea what to say next.

After a sip of wine, the boy looked up at Peter who immediately landed his gaze upon the bottle. You seem well into your first glass with a heightening sense of ease that you appeared to be at his home. Maybe it was because of the wine or perhaps how you were looking at him right now-not with judging spectatorship but with a strange kind of understanding that made him feel as if he were not really out of place.

It was only a count of seconds before the food arrived while you already had a second glass in hand. Peter's stomach flipped at that moment. This wasn't the way he was used to seeing you, all loosened up and speaking without that slight guard he usually saw when you were around. You appeared different tonight, and Peter couldn't quite figure it out if it was a good thing or not.

However, the conversation was still going on, only that as soon as you took a few more drinks, conversations shifted to more profound, much more personal things. Laughter spilled from your lips more freely, although Peter saw that smiles were now somewhat uncontrollable. Maybe it was the wine; maybe it was just the ambience. In any case, he could feel something shifting, like you were letting him see this version of yourself you weren't sure he was supposed to see.

"Peter", you said, looking at him with wide eyes after a long sip. "What's your big dream? Like 20 years from now, what do you see yourself doing?"

He shifted around uneasily on his chair. And that question was sudden, a little more intense than he would have reckoned it to be. He was not used to being asked about his future like this.

"Honestly?" said Peter, leaning back a little and looking down at the half-finished plate in front of him. "I don't really know. I think- I think I want to do something with science, or photography. Maybe combine. Don't know really. Just like, I want to fix things, you know? Help make the world a little less broken.''

You were quiet for a moment, and Peter wasn't sure whether it was because he'd said something wrong or whether you were just thinking. But when you finally spoke, your voice was softer, almost quieter than before.

"I think that's really admirable, Peter."

That was it. That one simple sentence hit him harder than he expected. He wasn't used to compliments like that- not from you, not from anyone. The words were a strange dream, and for a second he just looked dumbfoundedly at you trying to really understand what you mean.

Peter had never imagined the night to go this way. Not even in a million years. But here he was, walking alongside you, swaying slightly on the sidewalk with less steadiness in your step than before. Surprisingly, the wine had hit you faster than he figured, and he wasn't so sure if he should be concerned or just chalk it up to the kind of night it had turned into.

"Hey, I'm-" You hiccupped, laughing lightly at your own clumsiness. "I'm fine, Peter. Really."

But Peter wasn't so sure. His instincts were whipping him into overdrive-the same ones that always made him want to leap into action when something was amiss. "Yeah, I don't think you are," he said, trying to keep it light. "Let me just walk you home, okay? Just to make sure you're good."

But you rolled your eyes, with an almost sheepish smile you gave in, "Fine, fine. I get it. You're worried about me."

"Yeah, I am," Peter said, his voice a little quieter than he intended. "But you're my responsibility right now, okay?"

You exhale a small laugh, and Peter can't help but take note of how completely giddy it sounded, a little like you weren't quite sure where you were or what you were doing. You leaned against him, and then Peter was surprised at how easily you let him help you with that.

The way home was otherwise silent except for the occasional trip and the muttered apologies from you. But Peter didn't mind it, sensing closeness, although strange. Everything was just weird tonight. The brushing of your hand against his as you reached for your keys. That laugh of yours that wouldn't leave his ears. The vulnerability you seemed to wear in your eyes at that moment.

So, then you reached your door, and you suddenly stopped and stood there, fumbling with the keys in your hand. Peter moved closer but silently offered to help. You shook your head.

"I've got this," you said, though your words were slurring just enough for Peter to catch the uncertainty behind them.

After much effort on your part, the door finally opened. You leaned in again, and Peter nearly lost his heart as he had to rush forward to steady you.

"Whoa, take it easy," Peter said catching you as you stumbled. "Let me help you."

You smiled up at him, glassy and unfocused. "I'm fine, Peter," you slurred. "Just a little…tipsy."

Peter chuckled and guided you up the walkway to your front door. "Tipsy, huh? Well, let's get you inside and safe, then."

As you both reached the front door, you fumbled with your keys and Peter had to gently take them from your hand and unlock the door himself. You smiled up at him, your eyes sparkling with amusement.

After some time and a couple of tries, she got the door opened.

"Okay, inside," he said, his tone a little more powerful now. You did not resist him as he helped you through the door, but there was a strange sadness in your eyes that twisted Peter's stomach.

You moved slowly to the couch and finally sank down on it; the wine was exhausting. Peter stood near the door for a moment, wondering his next move. He wanted to shoot his shot, his thoughts wandered to somethings more inappropriate. Wasn't this all about getting you safe? Ensuring you did not end up passed out somewhere in a big, messy pile of sheets and regrets.

"Can you just… stay for a bit?" you asked quietly, with barely a whisper.

Peter hesitated. He didn't want to go too far, and he couldn't just leave you here, not looking so…fragile.

"Yes," he spoke softly, entering then into the living room. "I'll stay for a bit"

You nodded at him, gazing at him with tired eyes. "Thank you."

Peter perched on the edge of the couch; his hands awkwardly balanced on his knees. What a strange space there was between you two now, strange in that it was so very close, yet so far away. He wanted to be of some use and ensure you were okay, and yet the way the glance kept coming from you in that direction somehow felt… off. It was like walking on a fine line.

Peter looked at you longingly, you were so beautiful.

Too close and too perfect, he found himself sitting next to you, and Peter felt the pressure of so many things left uncommunicated fill his chest. He needed to do it. He needed to say it.

"Peter?" Your voice was a soft whisper, a little uncertain. Wine had aided this whole relaxing process, yet made almost everything feel slightly out of focus.

Peter swallowed, heart pounding in the chest. He wasn't entirely sure if it was the alcohol that has found narrate in your system, or if it was the raw honesty of the moment, but he knew very well it was now or never, the one chance to say all he had kept bottled up for months.

"Yeah?" he whispered, getting closer so that he was almost against you now.

"It's just that, I… I'm sorry if I've been too much tonight," you said, your words slightly slurring as you allowed your gaze to drift over his face. "I didn't mean to get that drunk."

Peter felt his breath hitch in his throat. "It's fine," he said, his voice softer now. He could feel his palms sweating, his heart racing faster than ever. "I just… I just want to make sure you're okay."

You smiled up at him, but it was a little foggy, and Peter could tell that the wine had dulled your clarity. Still, you were so beautiful, standing there, looking at him with those eyes—eyes that made him feel like he mattered.

Peter took a sharp breath and let a sudden breath of air come out. It was as if a magnet was pulling them together, and he was drawn to it. "So, uh– I was thinking…" He hesitated for a moment, then recovered his composure, trying to calm the trembling in his hands. "I've been thinking about you for a long time. Like, longer than I should have."

His brows knitted further in confusion as Peter quickly realized that the rest of the sentence was failing miserably in getting through your mind, as if the actual words were swimming around in it, suspended in fog. He stepped closer, unable to stop himself.

"If I—" He let out a shaky breath. "You know, I've been loving you for so long now. And tonight, I couldn't hold it anymore and just… broke the dam."

Your expression shifted slightly. Confusion clouded your gaze. You blinked, trying to piece together his words. "Wait, what?"

Peter took a step closer, completely incapable of holding himself back. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, and he felt the heat between you intensify. He reached out, his hand brushing gently against your arm. "I love you," he whispered again, barely able to breathe. "I love you so much, and I've been too scared to say it. I've watched you for so long, and I—" Peter stopped mid-sentence as he looked at you, eyes looking like a lost puppy.

"You're so beautiful, so so beautiful" He leaned in, your face was so close to him, his lips brushed against yours. He held your face as he licked your lips.

You could feel the warmth of his breath on your skin with just the proximity of Peter's face to yours, and the goosebumps it sent down your spine. Those eyes were filled deeply with a longing expression and captured yours as if drowning you in its depths. There was air that quite vibrated between the two of you, and the heat that seemed to take form could even be felt emanating from his body.

"I wanted to do that for so long," Peter whispered. His voice shuddered with desire. Gentle words falling like a caress to send shivers through you: "Wanted to touch you, hold you, kiss."

His lips brushed against yours when he spoke, making your body spark with electricity. You were pretty much melting into him, as if his very desire were consuming your human body. His lips, soft and gentle, just as firm and insistent. You tasted like wine.

"You're so beautiful" he said as his hands went underneath your dress, his hands inching close to your under garments. He touched your clothed core; he used his index finger to rub your clothed cover clit

You squirmed in his touch, "P-peter" You mewled in his mouth

This just seemed to fuel Peter even more, as he set aside your panties as his smooth fingers rubbed your now exposed core. Peter looked at you, he slowly kneeled as he spread your legs.

He looked at your wet core, as if it was a painting that he couldn't understand. Without warning he then sucked your glistening pearl; his tongue probed the inside of your gummy walls as his fingers rubbed your pearl. You cried out, your body arching up to meet him, and Peter felt a surge of excitement. He was in control now, and you were at his mercy.

He knew it was wrong, you were drunk after all, but he couldn't help it, this was his only chance.

He licked and sucked at your clit, his fingers plunging in and out of your dripping wet pussy, you cried out in ecstasy, your hands tugging at Peter's hair. But he didn't care, all he cared about was your dripping we cunt.

Anticipation dwells in the coiling mouth against your body, sending shivers along your spine. Every inch of you is lulled into stimulation by his gentle probing, drawing near to a soon-to-be-hidden insistent demand. You can feel that hot air glazing across your skin, soft scraping with teeth, and relentless pressure from his lips, all of which accompanies his tongue.

Your hands are clenched while he works, fingers digging into the sheets or perhaps his hair, holding him there. Your hips jerk primitively, as though to push him deeper and encourage more pressure, while your breathing makes raspy sounds mixed with soft mewls of pleasure.

One hand is busy at your hips, molding you solidly into place, while the other slips only up over the curve of your waist before settling over your breast.

You feel yourself immersing in the sensation as your focus is honed into one. The only critical thing is the feeling of his mouth on you. The whole room begins to fade away, and you're left with only the slushing wet sounds he makes and your breathless gasps, groans, and cries.

Peter on the other hand felt like he was in cloud nine, his mouth was now fully covered in your arousal, but he didn't care. He continued lapping at your cunt, accompanied with his middle finger thrusting in and out of you.

As the intensity rises, so do your frantic movements: the hips jerk and thrust as though reaching toward some ill-defined height. His mouth is a scythe-like blur of tongue lashing and probing until the pressure builds and you're all quivering trembling muscles, precariously balanced on a knife edge of release.

Your mouth is wide open, frozen in a silent scream on your lips, and your entire body starts quivering at the moment of release.

Then silence engulfs the outside world; its only inhabitants are trapped in a silent world of raw lust. His mouth is a furnace, raging, and threatening to engulf you completely, but you lean into the flames, thirsty for the intense heat that only he can provide. Your skin is slick with sweat, your heart thundering like a runaway train as your body builds toward the inevitable climax.

Your cries intensify as tension rises, a mournful cry into this frantic air, a scream savage, echoing off the walls as your body strains towards that release. Your muscles quivering.

Before you knew it, it almost hit you like rough wave of pleasure.

His cock twitched, his balls tightening with anticipation, as he felt the warmth of her your release in his mouth. That alone could make him cum his pants. He had never been this close to a woman before, and the thought of exploring your body was almost too much to bear. And here he was doing exactly just that.

You were beautiful to Peter, but you looked ungodly when you were in a state of release. The way your chest would heave up and down, how your mascara was running down your eyes, and your lipstick smudged on the side of your face.

"You're so beautiful" he said, barely even above a whisper.

"P-peter— OH MY GOD!"

He suddenly took a long slow stripe of your pussy, as if savoring everything, but then stopped when his tongue reached your clit. He sucked on your little pearl as if it was lollipop.

You moaned loudly as your back arched and your toes curled, "P-peter" You whimpered

The way he was sucking on your clit, along with his fingers that was thrusting deep inside you. It made it nearly unbearable. The last few moments or so almost sent you spiraling into one of those severe orgasms that made you see stars on your ceiling.

Loud moans slipped from your mouth, you wondered if your parents were at home, what if they see their sweet girl falling apart underneath the so-called weird kid of your school.

Your hips bucked against his mouth, trying to ease the bittersweet pleasure he was giving you. "P-peter, oh god, stop, I c-can't take it anymore" you begged in a voice very nearly a whisper. Body trembling, your hands reached instinctively for his hair, holding him.

He continued his performance on your clit. A familiar knot kept building inside you. Suddenly, the moans turned into loud gasps, and your body began to shake uncontrollably. P-peter, I…I think I'm going to come again" you finally whisper. To that, he only sucked harder, licked harder, his fingers falling on a rhythm with his tongue swirling relentlessly on your sensitive spot, bringing you to sweet agony. Your back arched up, you gasp while screaming, "P-PETER!"

Heaving and shaking with each pulsing moan, you lay there with your body's hypersensitivity after such intense pleasure receding. Finally, Peter raised his head. That satisfied smile on his face was testimony to your ability to elicit such feelings from him. And with his eyes, he stared at you, every flicker of lust speaking volumes about what was crossing his mind. Then he kissed near the center of time in your inner thigh, his lips dragging softly, and then moving to lie with you at the side of the couch

Peter's smile slowly faded as he noticed your catch of breath, replaced with a show of real concern. He stroked your hair as he gazed into your eyes. "That was intense," Peter said. "You're shaking." His voice was tender, wrapping around you like a soft blanket. "Time to get you to bed, all right?"

He managed a slowly rise from the couch while extending his hand forward towards you. You grasped onto it and found your balance shaky; nonetheless, Peter assisted you toward leaving the living room, down the hallway, and into your bedroom.

Peter opened your door slowly, revealing the bedroom from that night. Snap out of your thoughts Parker!

The bedside lamp cast a warm glow over the room. Peter placed you carefully at the edge of the bed. He knelt down to remove your shoes and started undressing you slowly and carefully. He threw the covers over you as you laid back in bed, tucking you in like a young child.

"Rest," he whispered as he brushed his lips against your forehead. "Sleep, I'll be here when you wake." He sat beside you, stroking your hair with his hand. Your eyelids began to feel heavier, and weariness, along with all the forms of pleasure, finally overtook you. Peter was the last person you remember as you slipped into slumber, where upon you felt the warmth beside you that offered the source of a much-needed sense of safety.

@gloomskulls 2024, DON'T COPY, TRANSLATE OR USE OF MY WORKS IN ANY OTHER WEBSITE. Photos don't belong to me

[l1tw1ck]

Because of a Party

bottom!ftm!tasm!Peter Parker x top!masc reader

🕷️ Word Count: 1,843 🕷️

↳ [REQUEST] | [No AFAB Language Version]

CW: Dub-Con (Dry Humping), Drunkenness, Blowjob, Cunnilingus, Squirting, Biting, Marking

Peter and Gwen have been friends for a few years and most people think Peter’s in love with her. But in reality, he's in love with you. You don't talk to him much, you have your own group of friends and he's a year older so you never even considered becoming his friend. Peter's been content with just watching you from afar since he’s convinced he has no chance with you. He figured nothing would happen and you’d just be an old crush in a few years.

All that changed when Gwen heard you were going to a party. She asked if Peter could come with you because he spends all his time studying and working. You figured you should get along better with who you think is going to be your sister’s future boyfriend so you agreed.

Now you're at your friend’s house and Peter drank way too much in an attempt to ease up and enjoy the party. You didn't know until it was too late and at this point you're too drunk to bring him home so you ask your friend for help. He gives you the key to one of the guest bedrooms so he can sober up.

You drop Peter onto the bed and sit down next to him. He shimmies out of his uncomfortable jeans, leaving him in just his underwear. Peter mumbles your name and pulls you onto your back to make you lie down with him. You turn your body to look at him, your faces too close together for both of your comforts. You look into his eyes and wait for him to speak but instead of talking, he goes in for a kiss. You’re not sure why, but you actually reciprocate the kiss. Peter has no idea what he's doing but you can't tell, and even if you could you're too drunk to care. He pulls your pants down just enough to grope your bulge and get you hard. He moves his hand away and wraps his leg around yours, adjusting himself so that his pussy is right against your boner. He starts to desperately rub his cunt against you, humping you at an unnaturally fast pace.

You pull away from the kiss. “Peter..”

“[Name]–” He gasps. “Fuck- mmh~” He throws his head back. He moves like he's never touched himself before, it's clear that he's enjoying himself. He whimpers as he feels his orgasm quickly approaching. “yes! yes!”

You let him bring himself to his completion, watching as he comes from humping you. He looks so irresistible like this. You gulp, trying to hold back all the urges you have right now.

Peter calms down and lies on his back. Before you can even speak he passes out, leaving you to take care of your boner by yourself. You sigh. At least this won't be the last time you see him.

Your family’s flying to England to visit Gwen’s new choice of college. She decided New York wasn't giving her what she needed so she applied and got a full scholarship. She’s moving in the summer but your parents wanted to help her find a new place. Your brothers wanted to come along too. You stayed back because you wanted to talk to Peter about the party. You’ve seen him a few times but you never had the chance to get him alone but now's the perfect time. It's especially perfect if that conversation leads to something more.

You invited him over under the guise of needing help with science homework, since you assume that he's forgotten all about the party.

Your original plan was to have a civil conversation but now that he's right in front of you, you don't know what to say. You bring him to your room, planning to wait for a better moment to talk about it.

“Do you remember anything that happened during the party? My memory kind of stopped at some point and I woke up with a splitting headache.”

You turn around. “You don't remember?” You ask. He shakes his head. “Anything?” You step closer to him. He shakes his head again. “You were all over me at the party.”

His eyes widen. What did he do?

You lean into his ear. “You were rubbing yourself on my cock and acting like a desperate whore. You didn't even let me come.” You chuckle at the last part.

His cheeks are even redder than before. The visual you just gave him is setting him on fire. Was he clothed? Or did he rub his bare cunt on you? The thought is driving him insane.

“You’ll make it up to me though, right?”

Peter nods. He can't even begin to describe how he feels, he might just explode.

“Get on your knees.” You order. He quickly sinks down to the floor and pulls your pants down. “That's a good boy.” You praise him. He's surprised at how much his body reacted to hearing that, he's already soaking wet. He slowly tugs on the waistband of your underwear, almost scared to see what's underneath. He looks up at you then back at your bulge before impulsively shoving your boxers down.

“shit..” He gasps. You're definitely well endowed. He holds it in his hand and gently licks the tip. He wraps his lips around your girth and slides his mouth down almost to the hilt. He moves backwards and forwards, sucking your cock feverishly. He doesn't have any experience but he's determined to make you feel good. Even though he's not experienced, it feels amazing. Just seeing him and his eagerness is enough for you. He looks adorable doing it.

“That’s right, you’re doing so well, baby.” You murmur, running your hands through his hair. Peter blushes and looks up at you, shivering when he sees your expression. He closes his eyes and speeds up his movements. He can't believe that he's in this situation. He’s dreamt and fantasized about being with you for years and now it's finally a reality. He thanks his drunken self for getting you interested in him. “Peter-” You breathe out.

He pulls away from you and jerks you off. “Mmh?” He looks up at you.

“‘M gonna come-” You warn. His eyes widen and he quickly goes back to sucking you off. He wants to swallow it. Your peak comes even faster when you realize his intentions. Peter swallows your cum happily, enjoying your taste. He pulls away and looks at you with a small smile. God he’s so cute.

You help him stand up and bring him to his bed. “Is this your first time?” You ask, taking your shirt off. Peter nods, taking his clothes off too. “I’ll be gentle.” You promise.

“You don't have to be.” He smiles. “Be as rough as you want. I can take it.” The room starts to get hotter.

“Oh yeah?” You smirk, running two fingers down his cunt before slowly pushing them inside of him. “I think you overestimate yourself.”

“I disagree.” He grabs your wrist and pushes your fingers in all the way, a soft moan leaving his lips. “I think it's the other way around.”

“Really now?” You move closer to his face. “Why don't we find out?” You angle your fingers a certain way, hitting his g spot exactly and causing him to moan. Before Peter can get another word out, you hit it again. And again, and again. You give him a break and move your face in between his legs. Your tongue against his clit runs a shiver up his spine. His eyes widen when your tongue enters him. He knew it’d feel good but not this good!

“Fuck!” He cries out. “Oh- [Name]~!” He throws his head back and lifts his hips. “Li- like that! Oh my God–”

Out of embarrassment, Peter grabs a pillow and brings it to his face. You’d like to hear him but you don't want to force anything out of him. He practically screams into the pillow. He feels like he's floating. He needs more. More. More. More! More! Yes! Peter feels his entire body react to the feeling of your tongue against his pleasure spot. Slick suddenly gushes out of him like he had a secret water gun in between his legs. He’s never had an orgasm this powerful before. He wants to feel it again.

You pull away from him and wipe your face. “You really liked that, huh?”

Peter moves the pillow away and nods. “I loved it.”

You hold your aching cock, pre cum dribbling out of it steadily. He can see how horny and desperate you are, he has a good estimate of how rough you're gonna be and he's so fucking ready.

“You don't have any plans for tomorrow, do you?” You ask, sliding a condom on.

He shakes his head quickly.

“Good. Because I don't think you’ll be able to go anywhere once I’m done with you.” You ease yourself inside him. You grab his legs and fold him in half. “Ready?”

“Fuck yes– AH~!” He moans loudly as you ram into him like there's no tomorrow. He doesn't even consider the fact that your neighbors can most definitely hear him and you're enjoying this too much to silence him. He looks down at his cunt, loving the way your cock slides in and out of it, then up at you.

“You feel so good, Peter.” You praise him in between breaths, leaning in to kiss his neck and make hickeys. He moves to expose more of his neck to you, encouraging you to continue. You stop sucking his neck and Peter can hear your heavy breathing even more clearly. He doesn't know why but he loves it.

“Bi- bite me~” He places his hand on your head and urges you to do it. It doesn't take you any convincing, you sink your teeth into his neck, almost deep enough to draw blood but not quite. He lets out a loud, breathy moan and comes. You slow down your thrusts, taking in the feeling of his pussy convulsing around you. “Hah– keep- keep going..”

You pull out, making him whine, and flip him onto his stomach. You raise his ass and slide back into him. You grip his waist and roughly fuck into him. Peter rolls his eyes back, his moans muffled by the pillow. He feels like he’s on cloud nine. He can barely think properly. You lean forward and graze your teeth against his neck. Peter’s breath hitches in response. You bite him again, his pussy squeezing you tight. You create a plethora of hickeys and bite marks all over his back, leaving the two of you with something to admire in the morning. “Gonna come..” You moan, slowing down. You thrust into him a few more times before stopping and filling up the condom with your spend.

You pull out and take off the condom, throwing it in the trash. Peter looks at you, his face flushed. “Felt so good..” He smiles.

[seikkoi]

ꜱᴜɢᴀʀ | dom!tony stark x sugarbaby!reader ( ᴄʀɪᴍᴇ!ᴀᴜ )

ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ [1, 2, 4, 5] | ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴏɴ ᴀᴏ3

There was nothing that could keep Tony from having exactly what he wanted—and he deserved a little sweetness in his life. All he had to do was keep from ruining you in the process.

content/warnings: 18+ minors do not interact. non-canon, non-superhero au, sub/dom undertones, slight emotional/verbal manipulation, obsessive + possessive behavior, age gap (reader described as mid-twenties, t.s as mid-forties), mildly dubious consensual situations, explicit mentions of alcohol and drug use, generally not for the light of heart, rough sexual content, reader described as petite word count: 12k a/n: new year, new format. sorry for the delay! wrestled w this for a bit.

You believed him, obviously. 

You drank in every malefic word. It’s only the easiest thing in the world to do. Any voice that suggests your wanton attachment was becoming self-destructive died without a fight. You tell yourself that’s impossible–that you couldn’t see your life without him anymore because it was obviously better with him. 

Sure, maybe you had some suspicions about his work, and maybe he could be a tad austere demanding, but that was child’s play compared to anything in the past. 

You let your body curl beside his, savoring every ounce of his cologne in the air. It’s unfamiliar, feeling his bare skin against yours, but you’re thankful for it. The sandman visits quickly this time, sending you sleep as a calloused hand strokes your cheek. 

There’s a beautiful sight awaiting Tony when he wakes the next morning–you, all tangled in silk sheets, warm arms wrapped tight around his midriff. 

Almost every hour it feels like he finds a new beauty in you, another reason you’ll stay on his mind every moment of the day. This time, he’s noticing how breath-taking you look asleep, peaceful and holding him like you’re scared he’ll disappear.

Your form is casked in a shy early morning light as he trails his fingers across exposed skin gently, watching the slow rise and fall of your breathing. Tony would pay just about anything for you to see what he saw (which was absolute, unwavering perfection, in case you were still unsure). 

Eventually, the sun rises high enough to illuminate the faint, pale marks on your hip–and only part of him wishes he showed more restraint.

No matter how much he wanted to take things slow with you, bring you in little by little, he needed your trust–your loyalty–so much more. He’d never cared much for delicacy when it came to love or attraction, especially not after Pepper. After all the bullshit with her, he wanted every living thing to feel the same desolate anger that fused in his bones. Scorched earth seemed too gentle of a policy. 

It’s easy to say the end of their relationship came the second he found out, that all his feelings faded into nothingness and no further harm was done. It’s easy to pretend like he’s always been this way–this sharp-edged, arrogant man who commands loyalty and respect. It’s infinitely more difficult to acknowledge that his love for Pepper went away more like a kidney stone than a dying light. 

That hot-headed arrogance, the one that soared at your proclivity for mistrust, or hints of leaving, that had been around for ages. The arrogance and fear of losing what he valued most burrowed together, growing slowly over the years into an obsessive need for control. It had laid dormant, waiting for that strawberry blonde catalyst. 

The faint patches on your skin gave him a sense of satisfaction–you were his, and he tried to know that that would never change now. He realizes all his calculated moves probably weren’t needed, that he could’ve been more of himself with you sooner. Tony’s anger let him run clean over any worries that you’d leave at the first signs of his true colors. He really wanted to be the kind of man that was all sugar and no spice, but someone ruined that for you a long time ago.

Certainly, it at least wasn’t what you needed. Tony knew what you didn’t, that you could have any man you wanted. You could have chosen some run-of-the-mill, 9-to-5 guy. One who buys you flowers once a month while you live your own boring life with a dead end job, but you chose him for a reason.

You didn’t need coddling, just a bit of control–direction. All the worry he had about the ink in his life staining you could go away. Sleeping beside him, you looked just as pure and innocent as ever, dreaming peacefully. Hiding his life from you is exactly what led to last night’s events anyway. He made a mental declaration to be less conservative with himself, to give you exactly what you claimed to want (him–entirely and unconditionally). 

He feels bad for past-him, who had to wait all those months to hear you cry out his name, to feel how easily your body submitted to him. Truthfully, you weren’t resisting him enough to justify the tight hold he kept, but every movement of your body needed to be his doing. 

Maybe he should have just ripped off the bandaid sooner. You didn’t need things as fickle as slowness and patience, you needed to know where you belong–right here beside him, blissful and wearing the marks of his obsession. 

Every fiber in his being hated doing it, but Tony pulls out of your sleepened embrace. The sudden loss of your warmth is almost physically painful, but he manages to rise from the bed. Your face scrunches slightly, sheets dragging to accommodate your shifting frame. 

He contemplates waking you, if anything just to make sure your thoughts aren’t still set on leaving him. Tony’s not a betting man, but he takes the look on your face after coming to his room as a positive sign. Besides, he doesn't like the idea of waking you this early when you need rest more than anything. 

There’s money waiting to be made, but he won’t deprive himself of this phenomenal view to do it. A rosewood table identical to the one in your room is moved closer to the bedside, right where he can keep you in his line of sight. 

That’s exactly where you find him when you wake, hours later–already dressed in a black polo and dark pants, peering over his laptop. It’s a heavy knock on the door that stirs you, causing Tony to swear when he sees your eyes open. 

The papers scattered about the table are shoved into a folder as he checks his watch and swears again. You’re almost too groggy to process voices at the door, turning just in time to see a wooden box transferred into Tony’s hands before the door shuts as quickly as it opened.

An apology is already spewing when he turns to you. 

“You’re fine, it’s fine,” you waved your hand, starting to sit up. 

You swing your legs over the edge, yawning and trying to think the last bit of sleep away. You might’ve forgotten about last night for a tiny longer had you stayed down. You feel the tenderness of your body before seeing it. Tony notices the subtle twitch of your brow, waiting for your reaction to worsen as he tucks the box into a leather duffel on the floor.

“We should leave in a few hours.”

There’s a flatness in his tone that pulls a puzzled look from you. He puts more papers away, now not even sparing a glance your way. It’s not out of contempt, just the last remnants of fear about you leaving. He had nothing but confidence when you were asleep–obviously feeling safe and enamored enough to lie beside him.

Now though, Tony’s forced to think ahead in time, trying to plan responses to questions and arguments you haven’t even made. 

Maybe all Pepper did was make him insecure. (He’d never admit such a thing, though)

“What was that about?” you asked gently, even though you were genuinely trying not to wonder.

“Just work.” He strides back around the bed, planting a kiss to your forehead. 

You manage not to pry, or give much of a reaction at all, simply smiling and still trying to stretch the weariness from your body. Your quiet demeanor comes from your own internal battle about his mood, nothing more. Tony though, for all his talents, sadly isn’t a mind reader. What he is however, is sure it’s his own fault.

Tony lets out a huff when he remembers he decided to be less withholding. You’re confused until the wooden box is brought back out. The bed makes a depressing noise under Tony’s weight as he sits across from you.

He can’t stand the apprehensive look in your eye, and figures there’s no time like the present.

“You wanna ask what’s in the box, don’t you, doll?” He says smugly, tapping the container against your knee lightly. 

Trick questions aren’t really his style, but you don’t think there’s a right answer. 

Tony’s expectations seemed to grow more complex the longer you were with him, and right now, you’re not certain what’s expected of you. The last ten hours in your mind was a feature film, full of depressing internal monologue about how little you really knew about him. 

You know you should trust Tony’s words over the whispers of others, but they’re hard to separate when both sources are drenched in ambiguity. 

“Look, I,” he pauses to sigh heavily, looking away from you for a moment. “I was completely open with Pepper–full transparency, no secrets, the whole nine yards.”

Vulnerability in any form was without a doubt his least favorite thing, especially with this. It almost petrifies him that you’ll see him differently. Mostly because he doesn’t know what he’d do if you really did leave. Somewhere, swimming in back of his brain is the idea that you’ll pull the same stunt she did. That train of thought always leads him down dark roads he’d prefer to ignore. 

“I guess I was a little too open because I woke up one day and suddenly everything’s gone to shit.” 

Tony’s phone rings, and for the first time ever, you see it declined without a second glance

“I cannot have that happen with you. You can ask me anything, if you can promise me you won’t leave if you don’t like the answer. If you can’t do that, you should go.” he ends coldly, and it sends a shiver through your frame.

You wouldn’t–whether he told you the truth or not. So, naturally, you nod in agreement.

A visible wave of relief rushes through him with a sigh.

“Okay, go ahead, shoot.” 

What Tony’s expecting is questions about his work, about Pepper, maybe about Steve. The preparation for those questions is immaculate, answer trees with presumed added points of inquiry. Instead, you ask something he feels moronic for not planning for sooner. 

“What are we doing here? With us? And don’t say it’s up to me.” You don’t ask how you normally do, with a hint of snide or taste of anger. It just comes like a whisper. 

Stark sucks at very, very few things, but this is certainly one of them. Words never seem to do him justice. How he feels, what he wants to say, and what he ends up saying, never quite align. Hence why he much prefers action to rhetoric (hence why last night didn’t end in the screaming matches you might be used to from others). 

Tragically for Tony, you’ve got that damned candied look on your face again that he absolutely cannot stand disappointing, even if you don’t know it. 

Still, he takes a beat too long to formulate a response, so you continue. 

“I mean, what are you telling all these other people who think you’re still married?”

“I don’t owe anyone an explanation about my life, doll.” he says a touch too sternly, without meaning to. 

He continues before your face can turn too sour, placing an apologetic hand atop yours and sighing.

“Truthfully? No one asks, it's–I think everyone’s able to put two and two together with Pepper gone. If they did, I’d say you were my girlfriend, maybe partner. But honestly, that feels a little inaccurate.” 

“Inaccurate how?” you ask tentatively, hoping it wasn’t somehow less than that.

“Underwhelming.” Tony smiles and laughs a bit, making your face warm. 

“Promise me that you won’t change your mind about me.” he continues exasperatedly, half joking. 

For once, you can read the emotions on his face clearly–it’s obviously not a world of fun for him to say any of this, and you know it’s the closest you’re getting to an apology (and a direct answer). 

“I won’t, I promise.”

You don’t fully comprehend the metaphorical contract you’ve just signed, more permanent than any marriage certificate in his eyes. 

For your sake, Tony hopes you aren’t the type to break promises.

-

It’s early in the day once you return to New York, and while you managed to stay awake on the flight, your eyelids shut the moment Tony closes the car door. 

You realize you must have nodded off when you open your eyes to the familiar cluttered horizon. As the buildings come into sharper focus, you also realize that the car is completely stationary right outside your apartment. 

You shift in the leather seat, turning to see Tony tapping at his phone screen. A wide grin spreads as he catches your eye. 

“How long have we been here?” you yawn.

“About an hour.” Tony mutters absently, brow furrowed at whatever his phone displayed. 

“You could’ve woke me, you know.” You felt a teeny bit guilty for keeping him when he definitely had better things to do. You shake the soreness from your body, slipping your shoes back on your feet and gathering the items you had spread throughout the car.

“You looked tired,” he says dismissively, pocketing his phone and turning the car back on. “and I don’t mind.” 

The apology you want to give is interrupted with the painful reminder that you still have a shift at the bar tonight. Tony watches the realization wash over you, laughing as you dramatically groan and toss your head back. 

“What’s the matter?”

“Wish I could go back in time and tell Alicia hell no on closing tonight–” 

“Uh-uh, nope, you’re not allowed to complain.” he interjects, shaking his head comically. 

“Why not?” you laugh hesitantly, already guessing what the answer would be.

“Honey, it’s almost physically painful watching you waste your time there knowing I can take care of everything for you.”

Was this the first time Tony indirectly suggested you quit working? Not in the slightest. Lately, a week could hardly pass without even a small mention. In theory, it sounded lovely to you ( as someone who never planned on staying a bartender this long but had no other goals to stand on). Reality bore different fruit that told you independence was probably better.

So, as you’ve done before, that’s exactly what you tell him. You liked making your own money. It causes the billionaire to chuckle as if you’ve told the funniest story ever, making you feel like a paranoid freak.

“No one said anything about taking away your independence.” he chuckles, turning the key. “If making cocktails makes you happy, go for it, but I would at least make sure it’s a nicer location–with bottles worth drinking.”

“I don’t recall you having any issue drinking all those cheap cocktails.”

“I’d drink anything if you were the one serving them.”

You have to try hard not to swoon at his words, watching him leave the car and pop the trunk before you can say anything else. You follow before long, standing to the side as he moves your bags from the car to the sidewalk. 

“It’s just hard–what I want to do isn’t really a money maker. People don’t get into art for the paycheck.”

He laughs again, and you’re starting to find it very infectious. 

“Maybe I’ll single-handedly revive the field of patronage. Pay you to build whatever kind of gallery you want, if you let me keep a few.”

With a wink, the bags are carried by Tony to the front door, where he gives you a long, slow kiss that leaves your head spinning. Something leaves his lips about taking you to breakfast in a few days, but you’re too charmed to hear it. 

All in all, you do end up working a lot less. Mostly because you don’t need to. Over the next month or two, Tony manages to persuade you to get what he wants. Okay, so it was less persuasion and more necessity. 

Two weeks after your trip, your roommate gets a job offer out-of-state and moves out faster than you can make up the difference in tips. Originally, you weren’t going to mention it in the slightest. Plan A was to beg your landlord for more time, and plan B was to write a bad check and hope you had enough by the time he tried to cash it. 

For weeks straight you worked non-stop doubles to try and close the gap. You were making progress, but steadily wearing yourself down to a dull nub. By the end of it, you were beyond burnt out and completely forgot that Tony knew nothing about it. You fucked up by inviting him over one night, not realizing that the sudden absence of half of everything inside would tip him off (that and the deep bags under your eyes).

Immediately, he asked how on earth you were still paying rent this month, and absolutely despised your answer. Tony had never been shy in telling you how wasted your talents were, and this night was no exception. Especially considering you hadn’t still made enough and planned on working another double tomorrow.

You had little energy or reason to argue with him about it. 

Now, you assumed it was a one time thing, just to help you get re-stabilized, maybe find another roommate. Neither really panned out. Every hit on Craigslist gave serial murderer vibes, and tips were starting to trickle as summer ended. The following month, you walked down to the leasing office, last month’s check in hand, only to be told it was taken care of. 

Do you think the bitchy lady at the front desk answered you when you asked how that was possible, or do you think she ignored you and called out next in line? 

It’s the latter, leaving you forced to call Tony and find out from him. You wouldn’t let yourself trust him, so it’s only right he does it for you. Tony always gets what he wants one way or another after all, causing the same story to be told next month, and the following, and every month after for the foreseeable.

You can’t say he isn’t right, though. Less shifts just means more free time to do all the things you’ve put off for the last five years. And so, your life changes once more. All the paintings, books, and movies that sat abandoned finally get some well-deserved attention. You fall into a mellow routine: spending your mornings ahead of a new blank canvas and afternoons buried inside forgotten novels.

An odd shift is picked up here and there, the appropriate amount to stay on staff and keep some semblance of a normal routine, but not consume your life. You adapt surprisingly well, skipping that awkward stage of persistent guilt for having someone else handle your bills. It’s especially effortless when your now empty evenings are filled by Tony. It becomes easier to relax around him, oddly enough. You never thought that time would come, anticipating a lifetime of tiptoeing or a fiery end.

Funny, it feels like only yesterday when you were reeling at him buying a simple dress.

Between spending more time with Tony and less time working, you see more of what the city has to offer. The heightened level of status that dating Tony Stark brings unlocks a plethora of galleries, restaurants, and events you’d only dreamed of attending. Co-existing with the brazen personalities of the 1% could still be a pain, but now you know how to smile and pretend when it counts.

You even have the temerity to attend some alone. It’s much more fun with Tony, though. Your evenings almost always end inside your apartment, staying up and keeping Tony far later than you should. He rarely minds, often halfheartedly leaving to handle some issue or another. If your luck is high enough, no one needs Tony Stark, leaving him to occupy his time with his favorite person. 

If you’re even luckier (or simply brave enough to ask) he’ll slide a taunting finger behind whatever teasing skirt or shorts you’ve chosen (specially to incite this reaction), whisper in your ear how perfect you taste and make your eyes roll. You’ve tried to reciprocate–an embarrassing number of times. Short of actually ripping his clothes off, you don’t know how else to get the message across. 

Tony only takes your attempts as a sign that he’s succeeding at keeping your mind elsewhere. 

During one of these late-nights, he’s working on doing just that when he notices you’re distracted for other reasons. He’s standing behind you in your dim bedroom, slowly working the zipper of your dress down as he trails the soft revealed skin with heavy kisses. Normally, you’d be panting, pressing against him trying for any bit of friction. Instead, he can see your tightly wound brows, the glossy flesh of your bottom lip jutting between two front teeth, thinking far too hard for how good this felt. 

“Penny for your thoughts?” he hums lightly, turning you by your waist as the dark fabric pools at the floor. 

Tony doesn’t still his lips at all, leaving tender marks down your neck and chest. The good news is it gets your breath choked and heavy just how he likes it. Unfortunately, your half-presence remains. He stops right before the airy lace of your bra begins, causing you to catch his eye. 

“How come you’ve only taken me to the tower once?” 

You don’t have a set event that prompted this question. The realization only dawned on you today. You’ve been dating one of the richest men on the planet for the better end of a year, and he’s taken you to his home a grand total of one time. Your brain is good at forgetting that night most days, but today you can’t shake it. It feels almost karmic to bring up bad memories, as if just speaking about it will bring it back into existence. 

He laughs a bit when your issue proves so elementary. 

“Seriously,” you stress, even though your voice wavers with the arousal he’s building. “We’ve been together all this time and I’ve never really seen where you live.”

“Promise you aren’t missing much.” Tony smiles, capturing your lips and guiding you backwards until your legs hit the edge of the bed.

“It’s only one of the largest companies in the world. Guess seeing the inside once is pretty lucky.” you sigh, feigning a dramatically sad tone. 

You’re really trying to guilt him, making a purposeful effort not to soak into the heat of his touch. Hot hands snake up your thighs, thumbs brushing small circles into the inner skin. He dips below you as you sit, still humming his way up your legs with butterfly kisses. 

“Might have been followed, couldn’t risk taking you home.” he mutters, preoccupied. 

It’s not his fault you look too good to argue with right now (which you knew and were definitely using to your advantage). The dress you wore tonight might as well have been see-through– it hugged you like cellophane, and he made a mental note to buy you more in the same material. 

While Tony’s busy leaving more hickeys on your thighs, a shiver runs through you. What would have happened had someone followed Tony’s car? 

Your mind goes to work crafting all types of theories, and Tony recognizes the look plain as day. He stops with a stout sigh, leaning back on his heels. It pulls your attention back to him, looking down at him with uneasy eyes.

“You know I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.”

“I know.” 

Even if you’re not entirely sure what you need protecting from.

“Good, now do me a favor and lie back.”

You do as you're told, of course, more than enthusiastically. 

Balance is important after all, though. So, while Tony gets what he wants now (as he usually does), he indulges you as well.

You made an off-hand comment about never actually seeing a broadway show in person, despite living in New York for literal years. Tony finds any missed luxury in your life unacceptable and naturally drops a small fortune to orchestrate a private show. While buying out the theater was partially for the romance, it would have also been too much exposure for him otherwise. 

Afterwards, he makes a very notable detour from your usual route home, pulling you away from your long ramble about how awe-striking the show was. Asking just gets you a cheeky smile and turns your attention towards the tower. 

You get the full tour that you weren’t afforded the first time (given the circumstances). The lobby you recall, with its marble floors and high ceiling. It’s well in the evening, leaving the tower empty minus a few guards and late-night staff. 

You regret never paying attention in science when Tony guides you through the labs and workshops. 

As you pass through room after room, each unnerves you. Most things of the scientific nature are lost on you, but you’re certain the high amount vials and chemicals you see would floor even Einstein. 

You can’t place why they unsettle you, looking so out of place and painfully high-tech in stereotypical white walls. It also doesn’t help that Tony spiels about the building and not what lies on the tables three feet away.

You swallow your questions, fearing that the answer to be even remotely similar to the one that drove Pepper away. 

Tony mentions having dinner upstairs, to which you smile and follow him into an adjacent elevator before you can stress yourself out further.

The doors open to a penthouse apartment that you don’t remember walking through before (definitely too caught up in thinking you were about to be dumped over a drunken mistake). You obviously expected Tony to live in the same luxury he exudes, but the decor and imported wood reminded you just how wealthy he was. He leads you to his office, tucked behind a frosted glass door that you do remember from last time. 

“This,” he starts, swiping a small card against the door’s thin black reader with a quiet beep, “is where the magic happens, but it is off-limits without my permission.”

You give an understanding nod when he turns back, although you wanted to laugh at how quickly he switched from sounding like a complete nerd to stony-faced. Tony leaves the door open once you enter, tucking the card back into the pockets of his slacks. 

You are naturally more curious than most (for better or for worse), and make quick work walking around the vast space, eyeing each shelf, table, and weird gadget. A pair of soft couches mirror one another in the center of the room, surrounding a cluttered coffee table of notes and books. A whiteboard stands nearby, covered in what’s probably math but could pass for ancient Greek. Every inch of the walls is lined with something–be it awards and diplomas or more books with words you’re convinced are made up. It strikes you then that the office lacks any windows, and you wonder if that’s by design or sheer chance. 

At the back wall shines various lights and screens, below it a thin, large clear desk where Tony sits. The desk holds more of the odd, transparent screens, which Tony closes with the swipe of his hand as you approach. A compliment of some capacity about the decor is brewing when you notice the picture frame sitting nearby. Two figures pose in front of a row of trees, one clearly Tony, and the other a young man, with dusty brown hair and pristine in dark blue graduation robes. Tony’s arm wraps around the younger, smiling bigger than you’ve ever seen. The young man holds a slender booklet and a matching smile.

Predicting this, he answers the question before you figure out how to ask it. 

“That’s Harley–don’t start getting any ideas, he’s not Pepper’s.” he says, pulling you by the waist into his lap. 

“Is he your nephew or something?” you question, resting your head against the velvety fabric of his shirt.

“Howard Stark was a man of one child, to his disappointment, so no. Harley’s a family friend.” 

“You just run around befriending random college kids?” you joke, dangling your legs over the edge of the chair.

“If I’m feeling generous enough.” 

In the corner of your eye, you see a figure appear across the room in the empty door frame. A tall, older man waits–hands clasped behind his back in black pants and pressed white button up.

“Mr. Stark, there’s a visitor for you.” 

He speaks as quickly as he appears, with an unexpectedly posh accent. Tony taps your knee, and you leave his lap very begrudgingly and watch with even more unnecessary sorrow as he exits the room. A promise is given about returning soon, but you know better than to believe that.

A word is exchanged between the two that you can’t hear across the large office. When Tony’s figure leaves, the other man enters. You notice his blue eyes as he comes closer, deciding to take a seat on one of the couches.

“Mr. Stark has requested I quote–keep you from dying of boredom–in his absence.” he says, standing at the head of the couch across from you. 

“Has he now?” you laugh lightly. 

The thing they don’t tell you about rich boyfriends? It takes time to make all that money, keeping them busy and away from their easily bored girlfriends. So, you nod when the man smiles, making a permissive motion towards the seat. 

“My name is Jarvis, I work for Mr. Stark.”

“Nice to meet you, I’m [y/n]”

“You need very little introduction, ma’am. Mr. Stark has talked a great deal about you over these last several months.” he laughs, crossing his legs.

“Really?” you ask. It’s not extremely surprising, you just assumed Tony was perpetually occupied talking about other things. He did make a good move though, Jarvis is much more pleasant company than he usually keeps. 

“Indeed, he’s quite fond of you.”

You aren’t used to hearing this–from anyone really. Everyone you know has no idea Tony exists (for better or for worse) and everyone he knows seemingly despises you. It’s a breath of fresh air that does wonders for your insecurities about this whole relationship. Not a complete cure, but the start to some form of remedy..

“And what do you do for Tony?” you ask, not wanting to be rude and keep the conversation entirely on yourself. 

He ponders this for a moment, giving you the impression he’s never had to explain this before. 

“I assist Mr. Stark in his day-to-day activities, so that he may devote more energy towards the company.” 

What was with this calculated nature everyone around him seemed to take on? Still, Jarvis appeared to be a beacon of kindness (the accent might be biasing you). It’s bright enough to tempt you to ask Jarvis what you were too hesitant to ask Tony, mostly out of trepidation over the answer. 

“I have to admit I’m a pretty terrible girlfriend–I don’t even know what Tony does.” you sigh and pout slightly. 

Naivete was an old trick you didn’t mind pulling out of the bag now and again. 

Jarvis chuckles, an optimistic sign that your tactics are working.

“Stark Industries is a manufacturing and research company that specializes in pharmaceuticals and biotech.” 

Now that line sounds more rehearsed. More accurately, it’s strikingly similar to the first line that pops up when anyone searches up Stark Industries. 

“Doesn’t sound much to me like a merchant of death.” 

You might have been better off forgetting Steve’s words, but it’s all you can think of when you picture what lives in the labs just below you. As much as you wanted to play out the rest of your life with Tony in blissful ignorance, you were constantly exposed to things that made you question if it really was bliss. 

You expected maybe a twitch of the brow from Jarvis, the face trying to compensate for what the mind already knows. Instead, Jarvis’ mouth turns downward, cocking his head in confusion at the moniker.

“Where did you hear that?” 

Before you can answer, Tony’s voice bounces down the hallway. In the next second, he’s back in the office, and Jarvis is standing. You’re disappointed (and shocked) that Tony didn’t take as long as usual, having to cut the conversation short. 

The older man shoots you a curious glance as he leaves—an unspoken reassurance that he does indeed expect an answer at a later point. 

“Everything okay, doll?”

Tony asks, because you're too busy thinking to mind your face, and it looks troubled. You shake it off though, smiling and taking the hand he holds out. 

The two of you have that dinner, though the entire evening you catch weathered blue eyes watching you from afar. 

Remember that thing about rich boyfriends and their busy jobs? Yeah, that becomes a pain quickly. You could handle the phone calls on dates or distracted answers while an email is answered no problem. But once Tony brought you to the tower, he didn’t see a reason to keep you away anymore. You happily started spending most of your nights there. You just didn’t fully process the implications of Tony living where you work. Most days he manages to spare an hour here and there, interrupted by phone calls and meetings. So, often you roam around, trying to not wonder just what your boyfriend has to do to earn all that money. 

You pick up on a lot of little things about his life from pure close-hand observation. The Tony you know is sweet and passionate. Tony working is almost an entirely different breed. You thank god that you’re just dating him and not working for him. The sternness  he tended to use with you wasn’t exclusive, but dialed to an eleven when he came to his work.

The most jarring, however, is the constant presence of armed guards at the Tower, even in Tony’s penthouse. You think back to every date so far, scanning memories for shady figures waiting by exposed exits. A few potentials stand out, but you can’t be certain your memories aren’t being falsified by present events. 

One morning, you pass one of the men on your way to the kitchen. It’s an early morning, at least for you, coming down the stairs as he pours a cup of coffee. It strikes you, since they normally keep near the elevator and you’ve never seen them do anything except stand around. 

The bald man nods towards you, and out of nothing more than courtesy and habit, you nod back. He retreats to his post without another word soon after. 

Despite the early hour, Tony’s already risen before you and is likely tucked away somewhere working. Peace is a valued comfort, of course, but the tower gave you an overwhelming sense of emptiness without Tony around.

Any mess you leave is miraculously cleaned (you learn this is Jarvis’ doing), and most of the tower is off-limits for you. Still, you enjoy being relatively closer to Tony than you were most days, so hanging around isn’t too much of a burden. 

That morning proves fruitful as well, as you get to speak to Jarvis again. That’s not to say you haven’t seen him. In fact, he’s almost always somewhere nearby. The issue being that it’s normally coupled by Tony or other parties. This time, he’s alone. 

You’d entered the kitchen that morning in a determined search for caffeine, planning to spend your day shopping for something new to wear for a gala that’s a ways away. It’s a much calmer experience without crowds, so you got an early start.

Jarvis enters soon after the guard leaves, setting fresh kitchen towels onto the island. 

“Morning, ma’am.” he says, opening a cabinet across from you. 

You laugh lightly, finding it odd that a man old enough to be your father would waste such honorifics on you. You inform Jarvis of such, to which he gives a chuckle of his own.

“It’s simply out of respect and the nature of my work, nothing more.” he explains, delicately laying each towel in the small space. 

“You don’t find it weird calling people younger than you sir and ma’am?” 

It’s a pretty genuine question, having never been in such a role yourself. The cabinet is shut with a soft thud as Jarvis turns towards you. 

“I do not.” 

He goes for the recently emptied coffee cup beside you, refilling it before you can tell him that’s not necessary. 

“Might I inquire to you about something?” he questions, handing you the warm mug.

You were expecting a continuation of your earlier conversation. You had prepared questions of your own, of course. Mostly about Steve, and definitely a few about Pepper. A nod of agreement leaves you as the warm liquid slides down your throat.

“Do you not find it–strange, romantically involving yourself with someone so much older than you?” 

The raise of his brow tells you he is similarly being genuine. This floors you though. Ironically, that was one of your main reasons for rejecting Tony all those months ago. But lately? You barely even thought about it. You’d stopped paying attention to the odd snide comments and the occasional bizarre look. Really, the fact only comes back to you when Jarvis mentions it. Come to think of it, you can’t recall Tony ever bringing attention to it either. 

“I don’t really notice the little jokes and weird looks anymore, so no, not at all.” you shrug, taking another sip.

“I mean no disrespect, simply curious.” he laments.

“None taken, don’t worry.”

“Might I also ask then,” he pauses, testing out the words in his mouth first and waiting for your approval. “–how your family’s temperament is towards Mr. Stark?”

“My parents died when I was really young, and they were both only childs, so I’m gonna say it’s pretty neutral.” 

Jarvis goes a tinge red at this, immediately apologizing as if it was somehow his fault. You can’t help but laugh at the contrite attitude. He stops once he sees the grin on your face, breathing a sigh of relief that he hadn’t seriously offended you.

“You’re fine, really, I’m surprised Tony never mentioned it to you.”

“Mr. Stark is typically a private man, and I doubt he would share such information with anyone without your permission.” 

“Yeah, that can be– annoying.” you sigh.

“I understand, naturally is,” Jarvis nods towards you, walking past you to exit before halting. “Employ a bit of patience, if you can. Mr. Stark’s stress is greatly alleviated with your continued presence.” 

If his behavior now was relaxed, you didn’t want to imagine how he was prior. 

That afternoon, you returned to the tower, spoils in tow (and paid for with Tony’s matte black card). Despite the time, there wasn’t a sign of Tony anywhere. Most of the lights were off when you entered, causing you to pull out your phone flashlight like some kind of horror movie. You made your way through the penthouse, flipping switches and checking rooms. 

Kitchen, empty. Office, empty. Gym, empty.

Your voice bounced through the hall as you climbed the stairs, calling out Tony’s name. Disappointedly, you were only met by silence. Out of the last forty-eight hours, a grand sum of eight of them you shared with him. One out every six hours (and most of those you were asleep). The recurrent solitude made an evening in your own home suddenly sound much more favorable. 

You traipse into the bedroom, tossing the gown that you were very excited to show Tony into one of the massive closets. The random handful of items you had scattered around the room are thrown into your bag. Some you leave in their place–you knew you wouldn’t be away long. A bright light shines in your face when you fumble with your phone, reminding you to turn it off. It also gives you the literal lightbulb idea to text Tony.

[ heading home for the night, call me when ur free ]

In the still quiet of the penthouse, a beep reverberates behind you. Puzzled, you turn, noticing the golden light trickling from under the bathroom door. 

“Tony?” you call out again, crossing the room towards the door. 

On the other side, water runs for a moment, followed by the click of the lock as the door opens. 

“Hey, honey.” he drawls, walking out with a sniffle. 

“You okay?” you ask tentatively. “It was like, pitch dark in here.”

He pulls you into a welcomed embrace, wrapping large arms around your body tightly.

“I’m fine, they’re just timed. Gotta be eco-friendly, right?” 

Tony punctuates his sentence with a kiss on your forehead. You stay in his embrace as long as possible, resting your head against his chest. His heart thumps heavily, beating like a rabbit through the soft cotton of his shirt. 

Eventually, the embrace has to end, mostly so that Tony can plead to you to stay another night. He promises that he’s yours for the evening, and given that this was what you preferred anyway, you oblige. 

First though, Tony has a surprise. One that he swears will make the tower feel more comfortable for you. His surprises are typically rather ornate or sickeningly expensive. This one, however, is moderately less materialistic than usual.

Down the hall from the frosted door of Tony’s office is a room that you were initially told was off-limits. As you reach the end of the hall, Tony explains he needed just a little more time for some ‘finishing touches’. 

Another keycard is produced from his pocket, swiping on a reader much similar to the one in his office. When it beeps in response, the card is planted firmly in your hands. 

“Go ahead, check it out.” he grins, motioning towards the door. 

Tentatively, you enter the previously inaccessible space. Once inside, your jaw nearly drops. It’s not a large space, but it takes a while for you to process everything within. 

Shelves stand tall with various jars and tubes of paint, elegant brushes and canvases of every size. Tables sit near pristine walls, freshly painted and holding any medium you could possibly want. The walls are bare, save for the antique painting hanging by the window. You recognize it instantly, not believing your eyes at first. Tony doesn’t need to say it for you to know–this was all for you. 

What Tony does feel the need to say is that if everything isn’t to your liking, he can have it changed in a day. He worries as you stand silent, not reacting in explosive joyful glee like he hoped. 

“No, no, it’s perfect.” you swiftly add, turning to him beaming. 

You’re still in awe as relief passes through him as your arms wrapped around him. Somehow, Tony always manages to redefine what you thought you deserved. There’s a painting worth half a million dollars sitting less than 10 feet away, and it was purchased just for you. 

An impressive length, all for a simple smile. How the hell could you ever settle for anything less from anyone else? 

Sure, you don’t realize this is a purposeful gift to encourage you to stay around the tower more, and the knowledge wouldn’t change anything anyway. 

After you thank him excessively for the next ten minutes (to which Tony’s response can mostly be summed up as ‘has literally no one done anything nice for you? ever?’), the dress you bought earlier comes to mind. Tony thought you learned by now that he’d buy you the world if it was for sale, but indulges in your feverish gratitude for the time being.

You do the leading this time, back into the bedroom where he waits on the black duvet for you to change. It’s a magical feat that you manage to get it zipped up alone. Stubbornness also plays its own role. 

When you reemerge, it’s Tony’s turn to be rendered speechless. A sleeveless auburn number wraps your body, cinching at your waist and following to the floor. Cut-outs show off your midriff, letting the cool air cover your skin. The high level of regality is new to you, but you weren’t risking the embarrassment of being underdressed a second time. It’s also Tony’s favorite color to see you in (which you totally didn’t know and totally weren’t exploiting for this very purpose). 

“Well?” you start, give a small twirl. “What do you think?”

There was a worry that he might find it too much. Another thing you picked up on over the last few weeks was Tony’s subtle disdain for clothing he found tacky or too revealing. You hadn’t managed to hit that threshold so far, and knew it better to avoid.

“As amazing as you look, I think you need to take that off before I end up ripping it to pieces.” he responds, voice low and hungry. 

Solace finds you, pleased that you didn’t make a wrong choice. It’s brief though, because a second glance at Tony reveals that while he liked the choice, (almost too much, really) he also wasn’t joking in the slightest. 

A raise of an eyebrow says it all–don’t make me repeat myself. 

So, under his fervent commands, you wind up pinned below him, dress long discarded on the plush carpeted floors as his fingers curl inside of you. A hand keeps your wrists pinned tightly above your head, keeping you at his mercy. If you could call his unrelenting fingers mercy.

You quickly grow more frustrated than ever at the barrier of clothing on his body. It’s always goddamned there, holding back the warmth you can feel radiating through. His restraint prevents you from taking the friction you need. You’re further burdened by the teeth grazing your neck, sucking slow and teasingly on your pulse point. All the man had to do most days to turn you into a needy mess was kiss you, but after so many busy days, this was sweet torture. 

Tony knew it too. The increasing pitch in your whine was music to his ears. It’s not before it’s broken and whimpery, your excitement coating his fingers. Every movement was overwhelming, and yet still managed to leave you desperate for more. 

“Please, Tony, fuck-” you plead, interrupted by your own moan when he curves his fingers again. 

“Aw, do you need something, darling?” he whispers, moving away from your neck. “I know I taught you better than that–use your words, pretty girl.”

This isn't an uncommon taunt of his, loving the embarrassed shy look that crawls over your face each time. He’s pleasantly surprised tonight, however, as you just about had it enough to give in. The award for longest time to make someone wait under they verbally beg for you to fuck them goes to Anthony Edward Stark, with an impressive record of eight months.

Your brows furrow, trying to find your center again to speak with clarity and not falter under his gaze.

“Would you stop being an asshole and just fuck me, please?” you sighed exasperatedly. 

Manners would be something to correct later. For now, Tony’s happy to focus on rewarding your needy pleas. 

Your wrists are granted all too short reprieve, as he takes little time undressing, climbing back on top of you and attacking your neck with hard, bruising kisses. The hard member you’re used to having constrained by high-end slacks feels larger pressed bare against your folds–hot and heavy as he returns a hand to your wrists.

His free hand aligns him at your entrance, stopping when he notices your tightly shut eyes. Now that simply won’t do.

“Open those pretty eyes.”

It’s a short and breathy order, the tone earning your instant compliance. Tony’s eyes are dark above you, catching them only for a moment before he swiftly sinks into you (he’ll allow it this time).

 There’s little resistance, as you were already a mess from earlier, but his thick member still stretches your walls. You cry out when he reaches the hilt, snapping his hips into you only to withdraw and fully sink back into you with the same speed. 

Tony gains a new found appreciation for the philosophy behind a reward being sweeter the longer you wait. There’s nothing more delectable in the whole world right now than the fractured moans escaping you, despite your visible attempts to bite them back. As much as he wants to commit this coy little expression of yours to memory, he’s clearly not doing his job if you’re able to hold anything back.

The hands above you let go, gripping your hips instead to thrust deeper into you. It does just what he needs to do, listening to the sweet sounds of your whines as his cock reaches right where you needed to. All this time without h, combined with his fast and hard thrusts has moan after moan falling from your lips. 

Tony can hardly contain himself either, high off the sticky mess you're making. Your neck is perfectly dotted with tender marks from his mouth, only driving his ecstasy further. 

He knows he’s being more than rough, pounding into you relentlessly–you’re just taking him so well, your nails leaving tiny red crescents on his thighs. It drives him wild, possession does go both ways after all. Every erratic breath and tremble of your legs came from him. You were his–who begged for him and moaned his name. 

The fast, rough pace pushes you to your peak not long after, and Tony recognizes the stuttery pitch of your voice. 

“Go ahead, darling.” he whispers into your ear, voice soft and gentle despite how deep he was inside you. 

Your legs wrap around his waist as your core swells with pressure, desperate for him to be impossibly closer than he was. It’s not long after your voice breaks altogether, falling into a slight plea as your walls tighten around him.

The feeling of you losing yourself around him sets off something entirely new in Tony. He’d never miss another chance to make you his like this. A deep groan echoes in the bedroom walls, unsteady hands holding your hips tighter. 

He was absolutely nowhere near done with you. 

Before you can catch your breath, it’s taken as he slams into you with renewed energy. A string of curses leave him when your back arches into him, straining against his hold. 

Your body feels white-hot with pleasure. You were used to Tony pushing you into orgasm after orgasm, alternating between his mouth and fingers until you’re a pile of jelly below him. This was entirely different, hit that spongy spot inside of you over and over as your walls shutter. It leaves your whole form trembling, mind blanking each time he bottoms out.

“Shit, Tony, I can’t,” you whimper.

It’s a broken plea, already feeling your body go taunt a second time. Still, you hope for a bit of reprieve, just enough to bring your mind back to earth. 

“You will for me, darling.” he groaned, voice heavy and breathless, bringing a hand to your hair and exposing your neck to his teeth for another assault. “I know you can take it.”

A shiver runs through you as his latches onto your neck, deciding you could stand to have more marks across your skin. You’re completely lost in the throbbing member splitting you apart, aimlessly grabbing at the soft sheets below you. He leans back, pulling your hips up to keep slamming to you, letting a hand wrap around your throat and press against the fresh mark left there. 

“All mine, aren’t you?” Tony moans above you, close to his own peak. He just needs to feel your body to submit to him one more time.

The tender pain in your throat mixes deliciously next to the sweeping euphoria. You want to answer (mostly because you know he’s expecting one), but all your mind can zone into is how electrified your skin is.

“Aw, is my girl too fucked out to answer me already?” he taunts, even if the sight of you this blinded by pleasure nearly sends him over. 

No one else could ever have you like this, he’d make sure of it. You were past shame over how his words left you, cruel or praiseful. Any utterances that made it known you were his turning your body into melting sugar. 

Tony’s own hips stutter, bucking into you as your peak hits you again, your moan silenced by the tight hand around your throat. He’s close behind you, keeping his rhythm until the shake in your legs lessens. 

He sinks into you, caressing your face and burying himself back into your neck. A long moan floods your ears, feeling him still inside of you and paints every inch of your walls white. Hot, heavy breaths cover your ear as he fills you, not withdrawing until he’s certain you’ve taken every drop. 

You’re an exhausted pile of bones below him, leaving him feeling quite prideful. Stark on the other hand is oddly energetic. He disappears for a moment, returning after putting his boxers back on and grabbing a towel.

He lies beside you, watching the rise and fall of your chest. Soft praises and peppered kisses follow, trailing along your face and shoulders. He tells you over and over how perfect you did, though you're still barely present. 

You’re focused on calming your breathing, so Tony’s praises fall onto distracted ears. You aren’t that distracted, though, as his next words ring through clear as day.

“I love you, doll, you know that?” It’s barely above a whisper, spoken between into the delicate skin of your collarbone.

You turn your head almost instantly, blinking rapidly because surely you didn’t hear that right. The words left him before he knew what he was saying, caught up in the swirl of post-coital bliss. In an unusually empathetic act of vulnerability, he stands by it. The declaration is repeated louder to your stunned face. 

He’s not that vain that he expects an immediate reciprocation–though you eagerly give one anyway. That's all good and well, except he senses concern in your voice.

“That’s just how every guy wants to hear that, thank you.” Tony jokes, propping himself onto his elbow with a grin. 

“That came out wrong, I just,” you chuckle softly, trailing off. “You are being genuine, right?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he asks matter-of-factly.

“I guess–be honest, you really don’t mind being with someone like twenty years younger than you?” 

He throws his head back in laughter, and you use the little energy you have to swat at his shoulder. 

“You’ve been talking to Jarvis, haven’t you?

“How the-what do you mean?” you fully turn on your side to face him, more puzzled than before. You also worried you somehow crossed a line discussing Tony with someone else in private.

“Don’t sweat it–Jarvis is more of an old friend than an employee, regardless of whatever the old bat says. He’s just overprotective.” 

“And he was worried about us?”

“More about you, specifically, that you were some covert gold-digger playing the long game for a chance at the Stark inheritance. He didn’t believe that I had to damn near beg on my hands and knees for a simple dinner.” he says indignantly, and you have to roll your eyes.

“What if I was? You don’t know.” 

“Please, no one trying to woo me for my money would start as many arguments with me as you do.” 

“I do not start arguments, if anything you’re the one-” you start to defend yourself, then Stark raises an eyebrow and the sentence dies on your tongue. “Okay, point taken.”

Tony pulls your naked form towards him, your head resting on his chest as your body curls beside his. You’re more than spent, the sound of his heart still racing after all this time doesn’t process under the lure of sleep.

For now, you’re too in love to care. 

-

When you wake, Tony’s absent from your side. This is not unusual in the slightest for any night you spend here, but it's barely four in the morning. 

You scan the dark room momentarily before switching the bedside light on. Groggily (and on sore legs), you rise, tying a short robe around yourself. Thinking of yesterday, you actually check the bathroom this time to find it empty. You ventured out of the bedroom to an empty and pitch black hallway. Deja vu feels like an understatement. 

You start to call out his name just like before, stopping once you see the light flowing from the kitchen downstairs. As you descend, Tony’s voice grows louder. His back comes into view once the final step is crossed, with another figure in front of him. 

Tony swivels slowly when you enter, and you notice the person he’s speaking to is the same young man from the photo. You cross your arms over your body as best you can when you enter the space, suddenly feeling very underdressed for meeting a stranger.

“Sorry, did we wake you?” Tony asks apologetically, to which you shake your head and yawn. 

“Harley, this is [y/n], [y/n], Harley.” he continues.

Harley holds a blue duffel in his right hand, giving you a curt wave with the other. Under the bright kitchen lights, however, he gets a better look at you. You don’t understand why in the moment, still half-asleep, but he makes an unsettled face at you before darting his sharp eyes back to Tony. After which Tony tells you he’ll be up in a moment and you return back to the warmth of the sheets without protest.

It’s not until you step into the bathroom later in the day that you figured out why he looked at you that way. A few tender marks still spotted the left side of your neck and the top of your chest. While not the best first impression, it sends a wave of excitement through you at the sight. A bit of concealer goes a long way after you shower. 

Tony explains that Harley is just stopping by briefly, and that he’ll be leaving after dinner tonight as you get dressed. You obviously spend the entire day worried about it, convinced any further interaction with Harley will be painfully awkward and uncomfortable for you both. 

Unfortunately, you end up wishing things were just awkward. 

Jarvis prepares an excellent meal, and you make it through the first two courses with Harley’s eyes piercing you across the large dining table. It’s not constant, as he manages to dart away each time Tony speaks to him as if he never looked your way. Engaging in conversation becomes troublesome under his gaze (though it’s mostly just Tony asking Harley about some trip he took). You almost start to think you’re imagining it, wondering what the hell his issue could possibly be.

Thankfully, Tony has to excuse himself for a phone call, leaving the two of you alone.

The moment Tony’s out of earshot, Harley leans in, placing his elbows on the table and clasping his hands. 

“Are you even old enough to drink?” he questions dramatically.

“Are you?” 

“Funny.” he snorts, taking a bite of roast potatoes.

He stays quiet for a second as Jarvis clears away empty dishes from the table. 

 “That’s not a yes, though.” he hums in a high pitch.

“If it would get you to stop staring, I’m twenty-six.”

Harley hums in approval, sitting back in his chair. 

“Was that really your problem? You know you could’ve just asked at literally any point in the last hour, or hell, asked Tony.”

“Oh, I did.” he scoffs, shrugging his shoulders. 

Tony returns, taking his seat in the same breath that Harley wipes his mouth and stands. 

“Well, I’ll leave you and your child bride to it.” he declares sarcastically, turning for the exit.

“Excuse me?” 

Tony’s voice stops Harley in his tracks, rising and closing the distance to the young man. You heard worse, but based on the tightness in his jaw you can assume Tony hasn’t.

“Oh, come on. She’s not even four years older than me. What else would you like to call it?” Harley jests, laughing.

“You have a flight to catch, don’t you?” The edge in his tone shocks you, and cuts Harley’s laughter straight away. 

He takes his leave without another comment, but he does give you another overdramatic wave on the way out. You tell Tony what passed between you two in his absence and ask what all that was about, but Tony just shakes his head and apologizes. 

You’re not sure why–it hardly bothered you as much as it did him. 

Later that night you overhear Tony on the phone. You presume it’s with Harley, hearing Tony mention something about ‘showing more respect’ and ‘minding your own business’. You hope it isn’t Harley–even though the kid was an ass, Tony speaks with a ferocity that unnerves you just as the eavesdropper. 

Fall passes by without more pop-up visits from impolite guests. 

While painting will always be one of your first true loves, even the strongest of loves can grow tiring. The technical term is typically referred to as a lack of inspiration. You can’t get a single image out of your brain and onto a canvas. It’s a well deserved burnout though, the rest of the studio space lined with finished paintings. A consistent month and half of work proved quite the endeavor. Most are simple plays with color, though there are a few you came to be very proud of.

Yeah, a break would probably do you some good. 

There’s more than one traditional seat for you to choose from, all extremely lush and definitely better for your back. The floor works a lot better though, so you stand and stretch the soreness from your body. Would you learn your lesson and sit in the chair next time? Nope. 

The evening was growing near, evident by the lemony sky. Your hyperfixation meant a lot more nights indoors, even on the sparse evenings Tony was free. All signs pointed towards taking advantage of what was likely one the last warm nights of the season. 

You wasted little time changing out of your paint covered sweats, throwing on a simple blue skirt and white sweater. 

On your way downstairs to his office, you spot Jarvis in the kitchen preparing a drink you presume is for Tony. 

“Oh, I can take that to him.” you intercept him at the bottom, taking the cold glass in your hands. 

“Very well.” he nods to you, taking in your dressed up state as you walk away, not expecting either of you to leave the tower that night. “Shall I have the car ready for you and Mr. Stark?”

“For me, definitely. Can’t promise anything about him.” you call back to him, increasing your volume as you head further into the hall.

You knock once you reach the glass door, waiting idly until you hear his voice call out come in. Tony doesn’t lift his head when you enter, scrawling away at something atop his desk. You hear him muttering to himself softly, shirt disheveled and unbuttoned. 

You’re certainly not silent as you cross the space. Your heavy boots made a mild thud on the hardwood floor, surely loud enough to get the average person’s attention, you thought. 

Nope, wrong. 

He does know you’re there, however– the screens in front of him are switched off as you approach the desk, head never lifting from the papers.

You wait patiently beside his desk, setting the drink down the corner. His attention doesn’t yield for no less than five minutes after. When he does finally address you, it’s with tired eyes and gleams. 

“My, my, my,” he whistles, guiding you over to straddle his lap. “What a fantastic surprise.”

Tony’s hands can never be idle more than a moment, already snaking them under your skirt to the supple skin of your backside.  He’s much more interested in that than anything you say about leaving the tower. Who could blame him, really. Any red-blooded man would after hours of phone calls and calculations. 

You twitch when he squeezes hungrily, sensitive from the same hands the night prior. He’d nearly forgotten, and the remainder is a good amusement. 

“You know, I could get so much more work done with you just like this.” he hums, lifting your sweater to graze your stomach. 

“You’re welcome to join me.” you point out, linking your arms around his neck. 

“There’s nothing more I want, but I have a few more things to take care of here.”

You figured as much, of course. Knowing that answer was coming doesn’t make it any less disappointing. Conversely, seeing your smile falter for any reason is akin to a tragedy for Tony. 

“How about this, it’s still early– you go out, have fun, I’ll pick you up for dinner later.” he concedes.

That fixes the problem, earning Tony a very satisfied kiss from you. It’s long and heavy, nearly enough to make him consider sending you out on shaky legs, but he resolves to bring that fantasy to life another time.

An hour or so drifts away as you take in the fresh autumn air, window-shopping from store to store. Close to when you're due to meet Tony, you stumble across something you can’t be sure is a really bright bar or a super dark restaurant. As you go for a better look through the towering windows, the doors beside you swing open. 

You spot Steve first, getting a clear view of a reddened cut above his eye. You fail at turning away from the door in time. It was worth a shot, even if he was just five feet away.

“Oh, would you knock it off–I’m not gonna bother you.” he exclaims exasperatedly, a deep slur in his words (so that solves that mystery).

You give a half-hearted surrender with your arms, watching him head for the street corner. Mid-way, he stops, turning back unsteadily.

“You still with Stark?” he questions.

“What’s it to you?”” you scoff, rolling your eyes. This was what you wanted to avoid–annoying people and their annoying judgements.

“Just don’t tell him you saw me, okay. I don’t need more shit with him right now.” 

Remarkably, Steve sounds genuine. Well, as genuine as a drunk man can sound. A grand opportunity presents itself. Someone with a lot more information than you needs something of you. 

“Sure, okay.” you agree, watching a breath leave Steve. “If you can tell me what you meant at the party.”

Steve, having drunk every drop of Kentucky Bourbon on the block, happily obliged your question for the small price of not dealing with Stark. 

If asked to make a list of all the things you guessed Tony was involved in, your brain would assume the best of the worst to ease its conscience. Steve’s answer is, tragically, nowhere on that list. 

You wander around for a bit playing moral adjudicator in your mind. It’s a consuming task, and in your concentration you space completely on the fact that you were expected somewhere. In your bag, your phone buzzes to no answer, muffled in the city’s noisy ambience. 

You have to see for yourself, which makes the tower your destination after you’ve calmed your nerves enough. It’s been ages since you’ve taken the subway anywhere, though you somehow manage to work through the busy platforms. You remember you live in the age of technology, deciding to rely on your phone for navigation. 

Two missed calls and around five unanswered texts from the past half hour await you, all from Tony. You swear to yourself as the train car rocks, hurriedly typing a response. 

[ where are you? ]

[ on the way back now. didn’t feel well. ]

Lying feels like swallowing a bitter seed. You know that ‘s not an answer. You know you’ll have to find some way to explain the missed calls later. Honestly, that might be the harder task than covering a lie. All you hoped was that New York traffic would play in your favor and you could make it back before him. 

The luscious bells of victory are right in your sight as elevator dings! open. Your genius plan to check his office is foiled quickly, the black card reader blinking back at you tauntingly. 

A moment passes where you question your own motivations. Why were you even bothering to let someone else get into your head again? You could ask him anything, so why lie to him when you chose to stay in the dark–

You all but fly up the stairs, striding through Tony’s bedroom and into the bathroom. It takes a while for you to find it, having to scour the numerous cabinets one by one. Your hands touch a rough leather pouch, right under the sink.

You open it tentatively, praying for Steve to be wrong, but your fingers find the small plastic baggie within, and your stomach flips when you know he was telling the truth. 

You don’t have long to process it. The elevator sounds again from below

Shit.

You thought you had more time to craft a better excuse.

“What happened? Everything okay?” 

His voice is stern even if his words are sweet, turning his body towards yours as you enter the kitchen. Your hands reach for a glass to fill with water, needing a distraction to ward off his gaze. 

“Got a little dizzy, took the subway back.” 

“You took the subway alone? This late?” 

You can’t tell if he’s wrestling between concern and suspicion, or just pissed. Although, here would be where a normal person would remember that under a year ago you took the subway later than this five nights a week. 

“Yeah, it’s fine. I’m just going to get some rest.” you smile weakly, swallowing the rest of your water and heading to walk past him. 

Tony makes a quick step to the side to keep you there, looking down at you with pointed eyes. Despite the small heat in his eyes, a hand caresses your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek. 

“Who were you with?” he asks slowly.

“No one.” you replied, keeping your voice light and confident.

Or so you thought. Tony’s fingers wrap the base of your nape, tilting your head slightly to see if you have the gall to lie to his face.

“Is there a reason you’re lying to me?” 

“How long?

“How long what?” he scoffs, unyielding. 

The tiny plastic you’ve been white-knuckling for the past few minutes is dangled inches from his face. That hardened jaw falters, shortly returning with a dry chuckle and sly smirk.

“How long have you been meeting Steve behind my back?”

part four coming soon

tag request: @those-late-night-feels

[dix0nspretty]

All Logan's Fault

Summary: Telapath!Reader goes on an intel mission with Logan and Storm comes along to play mediator and babysitter. It's really all Logan's fault that you dropped the aphrodisiac test tube. Now if only we knew how to fix this...

Logan Howlett x Ororo Munroe x GN!Mutant!Reader, 9.2k words

Era: None in particular. A happy one?

TW: 18+ Dubcon (dubious consent- sex pollen. All characters want one another pre-ingestion of substance). DNI if not interested.

Reader is a telepath and is referred to by a nickname, with no use of y/n. Only reader descriptions include hair long enough to pull and female genitalia. Sex pollen by the ominous name of 'the chemical', threesome, enemies to lovers (kinda. Reader can't stand Logan but only because they want him.) Pussy pronouns, hair pulling, deep throating, swallowing, teasing, anal, unprotected PiV (wrap or else), fingering, mean!Logan (just a bit), nipple play, objectification, overstimulation to the point of passing out, mentions of strap-ons.

Enjoy my first X-Men fanfiction courtesy of a request put in my one of my best friends! If I missed any tags, please comment and inform me so I can add them as soon as possible. Have fun, you demons.

You hate going on missions with Logan.

Big, bad, overly hyped Wolverine. Every man, woman, and child in Xavier’s Institute fawns over the man. To be frank, it pisses you the fuck off.

What does he have that other mutants don’t? Good hair? So does Scott. A snappy, witty attitude that makes you want to rip your hair out? You, Kurt, and almost every mutant in a 50-mile radius has that. A 500-pound adamantium skeleton with really cool claws?

… Okay, he might have you beat with that one.

The man drives you half-insane and you can’t stand how he’s treated like the Mutant Messiah of the mansion, like he’s the best thing since white bread. So naturally, Charles pairs the two of you up for an intel mission at every possible minute. Typical.

 The only thing making this even remotely bearable is the fact that you aren’t alone with him this time. Ororo, or Storm, is piloting the jet. God knows you and Logan can’t be trusted to do it. Between the bickering and snapping, you’d end up crashing in a field before you get 5 minutes from the school.

 Beautiful, smart, kind, funny Ororo, with her awesome hair and her sweet eyes. Looking like the epitome of an X-Man in the suit that clings perfectly to her body, her thighs and chest mouth-wateringly delicious… You’re broken from your daydreaming by Logan’s voice. Again.

“Run me through it one more time kid,” Logan asks in a tone that makes you want to rip his eyes from his head. Maybe you can convince Storm to help you come up with a great way to dispose of his body. One where Charles has no chance of finding it.

He loves making you do this, run him through a mission over and over and over again, like some stupid power move. A way to assert his dominance or just to see the steam blow from your ears. It’s yet another way of him reminding you that he’s held in higher esteem than you, given that you’re an early-20s mutant who’s yet to save the world or whatever the hell he’s done. Everybody just adores him, and he’ll always be more liked than you, by Charles and everyone who crosses his path, save for Scott.

Maybe I can hide his body in the lake… he’ll sink easy, even with a head full of air.

“We land in the field to the east of the lab,” You start to list the details out for the third time this trip. “I stay on the outskirts and figure out how many people are inside. Storm covers us, you and I breach through the southern doors, get the chemical and whatever research we can and get out. Minimal bloodshed. How many more times are you going to make me run through this?”

“Until I’m convinced you’ve got it bub,” Logan says with that dumb fucking smirk. You’ll figure out how to rip it from his face, someway, somehow. “You sure you can get your powers to stretch far enough to handle it, Baby Xavier?”

That cursed nickname has you ready to shove him out of the jet. ‘Baby Xavier’. Not so lovingly gifted to you by Logan since you’re a telepath, exactly like Charles. “That’s not my name, Howlett,” you manage in a calmer tone than you were expecting.

“Alright,” Storm laughs from the front of the jet to try and calm you down. She’s well aware of your hatred for Logan and her role as mediator for the day. “Deep breaths. We’re here, go let your anger out somewhere I don’t have to supervise.”

“Thank God,” you mumble and get up from the seat in a flash, ready to get this mission done and get the hell away from Logan. Go back to the mansion and eat ice cream with Ororo, hopelessly fanning the flames of your massive crush. “Let’s get this done.”

Infiltrating the lab was laughably easy. There were only six minds in the whole place, counting the three guards. And despite Logan’s smartass comment, you easily lulled the guards to sleep from a distance, grinning smugly when your quiet telepathic command of ‘night night’ knocked the guards unconscious.

Storm provided cover for the pair of you, a thick fog that rendered security cameras useless and you and Logan invisible. Charles provided blueprints from the lab prior to the mission, but you stay in one of the scientist’s minds long enough to guide you down the halls. You catch mention of the chemical in their head and nod at Logan to signal that it’s here.

You have to give it to him. For such a brass, narcissistic, heavy brute of a man, he is remarkably good at stealth. No sassy quips, all focus and strength. It’s easy to see why everybody likes to work with him and that just pisses you off all the more.

Stupid, competent, handsome, sexy, Canadian fucker.

You make it through the relatively abandoned halls and take a second outside of the main doors to the actual laboratory to press two fingers to your temple and put 2 of 3 scientists down for a quick nap.

With a nod to Logan, he breeches the door with a swish of adamantium claws and the two of you burst in. The one remaining conscious scientist is… armed? He’s holding a gun. That must be breaking some kind of rule, right? That’s what the guards are for.

But before you can put him down for a nap like his buddies, Logan has already punched him in the face and knocked him unconscious, snatching the gun up. He crunches the pistol into a pretzel and drops it to the ground. “No guns for children.”

“Always with the brute force,” You roll your eyes and start going through the first stack of files in search of the needed intel. Charles needs physical evidence for this mission so you can’t just root through the scientists’ minds and go. “He could’ve told us where to look.”

“You know you’re into it, Baby Xavier,” He gives you that cheeky grin, perfect canines peeking out to say hello. Smug bastard.

You bristle, lips pursed and moving to start to check a table far from his search in a desperate attempt to not kill him. Minimal bloodshed and all. “Just find the damn intel and the chemical so we can all go home. Storm, you’re good to come in,” you tell her over comms before turning your mic back off.

Logan hums, making an annoying clicking sound with his tongue while rooting halfheartedly around the papers and lighting a cigar. “Go home and rest or go home so you can keep drooling over Ororo’s tits and nurse your little crush, bub?”

He did not.

He did not just say that. Your jaw drops and maybe steam really is coming out of your ears because they burn like hell. “Shut the fuck up, Howlett. Mind your business and find the goddamn… stuff.”

You fumble your words in anger and disbelief that he would say that so casually, talking about a teammate’s body and your interest in her like it’s the weather report. Is his comms system even muted? Dear God, please be muted. If she heard, I’ll have to move to Japan or something.

Logan just laughs as you retreat once more, this time searching for the actual chemical and leaving the harder work for him to do. He can read through mind-numbing reports and paperwork, the asshole.

You’re in the middle of inspecting yet another test tube, this one full of some purple powdery chemical concoction when Storm makes her entrance, giving you a soft smile that communicates friendship and understanding of your struggles with Logan’s wolfish attitude, promising wine and movies and shitty takeout in reparations for the damage your control of your emotions takes around him. She settles next to you at the table, making eye contact with those beautiful brown eyes of hers and white lashes fluttering. “You think that’s it?”

You hum and shrug. “Maybe, I saw this one a couple times in their memories. We can compare with the intel once Howlett actually finds it.”

If Charles asks, it’s all Logan’s fault. You’re sure of it. The test tube is in your hand when Logan appears by your side and goes to whisper what was likely going to be another teasing comment about your crush and the tube just… slips. Hits the ground and shatters, kicking up a puff of shimmering purple dust and flooding the space around your bodies.

“Son of a fucking bitch,” you curse and jump away on instinct, hoping against hope that the chemical isn’t corrosive or fatal or does something on a supervillain level. Logan is yanking you away by your bicep and you don’t fight at first, only pushing him off when you’re all a safe distance away from the mess. “Back it up, kid, Jesus.”

The three of you stand there and watch while the dust settles, literally. “Maybe we’re alright?” You offer up weakly, glancing between the older mutants. Logan doesn’t look so convinced and Storm offers a wary expression. “I don’t feel any different and my body parts are all attached and not melty.”

“Maybe,” Storm agrees, but you can tell it’s just to placate you and keep you from panicking, even without dipping into her mind. A dust like that is highly likely to be an airborne weapon and the chance you all managed to avoid inhaling it are… unlikely.

“Let’s go kid,” Logan grabs you by the arm and drags you from the lab, ignoring your squawk and attempts to get his hand off. His grip is iron-clad, easily swallowing up your arm. You don’t know how you managed to forget how strong he is, his hand so big and capable…

“The intel, we didn’t-” You’re cut off when he waves a stack of papers at you. He looks…  furious. His brows are tightly knitted and there’s a ripple in his jaw that speaks of violence you’ve only seen a few times. It’s a miracle his claws are still concealed. If both him and Charles hadn’t warned you extensively to stay out of his head, you would’ve been able to taste the anger in his thoughts on your tongue.

Storm shakes her head, brown eyes pleading that you don’t speak, and you fall silent, being dragged from the lab like an unruly child about to get in trouble by their parents the second you get home. And that’s exactly how you feel. You fucked up the mission, even if it was Logan’s fault. You dropped the test tube and exposed not only yourself but two teammates as well to an unknown biochemical weapon.

Great fucking job.

The collar of your uniform starts to itch as Logan pulls you through the halls with an angry yet still gentle grip, soft enough to not bruise. The yellow material suddenly feels too hot and clingy, sticking to sweaty skin and making your nose wrinkle in disgust. There’s no reason for you to be sweating so hard. Did Storm just scratch at her suit too…?

The cool late afternoon air hits your skin but does nothing to ease the heat radiating from your body. Logan’s hand feels just as hot where he’s holding you. His big, strong, hand. So capable and manly.

I wonder what it would look like around my throat… or knuckle-deep in my pussy. I bet even just one finger would feel heavenly, such a nice stretch-

You blink a few times, trying to drag your mind to a halt. What the fuck was that? Was that a sex fantasy about Wolverine? Logan?

That’s not to say that Logan isn’t an attractive man. You might hate him and fantasize about drowning him in boiling hot water when he teases and taunts you and calls you ‘Baby Xavier’ in front of the students, but you can appreciate how nice his ass looks in a pair of jeans or the deliciousness of his biceps.

What it might be like to be underneath him, face buried into the crook of his neck as he bullies himself into you. Or laid on your stomach in a head lock, teeth locked into his forearm while he fucks you hard enough to go cross-eyed.

They’re so big, bigger than my head. I wonder if he’s into biters… Okay, what the fuck is going on??

You glance sideways over to Logan and Ororo, trying to get a read on their physical states. Logan’s sweating, but that could be from his fury at you. Storm looks a little flustered and is staring with laser focus on the jet, not risking even a glance at you which admittedly hurts.

With a lick of your lips, you do the one thing you promised Ororo, Logan, and Charles you wouldn’t do and slip into their minds. Not completely but just enough to see if they’re struggling the same way you are. Ororo’s mind, the few times she’s let you in, feels like cool water whenever she’s calm. Like a peaceful babbling brook in the early morning.

Right now, it’s a raging waterfall, filthy thoughts of Logan rushing by at the speed of light in a million and one positions. Bent over the control panel of the X jet, riding him in the pilot’s seat, fucking on the floor and every other surface in the jet with you watching. An image of you eating her out while Logan fucks into you from behind appears in your mind and you stumble, saved from busting your ass by Logan’s unyielding grip. “Get it together, kid. Come on.”

You completely ignore Logan’s words, missing the strained tone in his voice. Me? She wants… me?

And yes. Yes, she does. A dozen more scenes roll through both of your minds, you and her and Logan in a myriad of positions and dynamics, the sound of your voice begging her for more and more and more, you are letting her rail you with her strap- she owns a strap?

Suddenly you want nothing more than to be back at the mansion and in Ororo’s bed. The thought of her wanting you enough to imagine the filthy thoughts you’re getting has a rush of arousal hitting you. That’s when you realize the inside of your uniform in drenched and has been for God knows how long. You pull out of Ororo’s head and glance at Logan, hoping he can’t smell it with his sensitive-ass senses.

With a gentle nudge, you push into his mind and if you thought Storm’s thoughts were nasty, Logan’s are animalistic. It’s like your own mind is shoved to the side and the only thing you can think are his thoughts.

There are more images than sounds in Logan’s head, quick angry flashes of fucking you and Storm with a fury that simultaneously thrills and scares you just a bit. Fantasies of drilling you into the mattress until your cervix is bruised and your legs won’t stop trembling, fucking load after load into you until you’re crying for him to slow down. Pulling out of you only to make you take Storm’s strap while he fucks her from behind, being choked by the tight rim of her pretty ass.

A moan falls from your lips before you can help it and both older mutants zero their gazes in on you. Logan pushes back in his head and ejects you from his mind, a trick you’d heard Charles commend him for when he first discovered Logan could do it with no training.

“The hell you doing in my head?” He growls, hand tightening on your arm just to the point of hurting. But now you can see his anger for what it really is- wild, unrepentant horniness.

You swallow past the dryness in your throat and croak out, “Aphrodisiac.”

Never in your life have you felt so submissive under the gaze of a person, not even when under your past partners. These are two of your teammates- older teammates. Storm has 8 years on you and Logan over 200. You’re practically a baby compared to them, lacking in experience in every possible field. “The ch-chemical. It’s an aphrodisiac… a strong one. I… I needed to know I wasn’t losing my mind. Sorry.”

Ororo and Logan glance at one another, communicating silently in a way you have yet to master. It feels like a lifetime before they turn their gazes back to you and you swear the combined power of pure horniness in their eyes nearly has you coming right there.

“How strong?” Ororo asks, sounding remarkably put together considering what you saw running through her mind moments ago.

Logan answers for you, more of a growling noise than his typical snarky voice. “Very. ‘Fuck or die’ strong. The more you’re exposed to, the worse it is, and our special little Baby Xavier is ground zero since they were holding the fucking tube. Add that with them poking around in our heads…” He scoffs, just a hint of amusement in the noise. “They’re fucked. And need to be, unless we want to explain to Chuck why we left with three X-Men and came back with two.”

Maybe he was paying attention when he was looking through the paperwork at the lab. But you don’t really give a shit because all you catch is ‘special little Baby Xavier’ and ‘need to be fucked’. “Please,” you beg desperately, your core clenching down on nothing. “Please, please, please. Please fuck me.”

Any other circumstance, you would rather drop dead than beg in an open place for a good dicking down by anybody, much less your two older teammates. But you’re clenching continuously with slick actually running down your thighs in the tight leather uniform and it hurts like nothing you’ve ever felt before.

Logan grits his teeth so tight it’s a miracle his teeth don’t shatter. “You don’t know what you’re asking for, bub.”

Ororo’s eyes hold sympathy and understanding, even if her pupils are blown out with need and she looks like she’s going to maul one or both of you. “Honey-”

“I do,” you disagree with a shake of your head. “I do, I do. I saw- you and Ororo. The things you want to do to me. To each other. Please. Please, please, please, I need it. It hurts, Lo.”

Any chance of you being spared by Logan goes out the window when the nickname slips from your lips. His grip tightens painfully, and he marches the trio back to the jet with purpose, eyes black and dangerous. “You need to get fucked that bad, bub? You gonna beg all pretty like that the whole time or just until she’s satisfied?”

“I’ll beg all you want,” you nod, jogging to keep up with his pace. The heat from the chemical in your bloodstream feels like it’s boiling you alive, the cramps from your pussy like stab wounds. “Pretty pretty please Logan, fuck me. I need it, it hurts. It hurts so bad. Please. Ro, tell him. Tell him how it hurts, I know you feel it.”

Ororo winces, watching his hand tighten to the point where you’ll be sporting a Logan-shaped handprint for days. “I know, sweetheart. I know it hurts; we’ll take care of you.”

“Damn right I’ll fucking take care of you,” Logan pushes you into the jet with enough force that you have to catch yourself on the nearest chair, trembling hands already fighting to get the zipper of your suit open. “If you have any boundaries, tell me now. I’m not going easy, bub.”

“Don’t be mean to me,” you say and whine pathetically when you can’t get the uniform open. “I can’t take teasing. It hurts so fucking bad, I can’t. Don’t do it.”

“Okay sweetie,” Ororo pushes Logan out of the way and approaches you, gently taking hold of your trembling hands. “Go make sure comms are off and we’re out of sight. The last thing we need is Charles or guards wandering up to the jet. Go.”

Logan looks like he’s thinking about disobeying, but another silent communication between the two has him stalking away with a growl.

Ororo turns back to you, giving you a soft smile and brushing a sweaty strand of hair from your face before caressing your damp cheek. “You’re going to be just fine, honey. Logan and I will take care of you. You don’t have to worry.”

Your begging calms some, nodding and looking at her with pupils so blown your irises are mere suggestions. “It hurts, Ro. You’re so pretty.”

“Thank you.” She eases your hands down to your side with lingering touches. “You’re very handsome yourself. I’ve always loved your eyes, so expressive and beautiful…”

When she kisses you, it’s soft and slow. She tastes like spearmint and rainwater. It’s a clumsier first kiss than you would’ve liked, your own actions fumbling with desperation from the chemical ravaging your body, but it’s sweet and grounding in a way.

You can almost hear the waves of her thoughts hitting the rocks, the mental waterfall rushing and raging. For just a second, it’s strong enough for a glimpse of you on your knees with her strap down your throat, mindless and drooling, to appear in your mind before it’s gone as suddenly as it appears. They both have so much self-control compared to you, and it feels like you’re bursting out of your skin in pain and need. Ground zero was right.

“I want that,” you blurt out. “Me, you, Logan. Your strap and-and everything. I can’t- I’m sorry, I can’t stay out of your heads. My control is shot to shit.” Ororo shakes her head with a soft smile. “It’s okay, baby. I know. Don’t worry about it, just let Lo and I take care of you, okay? Can I take your uniform off? You’re going to get heatstroke at this point.” Her hands hover over your chest, waiting for permission.

“Please,” you plead and shove your chest into her hands, moaning from the bare minimum stimulation your nipples get from the action. “Please, please. Take it off, touch me. I’m going to go insane if I don’t get something.”

“Shh, sh, sh,” Ororo coos and unzips your uniform, exposing your sweat-soaked chest to the cool air of the jet. Your breasts are trying to spill from your bra, a simple black bralette that’s a bit too small for you. “I told you Logan and I will take care of you. All you have to do is listen. You’re doing good, just listen to me, okay?”

You nod eagerly, a moan filling the air of the back portion of the jet when she unclasps your bra and gently kneads, getting a feel for the warm and soft flesh in her hands. “I’ll listen. I’ll listen, I’ll be good. I swear, Ro. I’ve been thinking about this for so long, I’ll be so good for you.”

Her brow raises and she runs a soft thumb over your painfully hard nipple, drawing a whine from you. “You’ve been thinking about this, hm? And how long have you been doing that for, honey?” She continues her gentle touch before tilting down and sucking your nipple into her mouth, catching you when your knees buckle. She eases you into the nearest seat, pushing your uniform off your arms to gather around your waist without detaching her mouth from your breast.

“Months,” your voice comes out needy and desperate, a hand finding the back of her head to gently hold her head in place. “N-needed you for months, Ro.”

She hums and releases your right breast with a gentle nip that makes you clench down on air and further ruin your uniform. “I’ve been thinking about you too, angel. Keep making those pretty noises.”

Her mouth feels so good, the pleasure easing the sting of the chemical in your body, just a touch. She’s good with her tongue, better than you could ever expect. “Saw your strap, in your head. Want it. When we go home. If you’ll let me take it. I can take it, Ro, I swear. Please let me take it?”

She lifts her head to coo at you again, pressing soft kisses to your wet cheeks. “Shh, honey. Focus on the here and now, yeah? Don’t worry your pretty little head about later. We’ll make sure you get what you need.”

You’re aware that she’s repeating the same platitudes to you in attempts to keep you calm and relatively docile but the only thing you can focus on is the hand she slipped into the front of your uniform. Your head falls back with a gasp and you’re nodding desperately while her soft and nimble fingers explore your soaked folds. “Look at you…” She murmurs with the same soft smile she always gives you. “Absolutely drenched. Is this all for me, baby?”

“Yes, yes. All for you, Ro, just for you. Please. More, I need more,” A mewl leaves your lips and you arch against the seat when she meets your begging with two fingers slipping easily into your pussy. There isn’t a hint of resistance from your body, accepting her in like she belongs. “Yes. Yes, yes, yes.”

 You aren’t sure when it happens, but you blink and your uniform has been entirely discarded, your right leg thrown over Storm’s shoulder as she sits on her knees between your thighs. She is down to her last knuckle in you, three fingers wide and her hand is absolutely drenched with your juices. “Please Ro, please,” you beg and plead.

The ache in your core is easing just slightly as your orgasm builds, legs trembling and your hand clutching the arms of the seat. Whimpers and whines flood the back of the jet and it’s a mess of tearful begging and moaning followed by Ororo’s soft reassurances and the wet squelch of her fingering you. “You’re doing so good for me, angel, just keep taking it. There you go, so good. So good for me. I feel you squeezing my fingers. Go ahead and come for me. Let go for your Ro, hm? Come on, baby.”

“Mhm,” you whine, legs trembling as the pleasure crawls up your body and ecstasy blossoms in your core. The orgasm is out of this world, colors and shapes bursting in the darkness of your closed eyes. “Ro. Ro, Ro…”

“There’s my honey. Good, you did so good…” She works you down slowly, easing you through your orgasm and ensuring you won’t get overstimulated until her hand leaves your core. There’s no doubt that she’s burning with need and it’s a miracle Logan’s stayed out of sight for as long as he has. Their control is remarkable, something you can’t even think of having now. “Just breathe.”

You barely have time to recover and watch her clean your cum from her fingers before the need and fever slam back into you even worse, a cry of pain filling the air. Logan’s words from earlier float back into your mind while you pant and writhe. Fuck or die.

You need more than fingers, more than Ororo. You need them both. “Where’s Lo?” You whine, mortified by the tears leaking from your eyes but searching desperately for the man.

“Right here, bub.”

The speed with which you whip around to make eye contact would be comical if you weren’t convinced you’ll die in the next 15-20 minutes. “Logan.”

“Oh look, you can still remember your names. Good job,” Logan’s hair is a mess. It looks as if he’s run his hands through it multiple times to keep himself under control. He’s sweaty and panting, wet spots visible on his uniform from where he’s been struggling with his own prominent issue from the aphrodisiac. Very prominent.

Your eyes are glued to the thick bulge that he’s clearly hastily tucked away. He must’ve been trying to ease his own pain using the sound of Ororo helping you. The thought has Storm having to hold you in place because you’re trying to claw your way up and to him, as if your legs would even work right now. “Woah. Deep breaths, sweetie. He’s coming over here, no need to get up. Stay still for us. You promised to be good for me, remember?”

You risk a quick glance at Ororo and falter under her soft reminder. It wasn’t an actual order, but it feels like one. Logan approaches with a hungry look in his eyes, raking from your feet up to the top of your head like he gets nourishment just from the sight. “Are they good?”

You’re trying to figure out what the question is referring to when Ororo answers. “They came once but it seems like it made it worse. They need more than my fingers and I’m going half-crazy. The stretch might be a little much, but there’s so much slick I don’t think they’ll even feel the pain.”

They’re talking about you like you’re an object and not a sex chemical-crazed, needy mess of a telepath needing dick like you need air, maybe even more. And fuck if that doesn’t just make you even wetter.

“Lo,” you whimper and open your legs wider, hoping to entice the Wolverine in. It works like honey and flies.

“You want my help now, huh Baby Xavier?” He grins and approaches slowly, resting a hand on Ororo’s head where she sits between your thighs. It’s a smile you’ve seen hundreds of times before accompanied by that god awful nickname but this time it doesn’t antagonize or piss you off. There’s a promise of pleasure, more than you’ll ever know how to handle and you crave it. “Want ‘Lo’ to ease that ache, sweetheart?”

You nod like a broken bobblehead and open your sticky thighs even wider. It feels like an actual fire in your core, and you wouldn’t be surprised if you’re bleeding from the pain. “Help, Lo. Hurts. Fuck me, please. Please. Need it. Need it, Lo.”

He hums and gets a handful of Ororo’s white hair at the root, tugging her head back so she’s looking him in the eyes. “So, they’re losing their shit. How’re you feeling?”

There’s something about the way the two older mutants are interacting that paints a picture of previous intimacy. You aren’t sure how you missed the signs, but they’ve been together before.

“I need something,” Ororo tells Logan, a hint of desperation in her words you didn’t catch the entire time she was fingering you. “They aren’t wrong, it burns. Think you can get us both off?”

Logan laughs, dark and confident. He releases her hair and gives her a gentle push. “Go get undressed and I’ll take care of you, too. My poor pretty sluts.”

Ororo disappears to the front of the jet, leaving you alone with Logan for the first time since this all happened. It’s less than a second before he’s on top of you and you’re kissing like two starving beasts. Logan and Ororo are hot and cold- where she was soft and slow, taking care of you and preparing you for Logan, he kisses you like he’s trying to eat you whole.

He takes entire control of the kiss, one large hand holding you in place by the roots of your hair. It’s not painful, but it’s controlling and dominating and so hot you can barely stand it. His mouth tastes like cigars and whiskey, burning hot like a bonfire. If you could think, you would be thanking Ororo for sending him off and letting her have first dibs. If Logan got his hands on you first, the two of you would have burned brighter than a dying star.

While he has full control of the kiss you aren’t a passive participant. Your teeth clash and nip, tongues shoving down one another’s throats. It only breaks when he tugs your hair to get you to expose your neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kiss to your skin and ensuring every inch has some form of his mark, be it a hickey or a bite.

There’s more than one time where he bites hard enough to break skin, but it just makes you moan louder. “Please. Please.” You can’t get any more words out, losing your mind in the passionate moment.

“Please what?” He growls against your collarbone, nipping the bone. “Use your words, kid. Not all of us are mind readers like you and Chuck. What do you want?”

“Need you,” you pant and moan, holding his hair in just as tight a grip as he has on yours. “Need you.”

“Need me how?” he asks, mouth dropping down to your breasts and biting meanly. “My knee? My fingers? Maybe my mouth? I told you to use your words. I fucking meant it.”

There’s that asshole. God, you could throat punch him. “Your dick,” you hiss in equal parts annoyance and desperation. “I need your dick.”

He hums and pulls away, making you feel like you could rip your hair out. “As you wish, princess.”

You watch with bated breath as he starts undressing, pulling the zipper down at a slow enough pace that you could rip his throat out with your teeth if he doesn’t hurry the fuck up. You’re about to tell him just that when he finally gets the suit off. Your eyes trail down his bare, muscular chest, drool forming as you follow that delicious happy trail and to his red, leaking cock standing prominently against his stomach the second it’s free.

He's big. Not average-big but ‘oh God, how is all that going to fit?’ big and not to mention girthy. You’re still staring when he steps back up and between your knees, grinning wolfishly. “Cat got your tongue, bub?”

You try to answer him, mouth opening but can’t find your words when you’re face-to-face with dick, watching the precum bead at the top. Without thinking, you tilt forward and lick the fluid off which probably wasn’t your smartest decision. He grabs your hair against pushes you down until you gag on his thick length, one hand settling on his thigh. “You’re that fucking needy, huh kid? Just couldn’t resist trying to tease me?”

You mumble around him when he tugs you up just enough for you to get some air and then pushes you back down until you gag again, already having him almost to the root, nose brushing the soft hairs of his pelvis. “What was that? I can’t hear you with your mouth full, sweetheart. That’s okay, you can just tell me later.”

Asshole, you project into his head and start sucking him off as well as you can whilst trying to catch your breath and being held so far down. It’s clear he heard it, a laugh leaving his lungs. “Aw, I know. My poor baby. I told you to use your words, didn’t I? You said you needed my dick, but you didn’t tell me how. Sweet angel is too needy to think that far ahead, hm?”

Despite his mean and cruel tone, you pick up on one thought that stands out from behind his mental shield. If it gets to be too much, tap my thigh twice, bub. I’ll stop.

You hum in acknowledgement. This really isn’t what you meant when you said you needed dick, but he tastes so fucking good you can’t help yourself even though you genuinely feel like you’re about to die. You need to know what he tastes like, and you will never forgive yourself if you deny yourself this and never get another chance.

He pulls you off again and you whine at him like a kicked dog. “Easy, sweetheart. Lean back against the seat for me.” He’s cradling your chin in his huge hand and looking at you so nicely, even when he’s being an annoying asshole. You realize then that you would follow both him and Ororo to the ends of the earth and happily jump if they asked you to. You’re so fucked when this chemical wears off.

You lean back against the seat of the jet, and he shifts his stance, nudging your lips with the head of his cock. “Open up for me. Good, that’s it. Let me in.”

Logan braces himself with the shoulder of the chair and thrusts, sliding down your throat and back up. God only knows how you manage to not gag because tears are already slipping down your cheeks and drool down your chin after a few pushes. A raise of your shaky hand to your throat and you can feel him, drawing a muffled moan from you and a grunt of pleasure from him. “Yeah, bub. Take that for me. You wanted it so bad, go ahead.”

It’s several minutes later when Ororo chooses to reappear, now fully undressed and flustered and incredibly turned on when she catches sight of Logan throat fucking you. She looks absolutely divine. How the hell are you supposed to worship both at once? Thank God Logan’s got the reins because you could never choose if it was up to you. “Logan.”

He groans and looks over at her, grinning and looking at her like he might devour her whole. “Look at that, sweetheart. Doesn’t she look fucking amazing? Tell Ororo how pretty she looks for me.”

Your teary eyes look up at Logan, cock-drunk and hazy. You can barely remember your name, much less that you have telepathic powers and can communicate that way. So, you just let out a series of muffled noises as you try to talk with your mouth full, drool and tears soaking your face and throat.

Logan just laughs and nods, thrusting into your open mouth and talking over the wet gurgles. “Uh huh. Good job, bub. Now focus and let me worry about Storm.”

He beckons her over and pats your thigh. “Climb up.”

Ororo looks to you for consent, but you’re too far gone, watching Logan like he’s a god among men as he ravishes your throat. “You’re going to ruin them, you know,” she informs and shakily settles onto your bare thigh, moaning from the bare minimum contact.

“I’ve had my eye on baby for long enough,” he grunts and holds your head back against the seat with one hand, snaking the other down to play with Ororo’s nipples with practiced ease. “Don’t pretend like you haven’t. Ride their thigh for me, Ro.”

She does as instructed with a needy moan, but not without a huff, expecting more than that from him. She’ll just have to wait her turn. She glances over to check on you, your eyes hazy and unfocused as you look between the two mutants- Gods? - using you like a toy. “I think you fucked their brains out.”

“Nah,” Logan disagrees easily. “Haven’t gotten that far yet. Seems like sweet Baby Xavier just has a habit of going all submissive and doe eyed. Is that right, sweetheart?” He coos, a subtle mocking tone to it that you’re unable to pick up on. You hum back with a slow blink, throat constricting around him with a swallow. Logan growls and picks his pace up, chasing the high that you just put right in front of him. “Do that again, bub. Just like that.”

With both Ororo and Logan chasing their highs, you’re left to watch them both starry-eyed for several minutes. You swallow again and he comes down your throat with a ragged moan, hot and salty ropes filling your mouth and spilling down your chin with each thrust. “Fuck… Swallow, bub.”

Ororo’s working herself up to her orgasm with controlled roles of her hips on your thigh and fingers with more than a decade of practice. You gag as Logan pulls out and swallow everything he gave you, opening your mouth and giving him a soft “Ahhh…”

“Good,” Logan purrs at you. It seems like he’s worked through the aphrodisiac now. He smears the mess of tears, drool, and cum on your face. “What a pretty mess. You look depraved, sweetheart. Did I break Ororo’s favorite little mutant?”

“Mm-mm,” your head shakes in denial and your gaze zeroes in on the woman herself. She looks beautiful, head falling back with ecstasy as she gets herself off using your leg. Maybe she is a goddess. “Ro…”

Her brown eyes lock with yours and she offers you that same soft smile while coming down from her orgasm. “I’m good, honey. Focus on yourself. Pay attention to Logan.”

Your eyes obediently lock back onto Logan, a submissive volleyball between the two older mutants. You tilt up as high as you can reach, begging for a kiss or more contact in some way, shape or form. It shouldn’t surprise you that the man who made you such a mess is willing to kiss you after cumming in your mouth, but it does. And he likes it, if the growl is anything to go off.

Your tongues tangle for several long moments before his attention drags back to Ororo, some communication going on between the two of them that you would only get to be privy to if you snooped in their heads. But you’re too worried that your lack of control would get someone hurt right now, so you stay out of everyone’s mind, watching and waiting for a command.

“Stay in your seat and take a breather,” Logan instructs, holding your filthy chin between his fingers so your hazy, lustful eyes are stuck on him. “I’m going to take care of Storm and then it’ll be your turn again. Be good and I’ll play nice, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nod with a soft whine, sniffling when Ororo gets up on shaky legs and drapes herself across the chair on the opposite side of the aisle. Logan pats your cheek, a little condescendingly, and follows her. An immediate sense of abandonment and loneliness crashes down but you ignore it in favor of curiosity and an urge to see the two interact without you in the way.

There’s very little foreplay between Ororo and Logan, almost as if they’ve been keeping their need on a backburner to take care of you first. That’s both an incredibly hot notion and something you feel more than a little guilty about. You’re the one who got everybody in this situation in the first place, after all, and now they’re babying you.

My eyes are glued to the two of them as they kiss messily for a minute or so before Logan bends her back down, fingers gathering up her slick and dragging it back and forth. “Think you can handle it, Munroe?”

She laughs shakily. “When can I not? Just don’t act like a damn bull in a China shop and I’ll be fine.”

“No promises.”

Logan spits in his hand and smears a mix of spit and her slick over Ororo’s ass and pushes himself into the tight ring of muscle with a hiss from her and a moan from him.

Oh. Oh, that’s not what you were expecting at all. Maybe that’s your drugged brain struggling to keep up, but you thought it was just going to be typical sex.

You are entranced as the two older mutants work together to get one another off. They look like the partners they are on the field, not a moment of awkwardness or too much need from either party even despite the drug pumping through everyone’s body. It makes you feel every bit the younger, less experienced mutant in the situation and if you were any less under the influence, you would be deep in your anxiety by now.

It’s torture watching and not able to participate, torn between wishing you were Ororo or Logan in this moment as your fingers fight with the chemical to try and get yourself an orgasm while Logan ruts Ororo into the seats. They both even sound hot, Logan grunting and those huge thighs and nice ass rippling with the work of his muscles. Ororo nice and soft and plush in all the right spots, the sounds of her moans flooding the air with his.

Never in your life have you felt more like a cuck and you’re relieved when they both finally finish. You’re not the kind that can handle sitting on the sidelines like this and the pain in your core has worsened to the point that you’re sure you’re bleeding internally.

 “Need you in me,” you tell Logan with a small sob before he’s even eased Ororo down to sitting, the pain becoming even more prominent. You pray he doesn’t try and tease you with his ‘use your words’ line. They truly will never find his body if he withholds it any longer.

Logan’s eyes soften and he nods, approaching your seat once more with sweat dripping from… everywhere. The man is still hard, as if he hasn’t had two orgasms back-to-back. “I know, sweetheart. I’ll take care of you. Isn’t that what Ro promised, that we’d take care of you?”

“Hush, angel. I’m just going over here to watch. You won’t want me in the way, I promise.” She seems like she’s fine now too and you’re frustrated that you’re the only one struggling anymore. Ground zero.

“Come on,” Logan’s huge hands hook under your arms and ease you down to the floor of the jet, settling between your thighs. The metal feels soothing on your feverish body and simultaneously makes you shiver. “It’s alright, I’ll take care of you. You trust me?”

“Trust you, Lo,” you repeat back and accidentally find yourself in his mind, looking through his eyes for a dizzying split second. You look fucked out. “I’m a mess.”

“What did I tell you about getting in my head?” He teases you, wiping some of the filth off your face. You’re about to apologize but he covers your mouth with his hand. “Let’s get the rest of this chemical out of your system, hm?”

You nod eagerly and roll your hips, rubbing and grinding against Logan. The act pulls twin moans from the two of you. “Needy little thing. Remember the thigh rule?”

He checks your face and must find the reassurance that he’s looking for because he starts to push and sink into you. The stretch is immediately dizzying, stealing your breath from your lungs and making the fire that’s been boiling you from the inside out cool just a touch. Logan hisses. “Jesus Christ, you’re so tight. Relax, sweetheart. You’re okay, it’s just me.”

Your eyes roll back and closed when he rubs small circles on your clit to make his progress easier, your body jerking with a rough moan as he feeds you inch after inch. “There you go, bub. She’s hungry, isn’t she? Look at her, trying to swallow me whole. So greedy.”

It takes a second for you to register the ‘she’ he’s referring to is your pussy, which helps ease the way for him. By the time Logan’s bottomed out in you, you’re convinced you can feel him in your throat and whining. “Move. Move, move, move,” you beg and plead even as you try to adjust to the burn of his intrusion.

Logan shakes his head and stays in place, although it clearly pains him to do so. “Not until that pretty girl you’ve been hiding from me loosens her grip a bit, sweetheart.”

You continue to whine and beg, squirming uselessly under his body. He presses one hand in the center of your stomach to keep you in place, drawing a loud and desperate moan as you arch off the floor of the jet. The pain switches straight to pleasure and Logan gets the cue he’s waiting for. “Atta girl. There you go, that’s right.”

He doesn’t spend long building up the pace, each thrust getting harder and faster. Maybe he screws like this normally or maybe the chemical hadn’t fully left his system, but he’s drilling you into the floor of the jet like it’s the only thing keeping the two of you alive. The sounds of wet skin slapping skin seem like the nastiest thing that’s happened today, but maybe that’s due to how intimate it is. Logan’s eyes are glued to your pussy, watching the ring of fluids build at the base of his shaft and your eyes are glued to him like he hung the moon and stars. “Lo, Lo,” you moan and tug yourself upright a bit.

He responds by forcing you to hike both legs up his hips. “Lock ‘em,” he grunts out and you obey instantly, clawing at his arms in pleasure when he somehow gets an even deeper angle that hits your g-spot repeatedly. Every thrust into you pulls a noise from your body, breathy and soft ‘ah’s filling the air. “Yes, yes…”

“Can’t believe you were hiding this between your legs, Baby,” he teases as he brutally snaps his hips into yours with a force that has your teeth rattling and any potential further responses are thrown out the window. You bury your face into his arm and just hold on for dear life. “Fucking heaven. Look at her swallowing me up. She was built for me, wasn’t she?”

You aren’t sure how long he drills you into the floor, but the orgasm comes swift, quick and all-encompassing. Your breath catches, your lungs seizing up with the ecstasy filling every atom in your body. Acting on instinct, you bite down on his bicep with a moan louder than you’ve ever managed before in your life, one following out with every convulsion of your cunt as it- no, she in Logan’s words, milks him for all she’s worth.

 For several seconds you swear you can see sounds and taste colors, even with your eyes squeezed tightly shut. Your entire body jerks and trembles, barely able to keep your hold on him. Is this what everyone talks about when they say, ‘Earth-shattering sex’?

“Fuck,” Logan curses with a hiss and a dark laugh, pace somehow managing to pick up even more when you clench down around him and bite. He’s chasing his high now, not yours. “Wish you told me you were a biter. I could’ve worked with that, baby.”

You whine at him and release his arm, quickly being railed into overstimulation. With an ease that simultaneously embarrasses and flatters you, he flips you so you’re on your stomach in a headlock- the same way you glimpsed in his mind what felt like forever ago. He’s bullying your cervix, bumping it with every impossibly deep thrust that has you seeing stars and making a further mess of yourself. “Almost there, sweetheart. You can take it for me, can’t you? You can last a little longer for your Lo.”

Ororo must be getting the show of her life, but your eyes won’t cooperate enough to look at her, squeezing shut again with a whimper. Logan harasses another orgasm out of you, one that makes you see spots and almost convinces you you’re going to have to tap out.

“Want to see those fucked dumb eyes when I fill you up, sweetheart,” Logan grunts and pants into your ear, grabbing a handful of hair and tugging until you’re looking back at him with a sharp arch to your back that makes it just a bit hard to breathe. There’s a holding of intense eye contact between you and Logan leading up to and through when he finally comes, filling you with rope after rope of sticky hot cum into your womb with a growl. There’s the sound of skin splitting followed by metal ripping through metal and your hazy eyes catch sight of Logan’s claws buried in the bottom of the jet. That’ll be hard to explain to Charles.

Finally, finally, there’s a release of the painful tension and fire in your gut. You sigh and go boneless in Logan’s arms, letting him work through his release by himself as you try and catch your breath. Somehow you made it through the roughest mission of your life so far.

One blink and suddenly everything’s shifted. Instead of naked and stuffed full of Logan on the floor of the jet with a face covered in bodily fluids, you’re wearing a shirt that smells suspiciously like the Wolverine and your back is resting against a chest that’s starting to feel very familiar to you. A gentle hand is running soothingly through your hair, and someone is cleaning your face up. A split-second probe of the air around you reveals two minds- Ororo and Logan, which you were expecting. It still feels like you’re in the jet, but you’re in the air now. Must be on autopilot.

“Looks like someone’s awake.”

That’s Ororo’s voice. You let out an exhausted groan and attempt to look around, but it takes entirely too much energy. Ororo is seated in front of you, still wiping the mess from your face. “Didn’t know I ever went to sleep,” you croak and gratefully accept sips from the cool water bottle pressed to your lips by Logan from behind you.

“Wouldn’t call it sleeping, Baby Xavier,” Logan responds with a soft rumble, sounding more domestic and gentler than you’ve ever heard before. “More like passing out from exhaustion and dehydration from the chemical and three orgasms. Two from yours truly.”

You roll your eyes but Ororo shrugs. “Sorry, that’s exactly what happened. It took a lot longer for the chemical to burn through you than it did us. Charles thinks you took most of the dosage since you were holding the test tube when it shattered. Closest contact.”

Charles. Your face pales and you try to shoot upright, stopped by Logan’s arm draped across your waist. “He knows?!” You squeak, cheeks flooding a bright red and covering your face. Logan snorts. “Of course he knows. He already knew but we had to tell him what happened either way.”

“Still!” You groan in mortification and try to hide in Logan’s chest. “It’s mortifying.”

 You’re not sure how to act around your teammates now that this has all gone down. Both Ororo and Logan have gotten a taste of you and you them. How are you supposed to go back to just pining after Storm and lusting after hating Logan?

As if sensing your insecurities, Ororo hooks a finger under your chin to get you to look up into those soft brown eyes. There’s that signature soft smile. “Hey. If you want to move on from this and pretend nothing happened, that’s your choice."

“A fucking stupid one, but your choice,” Logan grumbles and Ororo swats his head. She scoffs and turns her eyes back to you. “We won’t make you do anything you don’t want to. If you tell us to forget it ever happened, we will,” she promises and you can feel the sincerity, from both her and Logan. If you told them both to drop it, they would.

“But,” Ororo adds on after a glance at Logan and moment of silent communication. “I do think I promised you my strap when we get home. If you still want to try and take it.” And who are you to turn that down?

[emberenchanted]

For Keeps (3/3)

Pairing: Dark!Carol Danvers x Female Reader

Summary: Carol sees you. Carol wants you. Carol gets what she wants. 

Series Warnings: extremely dubious consent, strap ons (r receiving), sex (oral, vaginal), anal fingering, Dom!Carol, orgasm denial, spanking, violence (not really towards reader), manipulation, forced relationship, rough sex

18+ ONLY

Link to Chapter 1

Link to Chapter 2

A/N: Ok party people, we've reached the end of this short tale. There really isn't much plot here, it's mostly smut 😅. This fic is my first time writing smut so hope it isn't terrible. Thanks to everyone who read, liked, commented, and reblogged! Let me know what you think about this chapter. I really appreciate the support and motivation.

Divider by @firefly-graphics

Chapter 3

When you wake up the next morning, it is to serious regret and a text from Carol telling you that she’d pick you up at 6:30pm that night. You make one last effort to get out of the date and text back that you aren’t feeling well. Carol responds and says that if you aren’t feeling well, she’ll just come over and take care of you until you’re better. 

The response makes your stomach drop. You shudder to imagine how domineering Carol would be alone, in a private space that has a lock. She already forces every interaction into the outcome she desires in public. If she managed to get into your studio, you would be at her mercy, and after the way she’d finger fucked you against the alley wall before you could get a word in, you were sure you wouldn’t get her out of your apartment before she got what she wanted, which was most likely you in bed with her. You definitely weren’t ready for that yet, if you’d ever be. No, much better to go out. 

Hours later, after considering the contents of your closet, you settle on a black knee length bodycon dress with long sleeves and chunky black boots. You style your hair into an updo, and add chunky gold hoop earrings; a bit of concealer (to cover the marks Carol had left on your neck the night before), and a swipe of lip gloss complete your look. You don’t want Carol to see where you live so you decide that you’ll head down to the bar around 6:25pm and meet her there. You’re already nervous, so when you’re ready by 6pm you decide to indulge in one glass of wine to settle your nerves. It definitely can’t hurt, right?

At 6:20pm, Carol walks up the steps to your apartment, which is right over the bar. If she’d known last night that her baby lived just upstairs, she could have dragged you there during her break and made your first time riding her fingers much more comfortable. Though to be fair, if she had known, you might not have made it back for the rest of your shift. Oh, well. That’s what she gets for not having complete information. She won’t let that happen again. Carol intends to find out all the important bits about her baby’s life tonight, so simple slip ups like that don’t happen anymore.  

After spending her morning “talking” to some of the other business owners who have recently missed their monthly payments, Carol is feeling relaxed and eager. Situations where she got to flex her physical...skills always got her blood up, and she was ready to show her baby a great time. The concerning information Carol’d received from three of the people she visited could be handled tomorrow. Apparently, all of them had also been told there’d be a change in payment method and none of the dumb fucks had double checked before paying in cash at that bench. She needed to talk to Steve about how to move forward and he wasn’t an early riser. If things went according to plan, she wouldn’t make it back to the Avengers’ headquarters from her date until mid-morning tomorrow. 

She bounds up the last two steps before quickly walking to your door. Carol knocks two times before taking a step back. When you open the door, Carol is absolutely thrilled. You look fucking delicious and Carol can’t wait to eat her little baby alive. Your soft breasts are perched high in a tight black v-neck dress, and the smooth expanse of skin from your neck to dressline is flawless. Whatever you'd applied made your skin gleam and shimmer in the light. It's all Carol can do to not hook her finger into the neckline of your dress and tug to see if your pretty little nipples shine in the same way. You look surprised to see her and Carol uses your temporary shock to crowd you, pressing her body to yours and lifting her hand to stroke your cheek gently. “You look incredible, baby,” Carol husks out, dropping a soft kiss on your shiny supple lips. 

“Oh.” The little sound of surprise pops out of you before you can help it. When you take a step back, Carol takes that moment to step around and into your apartment. 

Carol slowly takes in the small two room apartment. It was rather cramped and a bit dingy, but you obviously take good care of your belongings. Old bookcases line the walls and sink under the weight of fat, squat books. An obviously used green velvet couch takes up most of the open floor space and a TV on a chipped wood table stands across from the couch. But multiple small clusters of flowers in mason jars are perched on several surfaces, brightening the space. And in the kitchen, directly behind the couch, several bright prints and images are hung. 

Carol was proud of you for making it on your own this far. She knew how many young girls struggled, but you had found a job and place to live in a new city without any family support or connections. Her baby was hard working and industrious. Thankfully, you wouldn't need to do that anymore. Carol would be taking care of all that for you soon enough. Carol was just happy that through your obvious struggles you'd remained innocent and pliable. Watching you stammer and flush when Carol gave you her full attention was exquisite and it made her eager to command that submissive spirit in the bedroom. You would be so fucking pretty whining and squirming under Carol in bed with a sore and tender ass. 

After Carol had seen her fill of the apartment, she turned to face you once more. Stepping close, Carol slid a hand up and down your arm. “Your apartment is so cute, baby. I wish I’d known you lived so close. I would have come over sooner.”

You shudder at the thought. “Ready to head out?,” you ask hurriedly.

By the time Carol slips into the booth seat next to you at the restaurant, you’ve calmed just a bit. While she’s been just as handsy at the show and on the way there, she’s also been charming. Being with Carol was like being on a rollercoaster. The breakneck pace she pushes things along makes your stomach churn and drop, but it also makes you excited and breathless. As with a roller coaster you’re pretty sure you’ll make it off alive, but there’s always the chance that you’ll slip past the safety restraints and tumble to your end. It was exciting and scary. Carol was exciting and scary.

The restaurant Carol has chosen is quiet and dimly lit. Floor to ceiling brick walls enclosed several small tables situated around the room. A few booths were also tucked against the back wall creating private enclaves. Each table is topped with a burning white candle. After you’d both ordered, Carol begins asking about your life. Where you grew up, familial relationships, your past romantic partners, what you liked to do in your free time, your favorite places in the city (so far); everything was fair game. There was a part of you that wanted to hold back, not to divulge everything about yourself, but another little part of you was flattered. You’d never had someone so interested in hearing about you. Of course, Carol might not have had a completely altruistic motive, but she did seem genuinely interested. After finishing your main course, Carol’s hand gently touches your knee, pushing the fabric of your dress up your leg and swirling patterns into the ticklish skin there. It's hard to believe that this was the same woman who’d brutalized Mel. But, you try to remind yourself that it was. 

Carol seems to be in a good mood, and she’d said at the beginning of your dinner that she wanted to know everything about you. That went both ways, right? You thought you should also be able to ask her about her life. If this was going to be a...relationship, there had to be some give and take. 

You take a deep breath and ask, “Carol, can I ask you a question?”

She squeezes your knee, “Anything, baby.”

Your question comes out quietly. “Do you hurt people, like you hurt Mel, often?”

Carol turns her body to you, meeting your eyes and she takes a beat before answering. “You want to know more about my work?”

You nod. 

“I fix problems,” she begins. “Almost any problem. I do that all over the country and all over the world. And there are different...methods for fixing problems. It’s my job to identify the most expeditious method for resolving any issue I’ve been hired to fix. People pay me a lot of money to do that well.” Her hand slides up your thigh and kneads. “What happened with Mel was unfortunate, and I’m so sorry if I scared you, but you'll get used to it.” 

Your heart stutters in your chest. That was not what you were hoping to hear. And you definitely didn’t think you’d get used to it. You look into her eyes and see what looks like affection there as you brace yourself to ask another question. “Would you ever hurt me like that?”

She chuckles softly. “I would never hurt you in the same way that I hurt Mel.” The tightness in your chest releases just a bit. “But I do have certain expectations of you, baby, and I will enforce boundaries with and for you. But never that harshly.” she rushes to finish. Your heart continues to beat a rapid rhythm against your ribs as you take in her words. You’d known that Carol had certain proclivities after your previous interactions with her, but to hear it stated so plainly was something different. You simply didn't want that kind of relationship. One with rules and punishments. You are even more sure you'll have to find some way to end things with Carol before they go any further. At that moment, the waitress clears the table, sets down your dessert and heads back to the kitchen. 

The hand gently stroking the inside of your thigh creeps up a bit higher, tickling delicate skin. You move to shift away from her, uncertain of how you're feeling at the moment and hoping for a bit of time to think. But as you begin to close your thighs, Carol gives the inside of your leg a sharp pinch. “One of those expectations is that you do as I request, and another is that you don’t move when I’m touching you--or about to touch you--unless I give you permission. Ok, baby?” 

You nod slowly and Carol nods back at you. “Now why don’t you just lean back and relax, sweetheart? This will feel good. I promise.” Carol was blocking you inside the booth so you couldn’t get out without making a scene. You rest your back fully against the back of the bench and close your eyes. 

“Look at me while I’m touching you,” Carol murmurs against your ear. You drop your head to the seat behind you and roll your head to face her, eyes fluttering at the sensations coursing through your body at her gentle stroking. 

“Carol,” you sigh.

Another pinch. “Ma'am!,” you quickly correct. “Ma'am, we’re in public. Someone might see.” 

“Don’t worry,” Carol purrs. “Nobody is going to see you. Nobody gets to see you like this but me, ok?”

You murmur affirmatively and give yourself over to the pleasure she’s inciting in you. Her slender fingers find your panty covered core and stroke over your damp slit. Her gentle caresses send fissures of pleasure shooting through you and you whimper softly. Carol hums approvingly. Her fingers pull your panties to one side and she slides one solitary finger inside your slick warmth to the second knuckle. Your body twists at the sensation, and you try to slide further down the bench to get her finger further inside you.  Carol laughs gently as she thrusts her finger in and out. In and out. It’s not enough. “More, please, ma'am” you sigh breathily. 

Carol chuckles. 

“My baby needs a little more? Do you want to come?,” Carol queries.

You nod frantically. “Do you want to come here at the table or back at home?” Your mind races. You really don’t want to lose control at the restaurant despite Carol’s assurances that nobody will see you. But, you also don’t want her in your home. As you ponder, Carol pushes her finger deeper inside you and the slick sensation makes you gasp. “Home!”

Carol pulls her finger out before slipping it in her mouth to suck gently. “Hmm, delicious,” she intones. Carol stands up quickly and strides over to the waitress, credit card in hand as you try to gather yourself and your senses. She’s back before you know it, quickly packing up your dessert into small takeout containers, and grabbing your hand to drag you out the booth.  

Just as you’d suspected, Carol was just as forceful in bed. She’d essentially dragged you to her apartment (or at least where she was staying while in the city), before pouncing on you. Her apartment was modern, but understated, largely empty of decoration. Her hands dragged, unzipped, and shifted until you were left in only your underwear. 

She pushes you into her room and onto her large bed before climbing on top of you. Her lips meet yours and her tongue strokes the inside of your mouth sensuously. She sucks and nips sharply at your lips before slowly making her way down your jawline to your neck. As her lips travel to your clavicle, Carol slips one hand underneath you to press your back into an arch. Her other deftly unclasps your bra before  tossing it aside. Her teeth gently scrape at your skin before moving to your nipples. Latching on, she gives you a hard suck, immediately laving the skin with her tongue with small strokes to soothe the now aching bud. She continues to suck on first one nipple, then the other until both are sore and puffy and you are whining and squirming underneath her. Seemingly inspired by your strained noises, her teeth continue worrying the taut bud of one breast as her fingers slip into your panties and begin to rub your clit.

She releases you with a soft, wet pop as her fingers continue exploring, first one, then two of her fingers pushing all the way into your tight hole and making you moan incoherently. “This little pussy is perfection, baby, I can’t wait to fuck you,” Carol rumbles, mouth still against your breast.   

”Wait,” you bleat out. 

Carol rises to her knees and smacks your pussy hard. “Ouch,” you shout. 

"No, baby. I’m not waiting anymore. I was supposed to get to fuck you on our last date, but you stood me up. You've been teasing me long enough. Now get undressed and get on your hands and knees." 

Carol pauses her words to cock her head and pin you with a hard gaze when she notices you aren't moving. "Now, baby," she says harshly while reaching over to give your thigh a hard pinch. You yelp at the blooming pain, then take a few deep breaths and resign yourself to what was about to happen. Your heart pounded in your chest at how fast, again, Carol was getting her way. You felt so overwhelmed and helpless that you couldn't stop the tears that filled your eyes and threatened to spill over your lower lids. Hands shaking, you removed your simple white lace underwear and began moving to your hands and knees.

Satisfied that you were following directions sufficiently (though you were still moving too slow in Carol's opinion, --something she would let slide tonight but would train out of you soon enough) Carol reaches over to open her bedside drawer and pulls out an intimidating strap on. Your movements pause as you catch sight of her maneuvering it onto her body, and your eyes widen in fear. It's as thick as your wrist, frighteningly long, and has a wicked curve. Thinking of that splitting you open makes you sob. But Carol is having none of it. With herself situated, she turns her attention back to you. She manhandles you into her desired position, ignoring your breathless pleas to pause for a moment. 

Your eyes are glued in fear to her linen duvet as you feel the fat head of her huge cock run through your slippery folds, stopping to nudge at your clit before continuing back up to your hole. Carol rests her hands on the flare between your waist and hips, before tightening her grip and starting to push into you. 

You moan pathetically as you feel the head of her cock pop into you. Even this first inch is a stretch and you know there's a lot more coming. Carol gives you no reprieve as she continues sliding into you, splitting you open at a slow but steady pace. Your cunt flutters frantically around the invading cock, trying desperately to create space where there previously was none. When you're sure you can't take any more, you begin to whine and try to move away. Carol tuts softly before giving your ass a sharp smack, and leans over to murmur in your ear. "I told you not to ever move away from me when I'm touching you." Her words send shivers down your spine.

With that, she tightens her grip on your hips, before lifting you and giving you a rough tug back, impaling you with the last few inches of her cock. You sob into the sheets at the pain coursing through you. Carol threads the fingers of one hand into your hair, yanking back to ensure you can no longer move away from her. "Gotta keep you nice and close, baby. " You shudder as Carol's free hand begins to explore your body while she gives you a few slow but deep experimental thrusts. Though you still haven't adjusted to the fullness of your cunt, Carol begins to increase the pace, drawing heat and an intense pleasure to your belly. Her touch is everywhere -- sliding over your shoulders, rubbing and twisting at your nipples until you sob, tickling down your back to rub over your ass, pinching your inner thighs before moving them apart, forcing your back into a deeper arch and making the heavy cock inside you slide that much deeper. 

You're barely holding on. Carol is everywhere and there is only Carol. Since you'd  met, Carol had been pushing every interaction and every conversation the way she wanted it to go. There was no room for disobedience, no room for hesitation at one of her many orders, and no room for negotiation. Everything has to be Carol's way, and you'd seen the potential consequences firsthand. That first night you'd seen the violence she'd casually doled out, and hadn't ever wanted that to be you. Now you were wishing for a few simple broken bones. This was so much more violating. 

Her cock is rubbing against every inch of you, making you feel stretched to the limits. As much as this hurts, it brings an equal amount of pleasure. Your body hums at the intensity of Carol fucking you. Every nerve ending is alight and you can feel the beginning of that coil tightening in your gut. You feel sick, and scared. You're sick at your body's enthusiastic response to Carol's rough handling. You can hear the slick, wet noises you make each time she thrusts into your raw and battered pussy. But you're too scared of the immediate punishment to try to resist or adjust your body to make yourself a bit more comfortable. So just as you begin to let your mind wander from this place and try to relax into the pleasure and ignore the pain, Carol removes the hand that's been roaming your body. The sudden lack of sensation gets your attention. 

She gives your hair another yank, twisting your head so you're awkwardly looking at her. She looks...depraved, but beautiful. Her piercing eyes take in every expression on your face and flick from the bouncing of your tits, to the cock disappearing inside of you and back to your face at a rapid pace. When a particularly rough thrust forces the curve of the cock into your g-spot and you part your lips to yowl at the ecstasy she shoves her pointer and middle fingers into your mouth and tells you to suck. You know better than to disobey. You suckle at her fingers as they rub over your tongue, reaching further back until they press into the back of your mouth. As you choke on the intrusion, and Carol continues to rub at your tongue as you gag, her eyes light up in glee, and you worry about the plans she might have for your mouth. You don't think you can take the hefty cock down your throat if Carol demanded it, but you know you'd have to try. You close your eyes for a moment, trying to escape the intensity of Carol's gaze and put that potential nightmare out of your mind, but Carol gives your hair a sharp tug before demanding you "look at me."

When you do, she finally-- blessedly-- pulls her fingers from your mouth. They're covered in your saliva and a small string of spit connects her fingers to your lips. She murmurs that she wishes she were close enough to lick the drop of saliva off your lips, and you can't help but be thankful she isn't. You don't think you can take much more of this. More of Carol everywhere. 

But you've never been lucky, and just as you begin to relax again you feel a light stroking pressure at the opening of your tight puckered hole. 

You start and your mind begins to race as you feel her spit slick finger begin to press into you, stretching your ass open in an insistent burn. 

"You ever let anyone fuck you here?" Carol asks. You gather your wits about you before she has to repeat her question. "No, ma'am" you mutter out in a broken moan. 

"Good," Carol responds. "I'm going to be the last person in this tight little pussy and the first and last in this little asshole." She sounds pleased.  Despite knowing the uselessness of trying, you plead for her to stop, to give you a short break. She hushes you gently, more gentle than she had been, as her finger slips deeper into you and she murmurs "Both holes baby. Gotta get you used to this. I'm not going to fuck you here with my cock tonight but it's happening soon so we've gotta get you trained. Wouldn't want to hurt you." 

Carol removes her hand from your hair and uses it to brace your hip in place as you wail and try to buck at the intrusion.

"Ah ah ah, baby. Hold still. One more,” she murmurs as she pushes in a second slender finger. “You can do it. There you go. All done. You don't move unless I tell you to, remember baby?" Your fingers scramble for purchase in Carol's sheets as you pant. You thought you'd been full before. You thought Carol had violated you as much as possible but you should have known she'd find another way to possess you. You cry into the sheets before feeling Carol smack your ass twice and dig her fingers into your hip making you yelp sharply.

"I asked you a question, baby. Answer me."

You sob out a miserable "yes, ma'am." Satisfied with your response, Carol begins to alternate thrusting into your ass and pussy, both pushing deeper into you than you thought possible. Your body quivers at the push and pull of her inside you and her free hand is back to roaming over your body. After twisting at your sore nipples her hand coasts over the soft skin of your belly to your slippery folds. She begins to rub gently at your clit. Light teasing touches that send you hurdling toward an orgasm but aren't quite enough to send you over the edge. 

You hear Carol's smooth voice behind you "are you close, baby? I can feel you squeezing my fingers and can see that sweet little cunt of yours fluttering around my cock." 

You nod, before remembering to answer affirmatively verbally. Desperate to ease just a bit of your discomfort, you shift forward a tiny bit, resting more heavily on your arms and slightly relieving the pressure of Carol's cock pressing against your cervix and the deep press of her fingers in your ass. 

Carol didn't have to-- she could tell you were trying so hard to be a good girl for her--but this time she just wanted to. She smacked your already sore ass cheek hard three times for forgetting to answer her verbally. Carol knew she would enjoy seeing the bruises tomorrow as much she was enjoying putting them there tonight. Carol slips her free arm under your stomach and drags you back toward her, more than making up for any marginal ground you may have gained in your attempt to adjust and mounting you more firmly on her cock and fingers.

You whimper and stop moving, simply shuddering and moaning in time with Carol's thrusts.

Her fingers return to your clit, rubbing and pinching until your body is tight with tension, ready to snap and tumble into the orgasm she's been building you towards. Carol's fingers quicken their pace, drawing small tight circles over your bud as you feel your cunt tightening and the coil inside you snaps. Carol continues her thrusts, more forceful now to get past your quivering flesh. Your body shivers and shudders as the pleasure courses through you, made all the more intense by Carol's continued movements. She forces you right through this climax and violently into another. All the while you hear her voice saying how happy she is that you're together now, and that she can't wait to do this everyday. 

You're overstimulated; sore and tired. Carol slows her thrusts before pulling her fingers and cock out of you. Your body sags in relief. She removes her strap and positions herself at the head of the bed. She grabs you from your prone position and pushes you down until your head rests between her legs. Hands weave back into your hair, and she pushes your face into her slippery wet cunt, telling you to lick. You're exhausted and horrified and scared, but you lick her gently- running your tongue up and down her slit, suckling at her clit as she moans. She grabs your head in both hands and continues to maneuver you as she pleases. 

Later, after Carol comes on your tongue twice, you lay curled in her bed, shocked and softly crying. She returns from the bathroom and sits in bed beside you, stroking your hair and back. Though you know better than to question her, you simply can't process that this might be your new reality.

Occasionally Carol slips her fingers over your chest to rub and twist at your sore tits. After a while, she leans over to whisper in your ear. "You cry so pretty baby, but I only want to see you cry on my cock. So if you keep crying, I'll put you there."

A wave of horror runs through you as Carol gives you a gentle kiss on the cheek before sliding into bed behind you and tugging you close into the cocoon of her body. You wipe your tears on her pillow and pray for sleep to take you.

[mintyys-blog]

YOU’RE PRETTY WHEN YOU CRY— dark peter parker x reader

MINI SERIES MASTERLIST

synopsis:

You don’t remember him. But Peter Parker never forgot you—the girl who made his childhood a nightmare. The boy you broke is gone. In his place stands a man who knows exactly how to make you fall for him, just like he once fell for you. But this time, love isn’t gentle. It’s a trap. And by the time you see the web around you, it’s already too late.

WARNINGS: dark themes, toxic relationships, swearing, stalking, bullying and trauma, physical restraint, DUBCON, smut, emotional and psychological abuse.

PART ONE: where it all started

PART TWO: unrecognizable

PART THREE: date night

PART FOUR: im sorry

DABBLES & SPIN-OFFS

—> spin off: alternate apology

PLEASE NOTE:

It’s important to remember that bullying—whether physical, emotional, or verbal—is never okay. It causes lasting harm to those on the receiving end, affecting their mental, emotional, and physical well-being. The actions portrayed in stories should always remain fictional, and while they can be a reflection of real-world issues, they should never be replicated or condoned in real life.

The warnings and themes presented in this story, particularly surrounding abuse, bullying, and emotional harm, are meant to convey the complexity of these issues but should be seen as fictionalized scenarios for the purpose of storytelling. It’s crucial to understand the distinction between fiction and reality. In real life, kindness, respect, and empathy are essential in our relationships with others. If you or someone you know is struggling with the effects of bullying or abuse, it’s important to reach out for support and help from trusted individuals or professionals.

Please take care of yourselves and others with compassion, and always strive for kindness in the real world.

[d-z20]

One Last Drink (NSFW)

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x Reader

Summary: You're out for casual drinks with your friend Agatha, who you may or may not find extremely attractive—it's too bad she doesn't like you like that. She convinces you to stay for another round but this drink sends you over the edge and Agatha has to help you home

- OR -

Agatha spikes your drink and then fucks you in your bed like the good friend she is

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, dub/non-con, smut, Dark Agatha, alcohol, drugging/drink spiking, thigh riding (A doing), fingering (R recv),

Words: 2.7k

A/N: Just to repeat: this fic contains drink-spiking and non-con smut so if that is something that triggers you, please do not read. Requested Fic

AO3 | Master List

The hum of conversation and clinking glasses fills the air, mingling with the faint melody of a piano drifting from a corner of the dimly lit bar. You and Agatha have claimed your usual spot—a small, worn booth tucked away near the back, where the shadows seem to linger longer than they should. It always feels a little darker here, but it doesn’t matter when you’re with her. Agatha’s presence has a way of consuming everything else.

She sits across from you, an effortless vision of elegance. The soft glow from the overhead lamp catches the curve of her cheekbone and illuminates the knowing smirk tugging at her lips. She nurses a glass of red wine, swirling it lazily in her hand as her eyes fix on you with an intensity that makes your skin tingle. Agatha always has this way of looking at you—like she knows more than she lets on. Like she knows you inside and out.

“You’re quiet tonight, doll,” she says, her voice a velvety thread winding its way around your mind. “You alright over there?”

You tear your gaze from the half-empty cocktail in your hand, giving her a crooked smile. “Yeah, just… thinking. You always make me pick my poison, and somehow I still end up blacking out by the end of the night.”

Her smirk widens, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her face before she takes a slow sip of her wine. “You’ve got the tolerance of a baby bunny, darling. Not my fault you can’t keep up.”

You roll your eyes, chuckling as you lean back in the booth. “You’re probably right. But it’s weird—it only happens when we come here. What do they put in these drinks?”

The comment is light, a joke meant to tease, but Agatha’s smile sharpens at the edges. She tilts her head, her gaze slipping down to your drink and lingering there for just a beat too long. “Oh, honey,” she teases, leaning closer, allowing you to see down her top. “They’re just making sure you have a good time.”

Your breath hitches, the heat of her proximity sending a shiver down your spine. You’ve always found Agatha attractive, but it’s a secret you keep buried deep. There’s no way she feels the same; her flirty nature is just who she is. It’s not real. It can’t be.

You laugh, shaking your head as you lift your glass for another sip. “Well, here’s to waking up in one piece tomorrow.”

Agatha’s lips quirk as she raises her glass in a mock toast, her eyes never leaving yours. “I’ll drink to that,” she says smoothly, her tone carrying an edge of amusement. But as you glance away to scan the bar, her gaze darkens ever so slightly, her smile fading as she mutters something low under her breath—something just out of earshot.

—

“Alright,” you say, setting your glass down with a thud. “I think I’m done for the night. I should head back.”

Agatha’s lips curve into a sly smile, and she reaches out, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Not so fast, doll. Just one more round—my treat. What do you say?”

You hesitate, your resolve already wavering under the weight of her gaze. It’s those eyes, dark and piercing, that seem to strip you bare every time they meet yours.

“Fine,” you relent, trying to sound casual. “But just one more.”

Agatha’s smile widens, and she gives your cheek a playful pat. “That’s my girl. Sit tight.”

You watch her glide to the bar, her movements unhurried, deliberate, and far too mesmerising. The way her hips sway under the dim lights makes your breath hitch, and you curse yourself silently for the hundredth time that night. This is agony. Agatha isn’t just beautiful; she’s magnetic, commanding the attention of anyone with the misfortune to look her way—including you.

You drag a hand through your hair, a quiet groan slipping past your lips. What are you even doing? Agatha is your friend. Your friend. The idea of being anything more is a fantasy you let linger too long after nights like these. She couldn’t possibly know how she makes your pulse race or how the heat of her gaze seems to settle between your thighs. And even if she did know, why would it matter? Women like her don’t look at you like that.

By the time she returns, her signature smirk is firmly in place, two glasses in hand. She sets one down in front of you with a deliberate slowness that has your heart skipping a beat. As the amber liquid swirls in the glass, you think you catch the faint remnants of something dissolving at the bottom, but the hazy glow of the bar lights and the alcohol coursing through you make it easy to dismiss.

Agatha slides into the booth beside you, closer than necessary, her thigh brushing against yours and staying there. “Cheers, sweetheart,” she says, her voice dripping with amusement. She raises her glass, her piercing gaze locking with yours as the corners of her mouth curl into a devilish smile.

“Cheers,” you manage, clinking your glass against hers. You take a sip, the liquor’s burn sliding down your throat and pooling in your stomach like molten heat. You lean into her just a little, the warmth of her body grounding you as the room begins to feel a bit fuzzier from the alcohol.

“Y/N,” Agatha drawls, her voice thick with a teasing edge. “Are you getting tipsy on me now?” She reaches up, her fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face. The touch lingers longer than it should, her dark eyes gleaming with something you can’t name. “Poor thing. You really can’t handle your alcohol, can you?”

You laugh weakly, the sound catching in your throat as the warmth in your chest grows into a pleasant haze. “I can handle it,” you protest, though your slurred words betray you. You slump slightly against her, your cheek brushing her shoulder, and her hand comes to rest on your arm, steadying you.

She mock-coos at you, her voice dripping with a patronising sweetness that makes your stomach flutter. “Oh, honey,” she says with a soft laugh. “You’re so cute like this. Don’t worry—I’ll take care of you.”

The promise in her tone sends a thrill through you, but you quickly bury it beneath another sip of your drink, hoping more alcohol will drown out the thoughts swirling in your mind. She doesn’t mean it the way you want her to. She could never.

—

When you finally leave the bar, the cool night air is a welcome relief against your flushed skin. Agatha’s arm is around your waist, steadying you as you stumble slightly on the uneven sidewalk. You can feel the strength in her grip, her fingers brushing against the bare skin of your hip where your shirt has ridden up.

“I’ve got you,” she teases, her breath warm against your temple. “You’re safe with me.”

“You don’t have to do this,” you mumble, embarrassed. “I’m fine.”

Agatha chuckles, a dark, velvety sound that makes your stomach flip. “Oh, sweetheart, I insist. Besides, I wouldn’t dream of leaving you alone in this state—there are some real creeps in the world.”

Her tone is light, but there’s something else beneath it, something darker that you can’t quite place. You glance up at her, but her expression is unreadable; her eyes are fixed ahead as she half-carries you toward your apartment.

When you reach your door, Agatha helps you inside, her touch lingering just a moment too long as she steadies you against the wall. You watch her through half-lidded eyes as she moves around your small living room, turning off the lights and drawing the curtains.

“Alright, darling,” she says, turning back to you with a gentle smile. “Let’s get you to bed.”

You open your mouth to protest, but the words die on your lips as she steps closer, her hands resting on your hips. She guides you toward your bedroom, her touch firm yet gentle, and you can’t help but lean into her.

“You’re too good to me,” you utter, your words slurring slightly.

Agatha’s lips quirk up in a smirk. “You deserve it, doll.”

She helps you sit on the edge of your bed, her hands lingering on your arms as she crouches in front of you. Her eyes meet yours, and for a moment, the world seems to tilt, the air between you thick and heavy.

When you sway slightly, still perched on the edge of your bed, Agatha’s hands steady you again, her touch warm but searing, her fingers curling gently around your arms. Her smile softens into something almost tender, her sharp eyes roaming over your flushed face.

“Let’s get you comfortable, sweetheart,” she murmurs, her voice low, dripping with something you can’t quite place.

Before you can respond—as if you even have the strength—her hands are already at the hem of your shirt. Her fingers brush your bare skin as she lifts it over your head, the cool air against your torso making you shiver. You blink sluggishly, caught in the haze of exhaustion and alcohol, watching her through heavy eyes as she kneels in front of you, utterly unhurried.

“I can do it myself," you protest weakly, barely able to form words.

She silences you with a chuckle, her dark curls brushing against your thighs as she leans forward slightly. “Hush, darling. Let me take care of you.”

Her hands work deftly, undoing the button of your jeans and tugging them down your legs, her nails grazing your skin just enough to make you shiver again. She hums softly, a pleased sound in the back of her throat, as she folds your clothes neatly and sets them aside. You start to question why she always seems so at ease, so practiced, but the thought slips away like water through your fingers when her gaze meets yours again—steady and smouldering.

“You’re absolutely gorgeous,” she murmurs, her lips curling into that familiar smirk. But there’s something darker behind it now, something that sends a tingle racing down your spine.

Heat rises to your face as you try to look away, but her hand cups your cheek, guiding your gaze back to her. The room feels impossibly warm as she leans closer, her lips brushing yours in a kiss that’s soft at first. But then she presses harder, her tongue slipping past your lips with a confidence that leaves you breathless.

You can’t think, can’t do anything but let her guide you as she kisses her way down your neck, her lips and teeth grazing over the sensitive skin there. “I’ll make you feel so good, doll,” she whispers against your collarbone, her voice a dark promise that makes your pulse quicken. “I always do.”

The words don’t quite register—blurred and hazy—but you can’t focus on anything except the way her lips trail lower, her hands bracing your thighs to part them slightly. She presses you back against the bed, her weight a gentle but undeniable force as she crawls over you.

Agatha straddles your thigh, and you can feel the heat of her arousal even through the thick fabric of her pants. You gasp softly, the sound catching in your throat when her lips close around your nipple. Her tongue flicks over the sensitive bud, teeth grazing just enough to make you whimper, your body arching instinctively into her touch.

“Shh, that’s it, darling,” her voice vibrates against your skin as her fingers trail lower. Her hand slides over your stomach, then further, her touch maddeningly slow as she brushes against the edge of your underwear. “Let me take care of everything. You trust me, don’t you?”

Her words melt into you, warm and liquid, as her fingers slip beneath the fabric, her touch firm but teasing. She drags her lips from your chest, her gaze catching yours as she smirks again, her expression dark and knowing. 

You couldn’t stop her even if you wanted to.

And somewhere, in the fog of your mind, you feel the faintest flicker of familiarity—of déjà vu, as if you’ve been here before, like this, with her. But before you can grasp the thought, it disappears, swallowed by the sensations overtaking you.

“That’s it,” Agatha purrs, her hand moving in deliberate, measured strokes as she leans in to kiss you again, her lips claiming yours with an intensity that leaves no room for doubt. “You’re mine, sweet girl. Always have been.”

Agatha’s fingers dip lower, teasing for a moment before sliding inside you with a deliberate push. You gasp, your body tensing briefly before melting into her touch. Her other hand grips your thigh, urging you to press up against her as she grinds herself down on your leg. The raw desperation in her movements sends shivers through you; her rhythm measured but insistent.

“Fuck, you’re so responsive,” she groans, her voice dripping with amusement and hunger. Her hips roll against your thigh, breath hitching as she finds her rhythm. The friction between her and your skin sends a flood of heat pooling in your stomach, the coil tightening with every slow, deliberate movement.

You whimper as her fingers thrust inside you, brushing against that spot that makes your toes curl and your breath catch. “A-Agatha…” you breathe, your voice trembling with need.

“Hm?” she hums, her lips quirking into a smirk as her pace quickens. She presses her forehead to yours, her breaths coming in shallow, ragged bursts. “You gonna come for me, sweet girl? I can feel how close you are.”

You nod helplessly, your nails digging into the sheets as waves of pleasure build higher and higher, your thighs trembling beneath her. The noises spilling from your lips are shameless, needy, and only seem to spur her on.

Agatha’s own moans fill the air, low and breathy, her hips grinding harder against your thigh as her fingers work you with precision. “You make it so damn difficult,” she huffs through her moans, her voice tinged with frustration. “If you’d just make a goddamn move when you’re sober, I wouldn’t have to go through all this trouble to make you feel good.”

Her words barely register in your haze, too intoxicated to make sense of anything, your mind too clouded by the overwhelming sensation of her touch, the push and pull of pleasure that threatens to undo you. Her hand grips your thigh harder, anchoring herself as her movements grow more frantic and desperate.

The coil in your stomach snaps, and you cry out, your body arching as the climax crashes over you in waves. Agatha follows moments later, her hips jerking as a guttural moan escapes her lips, her body trembling against yours.

She doesn’t stop right away, her fingers and hips moving through the aftershocks, drawing out every last bit of pleasure until you’re both breathless and spent. Slowly, she stills, her lips brushing over your damp skin as she catches her breath.

Agatha climbs off you with a satisfied smirk, the weight of her absence both a relief and a strange ache. “Stay put, darling,” she mocks softly; you’re too drugged up to move anyway. Then she disappears into the bathroom.

You barely register the sound of water running before she returns, a damp cloth in one hand and a glass of water and some aspirin in the other. She cleans you with practiced care, her touch gentle but efficient, before setting the glass and aspirin on the bedside table.

“Agatha…” you start, your voice barely above a whisper. But the words catch in your throat as she cups your cheek, her thumb brushing lightly over your skin.

“Hush, darling,” she says softly, her voice almost a whisper. “Just rest.”

You nod, your head still feeling floaty, letting her pull the comforter over you. As your eyes flutter shut, you feel her fingers brush against your hair, her touch gentle yet possessive.

“Sweet dreams, Y/N,” she purrs, her voice carrying a dark undertone that sends a shiver down your spine.

And then she’s gone, the door clicking softly shut behind her, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the lingering scent of her perfume.

Outside your apartment, Agatha adjusts her coat, her smirk widening as she descends the stairs. She knows you won’t remember a thing by morning—you never do; she always makes sure of that.

-----

Yes, reader wants to be fucked by Agatha but drunk (and drugged) people cannot consent. That is why I marked it as non-con rather than just dub-con

Not that you needed reminding but please don't do this in the real world, folks it is very much illegal and just a dick move in general

-----

Taglist: @aceday @danveration @alwaysharmony @idkwhatever580 @lostbutlovely33

[seikkoi]

ꜱᴜɢᴀʀ | dom!tony stark x sugarbaby!reader ( ᴄʀɪᴍᴇ!ᴀᴜ )

ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴛᴡᴏ [1, 3, 4, 5] | ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴏɴ ᴀᴏ3

There was nothing that could keep Tony from having exactly what he wanted—and he deserved a little sweetness in his life. All he had to do was keep from ruining you in the process.

content/warnings: 18+ minors do not interact. non-canon, non-superhero au, sub/dom undertones, slight emotional/verbal manipulation, obsessive + possessive behavior, age gap (reader described as mid-twenties, t.s as mid-forties), mildly dubious consensual situations, explicit mentions of alcohol and drug use, generally not for the light of heart, rough sexual content, reader described as petite word count: 13k for parts 1+2 a/n: two weeks of brainrot later

L.A ended up as sun-kissed and vibrant as rumored, teeming with that felt like three times the people as New York. The plane ride went over smoothly, despite your nerves, although you can’t help criticizing Tony for his carbon footprint. You’re fortunate that the planning aspect is entirely in his hands, from the flight to the hotel. You knew what time to get ready and your destination, and that kept miles of stress away. 

Upon reaching the hotel, a grand stone structure adorned with decorative pillars, the potential arrangements for sleeping arrangements loomed over you. The forgotten vulnerability returned, and you walked beside Tony with uneasy legs, hoping your worry was unnecessary. 

To your relief, your accommodations are separate. You’re given peace of mind, chastising yourself for thinking the worst as you make the ascent in the elevator. Tony passes you cursory looks, reassuring you and assuming your nerves were travel-related.

In the hallway, Tony excuses himself to attend to some last-minute problems, apologizing and disappearing into his room. You followed suit, groaning against your wooden door as it creaked shut.

No matter how happy you were with Tony, the same thoughts resurfaced time and time again. The whispers in your head that told you the facade would melt away- warning of impending implosion. The memories of the look on his face weeks ago that brought you nearly to tears. To spare yourself the rabbit hole thinking about it would send you in, you decided to sleep it away. The event wasn’t until tomorrow anyway, and your body ached for rest.

You don’t wake till the sun’s long gone, hearing Tony’s knock at your door. A sleepy greeting slips from lips, clad in pajama shorts and tank top. Time and exhaustion fast-tracked your comfort around him, to the point that you don’t think to change when you answer. 

Even though you know he’s spent the night running computations and phone calls or whatever it is he does, he looks as refreshed as ever. His three piece suit diminished to just one in that time, leaving him in just a dark button-up and pants—the most unpolished version of Tony you've witnessed you’ve seen, an amusing sight that you commit to memory.

“Hey, sleeping beauty. What do you say to dinner?” His gaze seems to fall anywhere on your petite form but your face for a moment, leaning against the door frame.

“I think everything’s closed by now.” You yawn, already thinking about crawling back into bed. The rumble in your stomach could wait, right? 

Behind Tony’s back emerges a shiny bottle of whiskey accompanied by a plastic take-out bag.

“Good thing Cafe Stark is open 24 hours.” 

Eventually, you’ll have to build your resolve against his infectious smile, but when combined with the mouth-watering aroma wafting from the bag, the game feels rigged from the start.

You and Tony share a relatively silent meal for once, the small rosewood table in the corner of your room serving as a makeshift dining spot. Mostly because a thousand-year nap still sounded beneficial, speaking through heavy-lidded eyes. Tony, abnormally preoccupied, seldom sets his phone down for more than five minutes at a time. As usual, you don’t truly mind it. Without fail, though, that incessant voice comes back, telling you all sorts of theories. 

At some point as you're gathering the empty boxes to toss in the trash, Tony hums in approval before abandoning his phone on the dresser. Before you can ask, the whiskey is brandished by Tony. 

You can see past the sunny smile for a moment, catching a glint of worry on his face. 

“Everything okay?” The short glasses you bring over make a sharp clink on the aged wood.

Dark amber liquid fills his glass, sliding down his throat in one go. He chuckles at your question, finding it your concern sweet. 

“Don’t start worrying about me.” He halts the protest forming on your lips with a kiss, leaning across the table and taking your hands in his. 

It’s a potent amnestic, and you forget about all the alarm bells ringing in your ears. 

Drunken stories and laughter fill the room for the rest of the night. You both remark here and there that sleep would be wise, yet the hours tick on. 

A lull of silence falls between you after Tony finishes roaring at a joke you make about your roommate’s parents. In the hotel’s dim glow, Tony’s eyes look golden. You get lost in them for a time, lying beside him on the cotton sheets. 

A few strands of perfectly coiffed hair have fallen out of place, matching his recently wrinkled button-up. There’s never a time you aren’t totally smitten with him, but the whiskey twists into want easily. 

“Mind if I ask you something?” Tony looks down at you, leaning back against the headboard with warm and amused eyes. 

“Sure, shoot.” 

Anything to keep him looking at you like that. 

“Your parents, you never talk about them, why?” 

Anything but that. 

Truthfully, Tony already knew the answer. The first night after he ended up in the bar, he might have done a bit of a background check on you, mostly for his own safety. But also to see what leads a girl like you to a job like that. He wanted to hear it from you, though, and knew by now that nudging you in the right direction worked well enough.

“Not much to talk about really.” The bedsheet drags against your skin when you shift awkwardly. You’re used to this question, and the hate for it only grows with each recurrence.

“Is that so?” He mutters absently, reaching down to twist a strand of your hair between his fingers.

“They died when I was young. Car accident, not much of a story.” You break away from his heated gaze, choosing instead to lay your head against the pillows. At this point, you expect the usual pitiful platitudes people say, something along the lines of I’m so sorry or that’s awful . 

“I get it. Mine too. Not that young, though.” Tony adds sympathetically, sliding down onto his side next to you. He’s close enough that you smell the whiskey on his breath, tickling your nose.

“How old were you?” You can’t stop yourself from asking, as Tony seldom shared details about his family. You knew the business he ran was his father’s, and his mother’s name, and that was pretty much it. Most things he seemed to keep private, but you hoped the whiskey would help get you somewhere.

“Twenty-one, while I was in college.” There doesn’t seem to be any hesitancy in his answer, so you feel confident enough to push your luck.

“What were they like?”

“Eh, my father was kind-of an ass, wasn’t much of a loss to the world.” He says it too nonchalantly, throwing you off. You attribute it to the empty bottle.

“I don’t know if I should say sorry or congrats.” 

”Either works for me.” Tony laughs, resting an arm on your side. His thumb finds the small patch of exposed skin from your shirt riding up, grazing absentmindedly. It’s distracting as ever, pulling you away from the conversation to focus on his touch. 

“At least I had other people, sounds like you’ve just been alone.” He breaks you out of the daydreams you're lost in.

“Wasn’t terrible.” you respond gently, fiddling with a button on his shirt. 

“Still, you deserve better.” He watches your eyes drift to the small button, searching for his own resolve. It drove him nearly mad to see you in the exorbitant dresses he buys, but lately something about you dressed down, relaxed, nearly killed him. You look angelic next to him, staring through heavy eyes, clearly in your own little world.

“‘Think I’m doing just fine.” you laugh. 

“Hm, maybe.” 

He doesn’t disagree completely, but knew you were built for bigger things. A good chunk of his attraction came from knowing how hard you’d worked, a quality he recognized and respected.

Contrary to what news articles say, his intellect and success didn’t come naturally. It was deliberate, hard work to do what he did. Countless hours of studying, research, testing— all to try to mimic a fraction of what his father could do. Since he was a child, Tony was dead set on proving to his father that he could run Stark Industries. 

Yet, Howard was never persuaded, and planned on leaving the corporation to one of his lead engineers.

In the end, it didn’t matter anyways. He died before he could sign the paperwork.

Tony saw that same drive and ambition in you, you just needed a little help. And he would make sure it was his.

“Maybe?” you feign offense. The warm hand gracing your side loops to the small of your back.

“Think you just need someone to take care of you.” 

“I might be a little too old for that.”

“Not what I meant.” 

That pulls you away from his shirt for a moment, meeting his eyes with raised eyebrows. 

“What do you mean then?”

The meaning takes too long to dawn on you, and Tony’s resolve feels weaker than ever. Instead of answering you, he goes to kiss you, pulling you close with the hand on your back.

There’s no doubt in his mind that he shouldn’t do this, fearing an inability to be satisfied with just that. That voice is too quiet to pay any attention to, turning the kiss long and passionate. His teeth scrape against your lip, sighing into you when he feels your body relax. 

For the first time, he doesn’t wait for your reaction, pushing you onto your back. You feel his hand tighten around your thigh, wrapping your leg to his waist. You’re a worked up mess beneath him soon enough, grabbing at his side to pull him closer. His large biceps rests on either side of your head, fingers entangled in your hair. 

Shaky hands reach for the belt on his waist, only to cause Tony to pull away from you completely. He holds both your hands in his, equally dazed and panting. He appears lost in thought for a moment, and you start to worry you made the wrong move. 

You don’t have to worry for long, as Tony moves to the end of the bed, pulling you with him and kneeling before you quickly. Hungry lips on your bare thighs leave your head light, fingers already hooked around your shorts. 

“Tony, what are you-”

“Taking care of you.” he murmurs as they slip past your ankles. 

The hungry gaze washes over your center, catching your breath in your throat. You don’t get the chance to respond—a heavy tongue gracing your folds. Tony moans at the taste of you, reverberating up your spine. He hates that he made himself wait for this—every sound from your mouth worsening the strain in his pants. 

Your tensing legs are tossed haphazardly over his shoulders. You expected the same tenderness he always granted to you, but this is entirely different. He grips your hips rigidly, wrapping his lips around your clit and pulling you as close as he could. 

His ears focus on each moan, how the pitch in your whines heightened when he sucks hard on the aching bundle of nerves. A large, flat hand across your stomach gets you to lie back,  hands flying to the dark locks tickling your thighs. 

He’s obviously making up for a perceived loss of time, increasing intensity with every swipe of his tongue, your arousal coating his mouth. It sends your body into overdrive, hands reaching for him, searching for any kind of reprieve. 

Tony knows he’ll never get enough when your breath turns low and stuttery, fingers digging into the back of his nape and the hand bruising your hip. You lose sense of what sounds are coming from Tony and which are coming from the mess between your thighs, mixing into a symphony of ecstasy in your ears.

He unlocks a new melody, the addictive sound of your broken, pleading cries calling out his name. He wants to tell you how fucking incredible you sound, but that would require stopping and there’s no chance he was doing that. 

You try to tell him to slow down, the arousal in your stomach building faster than you have time to process. It’s a wasted effort, having any attempts at forming full sentences ruined by the tongue lapping at your entrance.

You feel an approving moan shake through your core, thighs growing stickier. He could feel how close you were, hips shuddering in his grasp. He only grips harder in response, holding you still as you jerk against his tongue. Without warning, the tight bundle in your gut reaches its crest, and Tony gets lost in the river of filth that leaves your mouth. 

You’re foolish for thinking he’d stop there, but instead his lips return to suck gently on your clit, moaning into you. Just when you think you might pass out from the overstimulation, he pulls away to grace your inner thigh with light kisses. 

Tony reclines, captivated by the dazed look on your face and the soft panting of your lips. 

You sit up to face him on unsteady arms, your hazy eyes revealing that there's only one thought on your mind— him , just how he needed it.

The earlier worries become ironically useless, as you sleep beside Tony that night. 

The next evening’s celebration unfolds on a quiet street, a hidden gem thankfully only hosting around twenty or thirty people. The ambient lights of the quaint club aren’t dim enough for you to ignore how underdressed you are. Envisioning a more formal dinner, you dressed simply in flowy olive dress, while other attendees exuded glamor in fancy suits. Tony of course being no exception, donning a dark gray suit and black shirt. Tony seemed unphased by the music and dancing, walking in and greeting people without pause. 

On this particular night, Tony has a singular mission — to keep you in his sight at all times. More accurately, to prevent you from engaging conversation with a select few individuals without his presence. It's not just about showcasing you; it's mostly protective, an attempt to mitigate the risks involved in intertwining you with this side of his life. 

Nearly anything seemed worth having you by his side. It’s a good weakness to have, he thinks. He swears it’s because you make him a better person, and though you always laugh it off and tell him he was already great, it’s another thing that gnaws at the back of your mind.

You're introduced to several of the guests, some names vaguely familiar, others entirely new. Natasha Romanoff stands out, her presence seeming to be the most grounded in reality. It becomes apparent that she is another member in this new endeavor of Tony’s. When you ask what she does for a living, she responds with business, and nothing more. Worse, when you ask about the other members, Natasha shoots a cautionary glance at Tony and smoothly redirects the conversation, leaving a sour taste in your mouth. 

For the most part afterwards, Tony’s mission is a success. He does his best to stay tethered to you, dodging boring conversation after boring conversation. Despite his vigilance, the forces of nature are ineffable, leading you to the bathroom after a few champagne shoots. 

He’d only looked away for one second , he swears, but all it took was a moment to lose track of you.

Upon your exit from the restroom, you decide to get ahead of your hangover. You catch the bartender’s attention at the bar instead of finding Tony. As you wait for the glass of water, your eyes scan the room to find him. Instead, a tall rugged blonde man takes over your view, sliding into the seat next to you. You pay him little mind, still scanning for Tony. Piercing blue eyes won’t leave you though, even as you thank the bartender and continue to search for the billionaire. 

“What’s a pretty young thing like you doing with an old bastard like Stark?” 

His words stop you in place, turning on your heel. 

“I’m sorry?”

The smirk on his face is cold, unnerving. You don’t recall meeting him earlier in the night, and you're certain you wouldn’t have forgotten. He shifts in the barstool, facing you as he sips from his glass before laughing dryly.

“Forgive me, you just don’t like the kind of girl Tony normally parades around. Unless merchants of death are your kind of thing. And you’re definitely not the escort type.” 

“Excuse me?” 

This only humors the man more, and worsens your thoughts.

“What,” he continues once he’s done laughing at the look on your face. “It’s a compliment, really. Tony’s girls normally overdo it with the makeup, it’s a dead giveaway—”

“No, what do you mean ‘merchant of death’?”

“Oh, come on, you—” he responds patronizingly, “Shoot, is this your first night? He might not have told you yet—”

“Told me what ?” You don’t have the energy to explain to this guy that you aren’t getting an hourly pay for this. 

There’s too much fun in it for him to drag this out, even though he knows his time alone with you is both costly and limited. He makes the decision to laugh again and down the rest of his glass before answering you. 

“Don’t tell me he picked a dumb one. At least Pepper had a brain between her ears?”

“Who’s Pepper?” 

The stars are aligning perfectly for him.

“His wife?” he fakes a puzzled expression, making you feel oblivious for not knowing. 

As you stand there shocked and confused, your eyes catch Tony walking steadfast towards the bar. 

“See, they do this thing, ‘fight, cheat, threaten divorce, make up, repeat’ cycle. It’s amusing most of the time, just shocked to see someone like you in it.” 

Across the room, Tony’s blood starts to boil. 

He’d caught the look you gave him, a confusion-ridden disgust that he couldn’t place until he saw who you were with. He left whatever suit was yapping his ear off, pushing through the small, crowded space. He can’t do anything but curse himself for being so careless—unfortunately, he’s not fast enough, watching Steve’s mouth open like a floodgate. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me, Rogers.” He speaks through gritted teeth, fists balled at his sides. He takes over the small space between you two, and over his shoulder you see the blonde man lean back in apparent satisfaction. There’s no point in asking what was said, Tony can guess well enough. 

“ What ?” Steve responds, a dramatic shrug of the shoulders follows.

Steve's cold smirk adds insult to injury, leaving Tony torn between the desire to break Steve's jaw and the fear of you never seeing him the same. 

The carefully, thoughtful plan he had for you is in disarray, thanks to Steve. You weren’t supposed to know about Pepper for another month, maximum. He planned on taking you to the gallery and telling you, but that chance was robbed from him.

It felt entirely unfair to him, having his dirty laundry thrown at you without any context. To prevent creating a bigger hole, though, he turns back to you. You’d spent the last minute wrapping your head around everything said. You felt almost physically sick, but mostly stupid for ignoring everything sooner. All that security you felt last night? Gone in a flash.

“You have to let me explain this—”

“I want to leave.”

Tony sighs, figuring it wasn’t the worst you could have said, but hates hearing the tone in your voice nonetheless. So, stubbornly and more than pissed, he leads you away from Rogers to the exit, and tries not to think about how you recoil away when his hand graces your back. 

He tries speaking to you in the car, to no avail. You're too busy beating yourself up for being so stupid. You had fallen for it, the charm, the gifts, the mystery— it worked brilliantly and earned you nothing but hurt in the end. Just like you feared it would. 

A second attempt in the elevator wins him no prizes either. 

There’s a third attempt brewing when you reach your floor. You had barely looked at him, and each time it felt like being stabbed. You didn’t see a point in talking about anything, making a beeline for your door. You imagined yourself packing, leaving in the morning and never seeing him again. Go back to the life you were supposed to be living, not this fantasy with him.

It’s not a plan of action you accept happily, and either way you don’t get the chance. The expectant sound of your hotel room door shutting behind you never comes, stopped by Tony’s leather shoe in the wooden frame. There wasn’t a chance in hell he was letting you shut him out. He could read your face the entire way back, seeing your full intent to leave without another word. 

“Just go away.” You want to sound angrier, but defeat is the only emotion you muster.

“You’re overreacting.” He declares, voice bouncing in the empty hall. 

“Really? Am I?” 

You’re shocked when the door is pushed open fully. The space you try to take back by stepping away is overtaken. Tony shuts the door behind him, harsh enough to make you jump a bit. 

“You are.” Tony’s hands disappear into his gray suit pockets, looking down at your alarmed frame.

“And you’re married.” Another step back, only for Tony to step forward again.

“Do you see a ring on my finger, hm?”

“That’s not the fucking point.” One more step back, in vain. The feeling of being trapped screams at you, but doesn’t move your body. “What else have you lied about?”

“I have never lied to you.” 

That seemed more believable than anything else. The small breadth of space you gain is taken once more. You don’t move again, knowing the wall wasn’t far behind you. It pissed you off even more to see his jaw clenched, staring at you as if you were having some tantrum and not rightfully upset. 

“Then who’s Pepper? How many other women are you toying with like little playthings? You’re an arrogant, asshole, liar -” you spat, letting your anger surpass his own. 

Tony moves closer, and you end up against the wall regardless of your efforts. You start to tell him off again, a rant cut short by a hand grasping your face, and another pining your wrist to the wall. Your heart quickens, squirming against him. 

“You’re starting to offend me, honey.” he says lowly, the warmth of his breath spreading across your face. His dark eyes don’t leave you, and you have a sense this is worse than throwing a drink in someone’s face. He was growing tired of this recurrent debate from you. Many adjectives could be used to describe him—arrogant, hot-headed, selfish, but disloyal wasn’t one— and he considered it a disrespectful thing to insinuate. 

“You,” he trails off, thumb shifting down to your throat. “—are the only one. Pepper and I have been done for a long time. Steve knows that.”

“Did she leave after she got tired of you sleeping around?”

‘ Did Steve care to mention how Pepper cheated first? How she threatened to sell me out if I left her? Of course not ’, Tony thinks.

More panicked, harsh words of doubt and inquiry leave you, but they’re quickly shushed by Tony. You know you shouldn’t but you feel a familiar guilt for the disapproval clouding his face. You don’t have the foresight to see that you were right for making them.

“You wanna call me a liar? What exactly have I been dishonest about, huh?” The question is clearly extremely rhetorical. 

“If you were just some ‘ plaything ’  to me,” he mocks, the hands on the side of your face tightening, electrifying your skin—not enough to hurt, just enough to keep your eyes on him.  “We wouldn’t be here, you should know that.”

“Then why keep it from me?” 

You don’t even know how to ask what Steve meant by ‘merchant of death’, and honestly, you don’t think it’s worth making things worse.  You hate that it’s this easy for him, hate the conflicting feelings—his touch melting your anger. It’s no help that you didn’t want any of it to be true anyway. 

“If I decide you don’t need to know something, you don’t. Simple as that.” 

In Tony’s mind, this was for your benefit in the long run, and he doesn’t see a need to explain that. You should just trust him, or atleast you did before Rogers’ opened his big fucking mouth. His anger is mostly placed with the blonde man, but he still expects better from you. He couldn’t have you believing others over him. You’d already expressed doubts about his loyalty before, and he spent a lot of time repairing that. 

Leave it to Blondie to ruin it all. 

To his dismay, you remain silent. He pictures the inner-workings of your mind, doubting everything he’s done to win your trust. The hand against your throat and arm keeping you in place might not be helping his case, but still they remain. He can’t fathom letting go, not if there’s even a slightest chance you’ll leave. 

“That’s applied to almost everything in your life so far.” There’s fear in poking the proverbial bear, yet you do it anyway. There’s too many thoughts battling in your mind, causing the words to nearly catch in your throat. 

“What is it you need to believe me—to know that you’re mine?” His voice shifts, remaining stern but turning heavier. He releases your arm, moving to grasp the green fabric at your side. 

There was obvious disdain between Tony and the man at the bar, giving you deniability to add to his claims. You started to think it was more likely he knew which buttons to push, to put you at odds with each other. Maybe you were getting entangled in corporate politics you didn’t understand without Tony. This was your mistake, just like before.

The words overheat in your mind, warming your skin and wreaking havoc on your thoughts.  Some tell you nothing would change it, that you wanted to give up on this. Others, louder, tell you anything would win you over, that you were looking for any reason not to. The mental gymnastics start anew, but end with the same conclusion. 

You want to chastise yourself for how willfully you fell back into his eyes, angry and want-ridden. The confidence you had earlier about leaving becomes a difficult feat to manage, overtaken by every screaming aspect of you that urges you to stay. Tony didn’t know it then, but he got what he wanted regardless of the wrench thrown by Steve— you, right in the palm of his hand. 

He expects a genuine answer, one you don’t have. So, in typical fashion, he decides for you. 

Tony considers it your fault for what he’s about to do, staring back at him with doe-eyes and flushed skin. Plans are built to be changed anyways—and he clearly needed to send a stronger message.

Without warning, you’re pulled by shoulder the short distance from the wall to the nearby chaise, resting in front of a high mirror.  You question Tony, to no reprieve, pushed forward onto your knees. In the reflection, you watch his arm snake around your body, returning a rough hand to your throat, bringing your back flush with his chest- his other hand tight on your hip.

“ Relax ,” he whispers against your ear, and chills run up your spine. 

“Tony-” you start, trying to twist in your position to look back at him. It’s a useless effort, large arms easily keeping you place.

“Eyes up,” he instructs, and your attention is directed forwards, meeting his eyes in the reflection. 

The olive dress is bunched to your waist, witnessing his hand teasingly graze along your thigh before disappearing under the cascading fabric. It stops there a moment, fingers dancing at the hem of your panties. Desire stirs in you with little prompting, Tony’s lips trailing down your neck nipping gently. 

“Don’t you see what I see—how pretty you look, doll?” he stays locked onto you, holding you steady when you jerk against his hand folding behind your underwear. Soft fingers draw slow circles on your clit, pulling a gasp from your mouth. “—why would I need anyone else.”

It’s pure filth, watching your own body react to every movement in the shadowy room, every bite against your heated neck. Tony’s quiet declarations only dampen your mind.

“You’re perfect, ” His voice drops lower, increasing his pace as the hand on your neck grows firm. “—just for me.” 

There’s static in the air, surrounding your limbs. The obscene picture in front of him sets every nerve on fire, watching your hands reach for his arm, watching you try so hard to not fall into the obscenity in your ear. 

Gravity is indiscriminate, so you fall nonetheless. The heavy fingers tease your wet entrance, only to retract and circle your clit before returning for more. It’s all soft and light, barely as much as you need. You turn desperate before you know it, focused on the flex of his bicep in the mirror with every stroke.

Unfortunately for you, this wasn’t really about pleasure. This was about trust. He needed that, for you to know how consumed he was by you. He’s certain you can feel his hard member pressing into the back of your thighs, a heated, heavy reminder that you were all he wanted. You must know— based on the wetness pooling in his hand and your eyes centered on him. 

“All mine .”

You cry out when a finger surpasses your entrance. You watch it be cut off by the hand at your throat, gripping harder to keep your noises at a minimum. There’s no resistance, wet and desperate enough to suck him in completely. The hand bruising your hip rocks you back onto his fingers. 

All those questions you had, about Pepper, his work, Steve—they’re gone. Disintegrated in the same heat that coils your stomach. Moving away from Tony’s sickeningly slow ministrations isn’t an option, trapped between his body and his tight hold. 

“I should put that rude little mouth to better use.” Tony whispers, free of any reason to hold himself back. You felt undervalued, fine. He’d see to it that’d never happen again. He’d let you hear just how badly he wanted you. He needed that same look in your eye from last night. The one that shined for him and only him.

He doesn’t take the stutter of your frame as a reason to slow down, only a reason to push you over the edge. The finger inside you is joined by a second, curving into you. The lace of panties is soaked through, a dark patch spreading to your thighs. You can’t focus on the mirror any longer, shutting your eyes tightly as you reach your peak—softly rushing through you as Tony’s praises flood into your ear. 

He doesn’t let go—large arms wrapping around you until your breath returns to normal. You open your eyes to meet Tony’s lustful eyes reflected back to you.

“Still having doubts?”

Tony’s patience was completely run through, the short fuse sparked to unrepairable levels. Again, he thinks it’s mostly your fault. He had no issue treating you like gold, but he only thought it right that you at least trusted him. 

You give a quick shake of the head, panting and watching the hands around you leave. You turn and sit in the chaise facing him, his jaw still clenched.

“Good.” he responds slowly. Eyes rake over you beneath him, with Tony imagining a hundred more ways to have you moaning his name. He finds the willpower not to act on them, instead turning for the door.

“You should rest.” He says before you can find the right words to say, door shutting behind him. 

Sleeping proves difficult—thoughts overwhelmed with Tony being a room away. There’s also Pepper and Steve floating around your mind, though never for long. Before you can give way to thinking about it, you inevitably end up catching a glimpse of the mirror in the corner—and everything Tony said plays in vivid sound. Then, an unbearable warmth pools in between your thighs, causing your thoughts to be consumed by him again. 

The frustrating cycle repeats for hours.

Finally, you decide you’ve had enough, leaving your suite and winding up in front of Tony’s door. He answers on the third tap of your fingers, clad in tight black briefs. You have enough clarity to keep your eyes from focusing on that, or the exposed sculpted chest. 

“Can I come in?” You feel pathetic for the way you ask, but it’s worth it, because he steps aside for you to enter.

You walk across the large room, sitting on the end of the unmade bed. Tony stays in the middle of the room, arms crossed in front of his body, waiting.

“You said I don’t need to know everything but,” you start, only growing more anxious when Tony raises an impatient eyebrow. “Pepper, what happened there? Why have I never heard of her before? At least tell me that.”

Tony sighs, contemplating if the distrust in your eye is worth possibly pushing you away for good. You’d see through any bullshit he tried to sell, not that he would make something up anyway. But, it’s for that reason that he knows he won’t get away with telling a half truth. He decides to take it as a sign that you’re still here, in his room, and that you still didn’t leave. 

“We were married, she cheated.” He decides to omit his own revenge cheating. He considered their relationship done at that point anyway, just took him too long to realize. 

“So, you’re divorced?”

“Not exactly, it’s complicated.” He sighs again. “But we are not together—in any capacity.”

You want to ask what exactly is complicated about signing a piece of paper, but you leave well enough alone. 

“Then why not tell me?”

“I wasn’t sure you’d stay if you knew. Couldn’t risk it.” It’s mostly true.

It comes out soft and heartfelt enough for you to believe it. Besides, so many parts of you didn’t want to be upset with him, for any reason. You didn’t have the will to end things, and you didn’t want to find it either. You stare at the floor, trying to process this new aspect of him. His shadow moves across the floor, coming before you to caress your face.

“You don’t need to worry, doll. “ Tony murmurs, trying to get that last little drop of doubt out of your mind. “You’ll always be mine, and I’ll always take care of you.”

part three

[emberenchanted]

For Keeps (2/3)

Pairing: Dark!Carol Danvers x Female Reader

Summary: Carol sees you. Carol wants you. Carol gets what she wants. 

Series Warnings: extremely dubious consent, strap ons (r receiving), sex (oral, vaginal), fingering, anal fingering, Dom!Carol, orgasm denial, spanking, violence (not really towards reader), manipulation, forced relationship, rough sex

18+ ONLY

Link to Chapter 1

Chapter 2

As you drag yourself up the stairs to your studio above the bar you reflect on whether living at home with your parents had really been that bad. This kind of thing didn’t happen where you were from and it had you thinking that perhaps it was time to revisit your long term plans. Coming back home after three months was kind of pitiful, but even that might be better than getting pulled into a world you have no business in. One filled with casual violence that made your stomach turn. 

Especially since you were now dreading the inevitable phone call from Carol. You knew she would call and you knew you wouldn’t be able to say no to her. That was a dangerous road to start down. Better to nip it in the bud ASAP. 

Calling an ambulance for Mel and closing down the bar mostly by yourself made for an extra late night and all you could think about was taking a hot shower (your meager attempt to wash the violence off of you and out of your mind) and climbing into bed. You wish you’d given yourself a glass of wine “on the house,” but after Carol’s display, it seemed like Mel really couldn’t spare the extra cash. 

When you awake late the next morning it’s with a pounding headache and two missed calls from an unknown number. You also see a voicemail notification. Your mind quickly flashes over the events of the preceding night and you immediately wish you were still sleeping. For some reason you feel like you should be sitting up while you listen to Carol’s message, so you throw your legs over the edge of your sofa bed and drag yourself into an upright position. 

As you suspected, the message was from Carol and she sounded like sin. 

Beep. “Hey, baby. It’s me, Carol. I had such a good time with you last night, and I can’t wait to see you again. How about I pick you up tonight at 7pm for dinner and a show? Call me back with your address as soon as you get this. Ok, bye baby. Talk to you soon.”  

You squeeze your eyes shut and press 7 to delete the message. You never should have given her your number. And you definitely couldn’t go out with her. She’d hurt Mel! In the three months since you’d moved to the city, Mel had been--well, not a friend exactly--but a stable acquaintance. He’d given you a job and a place to live, and only price gouged you a little. But the commute to work was unbeatable. You generally liked Mel and wanted him to be ok. Carol, or whoever she was representing, could have offered him some kind of payment plan. From what you could tell from his tearful blabbering while you waited for the ambulance, he’d made an honest mistake. 

You also knew that while you might be telling yourself you were refusing to call Carol back out of some source of solidarity, the simple truth was that Carol scared you shitless. She also didn’t seem like someone who handled rejection well. And you aren’t interested in standing up to her and risking her undeniably brutal wrath. You don’t think that she would hurt you like she’d hurt Mel, but you also don’t think she’ll simply accept your answer and leave you be. So, to your bleary brain, ignoring the problem is the next best thing. You busy yourself with laundry and tidying your small apartment; your distractions work well until Carol’s next two calls at 5 and 6pm. She doesn’t leave any more voice messages and you hope that she got the message that you weren’t interested and that she would lose interest in you. You spend the evening with a bottle of cheap red wine and Netflix. You tumble into bed around 2 am and fall into a fitful sleep. When you wake up in the early afternoon the next day, 6 hours before your 7:30 pm shift at Mel’s, you nervously check your phone for more messages. To your relief, there are none. 

Carol’s good mood fizzles in the 24 hours after meeting you. The morning after Mel’s Tavern she’d woken up in high spirits. After a quick 6 mile run, she’d showered, eaten a hearty breakfast, and started planning her date. She’d settled on a location for dinner, made reservations, and bought tickets to a popular live show. She’d called Y/N to tell her all about their night, then called again to leave a message. By 5pm, Carol was irritated, and by 6pm she was worried. She’d even driven by Mel’s around 6:30pm to see if you were working. If Carol had known your address, she wouldn’t have hesitated to drop by. By 7:30pm Carol was back in the gym, sparring just a bit too viciously with Natasha. 

“Damn!,” Nat huffs out as Carol puts her on her ass for the fifth time that evening. She sits up while rubbing her side and looks at Carol through the red sheet of hair that has fallen over her face. “Did I happen to do something to you? Because, if so, you should know I’m very sorry. Can you please stop beating me up? ”

Carol sticks out her hand to help Natasha off the mat. “Sorry. I’m a little distracted today so I wasn’t really paying attention.”

Natasha, now standing, looks quizzically at Carol and then laughs, “I feel like I should be insulted.”

Carol smiles. “Never, Nat. You always give me a good fight." The next moment her smile turned sour. “I’m just frustrated and a bit pissed. I met this woman last night and she gave me her number, but then started avoiding me. She won’t answer her phone and stood me up for a date. That’s actually where I’m supposed to be now. But I know she likes me. I saw the way she looked at me and reacted when I touched her. But, she’s just too nervous to admit it.” 

Carol rolls her eyes and throws her head back as she releases a frustrated grunt.

“Ok, woman troubles. Now that I can help with,” Nat chuckles. “If she’s too shy, then you need to be bold enough for the both of you. Don’t let her say no.”

“You know what Nat?,” Carol grins, “it’s like you read my mind.”

Carol strides into Mel’s Tavern at 9 pm the following night. She walks directly to the bar, ignoring everyone around her and heading straight to you.

As she approaches, your heart starts racing and the room feels much hotter than it had moments ago. She was just as breathtakingly beautiful as you remembered and your mind empties for just a moment. She didn’t look happy, but she also didn’t look like she was about to fling a knife into your heart or drive a fist into your face. That had to be a good sign, right? 

“Hey, Carol,” you choke out quietly. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“No, Y/N. But I would very much like to speak with you.” Carol states calmly, hands braced against the edge of the bar and body leaning over the counter towards you. “Why don’t you take your break now?”

You gesture aimlessly to the few scattered patrons in the bar. For the second time in as many shifts nobody would look at you. They were all suspiciously interested in the glasses in front of them, even if those glasses were empty. You grit your teeth and say, “Someone might need me.”

Carol frowns, looks around and asks the room loudly, “Anybody here need anything?”

A chorus of “nos” come back to her.

Carol raises one of her perfectly arched eyebrows and beckons you over to her with a softly crooked finger. 

You scoot to the section of the bar directly in front of Carol, cross your arms and look down. Carol reaches across the bar with her right hand and, taking your chin between her thumb and forefinger, pushes your head up until you meet her eyes directly. 

Your brain races through excuses frantically. You knew it was a possibility she’d show up and you should have prepared better. Maybe you could say that things have been a little crazy in your life and you don’t have time to pursue anything... with anyone? Not just her? It was a pitiful excuse, but the best you could come up with.

Carol looks at you, head tilted slightly, brows furrowed, and eyes narrowed as her thumb gently strokes your face. Her expression could only be described as frustrated yet determined. “Baby,” Carol began slowly, “I’m confused. When I came in two nights ago, we had an instant connection. That doesn’t happen often, does it?”

Your head jerks quickly back and forth, signaling no.

“Ok, that's what I thought,” Carol continues. Her voice hardens slightly, as does the hand holding your face. You wince at the sudden pressure. “So why didn’t you call me back? Why did you make me call you four times with no response?”

Your head feels dizzy and your lips stay glued together. You're on the verge of a panic attack and all you could think of is getting her to let you go. 

“Answer me, baby. Now,” Carol commands, as her grip on your chin tightens further. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. Your eyes squeeze shut and your upper body is leaned back as far as you can while your face is still being held by Carol. 

Carol abruptly releases your face and you have to take a quick step and set your hand on the bar to rebalance your body. 

Carol’s hand snakes out and grabs yours, holding it firmly so you can’t walk away. Her voice softens some, but still sounds slightly harsh .“Ok, I’ll forgive you this time. But don’t let it happen again.” From her back pocket she whips out a piece of paper and a pen. “Write down your address so I know where to pick you up tomorrow.”

Once Carol pockets your address, she reaches for your hand once more. “How much longer do you have on your break, baby? Let’s go outside.” 

After walking you outside, Carol immediately presses you against the brick wall and pushes her lips against yours in a forceful kiss. Her tongue slips across the seam of your lips until you open to allow her entry into your mouth. She sets to exploring every bit of you, sucking your tongue into her mouth and nibbling on your lips until they are tender and you are breathless and dizzy. Then she’d promptly untucked your shirt, unbuttoned your jeans, and slid her hand down to your slippery folds. When you try to move away, her free hand tightens on your waist and shoves you back, making your back scrape against the wall. 

“Mmmm, is all this for me?,” she murmurs, nuzzling your ear, as her fingers part you and begin gently rubbing from your clit to your slick opening. You squirm on Carol's fingers, and Carol slides her thumbnail over your sensitive clit harshly, making you yelp. “Did I tell you to move?”

“No,” you whisper.

“When we're together like this you call me Ma’am,” Carol growls. “No, who?”

”No, ma’am” you gasp out while trying desperately to stay still. She slides two fingers into you and your walls flutter furiously around Carol's fingers, searching for relief. “Sorry, ma’am.” It comes out as a whimper. 

Carol pushes her fingers deeper up inside of you and you choke. Her free hand slides under your shirt, over your waist and ribs, before spreading and tightening under your breast, fingernails digging into the hollows between your ribs, scratching your soft flesh. Carol thumbs your taut nipple, and a moan bubbles up in your throat as you fight your every instinct in your attempt not to move. Her warm breath fans over your neck as she shifts your body flat against the wall, caging you in. 

Carol pinches your nipple sharply as her fingers begin to push into you harder and faster. She  focuses her thrusts, curling her fingers inside you to rub your spongy flesh until she hits that exquisite spot that makes you moan and shiver. The slick sound of her fingers pumping in and out of your pussy fills your ears. That and Carol’s murmuring are all you can hear. Her voice pitches you higher as she calls you her good girl, her sweet girl, her hot sticky tight little girl. 

Your heart pounds in your chest as you feel the relentless rising in your core. You approach the edge of a wicked orgasm, and just as you feel yourself begin to teter over, Carol slides her fingers out of you and starts slipping them, in a whisper soft motion, over your clit, just barely brushing you. The abrupt emptiness has you whining sharply. 

“No, no, no,” Carol whispers in your ear. She presses her body firmly against yours,  “No coming for you. You were a bad girl. Do bad girls get orgasms?”

“No,” you gasp.

Carol pinches your clit sharply once before going back to her soothing motion, “No, who?”

“No, ma’am,” you whimper. 

“Good girl. We’re going to do that a few more times while you apologize to me, ok? Hold on, baby.”

Feeling lost, you loop your arms around her neck and drop your head into the crook of her neck. Carol’s long slender fingers push roughly back inside of you, furiously rubbing you as you whine and squirm against the wall. Before long you hear yourself apologizing for not answering her calls, for worrying her, for standing her up. 

She tortures you throughout your broken apologies, bringing you to the edge over and over only to force you back down. 

Finally, finally, she must decide you’ve apologized enough, and she whispers in your ear as her fingers pick up again, “Shhh, now, I’m going to let you come baby. You’re being such a good girl and you apologized so nice. But don’t you ever ignore my calls again. No matter what.” Her voice hardens and her slippery fingers pinch at your clit gently--making you jump and yelp--before pushing them back inside you, “You understand me?”

Your brain is fuzzy and can’t seem to string together enough words to form a sentence. When you first saw Carol enter the bar you definitely didn’t intend for this to happen. You’d hope that you could somehow weasel out of a date with her without her getting mad. Things had obviously not gone according to plan. You must take too long to respond, because Carol’s free hand reaches to twist your clit harshly, making you howl. 

“Answer me. Now.” The fingers inside you don’t stop. 

The sharp pain from her twist radiates up your body, and temporarily mutes your rising orgasm. “Yes,” you sob pathetically. “Yes, I understand, ma’am.”

Carol uses the entirety of her body weight to push you up against the wall. Your back scrapes the wall as her fingers pick up speed and she coos softly in your ear. Her fingers push you violently over the edge, and you buck harshly between the wall and Carol's solid form. Carol’s fingers fuck you through your orgasm as she nuzzles your neck, licking and nipping at the tender skin there as you come down.  

Carol watches as you readjust your clothes and wipe at the mist in your eyes before she walks you back into the bar. She drops a possessive kiss on your mouth before heading toward the door. At the last minute, she turns and looks you dead in the eye. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Right, baby?” 

You look back at her and nod. “Yes, ma’am,” you whisper under your breath. 

After dropping you back at work, Carol walks to her car with her lips curled into a smile. She is sure that she’s on the right track with her sweet, shy little baby. She's even hopeful that she might be able to trade in her unused tickets for show credit that she could use for her date tomorrow night with you.

Chapter 3

A/N: Thanks for reading and for any feedback you give. Please do let me know what you think so far. It's much appreciated. Also, I know need to work on my dividers.. haven't quite figured those out yet. Thanks for bearing with me.

[snowflakesnsundry]

Gods help me… a good friend of mine has been catching up on my long fic, Until Dust. She joked that she wanted reader to hook up with Baldur and just cut the tension.

And my stupid little goblin brain went off.

It’s been two days and im 10k words in with a ways to go. Pray for me.

It’s a bit more… intense than some of my usual stuff, but im curious if yall would be interested in it? LMK.

[seikkoi]

ꜱᴜɢᴀʀ | dom!tony stark x sugarbaby!reader ( ᴄʀɪᴍᴇ!ᴀᴜ )

ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏɴᴇ [2, 3] | ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴏɴ ᴀᴏ3

There was nothing that could keep Tony from having exactly what he wanted—and he deserved a little sweetness in his life. All he had to do was keep from ruining you in the process.

content/warnings: 18+ minors do not interact. non-canon, non-superhero au, sub/dom undertones, slight emotional/verbal manipulation, obsessive + possessive behavior, age gap (reader described as mid-twenties, t.s as mid-forties), mildly dubious consensual situations, explicit mentions of alcohol and drug use, generally not for the light of heart, rough sexual content, reader described as petite word count: 13k for parts 1+2 a/n: two weeks of brainrot later

The reflection in the tall store mirror looks like a mirage—an almost tangible fantasy. It’s you—enough, your eyes, nose, skin and hair. But the fabric wrapped around your body, a breath-taking sanguine hue, it distorts your perception. 

You stood in silence, captivated by your own self-reflection. A delicate diamond necklace adorned your neck, its shimmer accentuating the sparkle in your eyes. You touch it delicately, trying to make the woman in the mirror feel real. 

In a fleeting moment, you try not to think about the price tag on either item. Below you, the dress slits at your right thigh, stopping perfectly just before your ankles. You typically abhor dresses, frustrated by how they sit on your hips or pull on your shoulders. Yet this one felt different, as was crafted just for you, hugging your short frame.

“Do you not like it?” Tony's firm voice interrupted your reverie, seated in a plush armchair nestled in the corner of the dressing area. 

His own reflection caught your eye in the mirror. He too was impeccably dressed in expense— a midnight suit that mirrored the shadowy desire in his eyes. It was only then that you noticed the crimson tie around his neck, perfectly matched to your dress. A forgotten pit in your stomach sinks further at the realization.

You weren’t here exactly by choice. You’d met Tony a few weeks ago while bartending and since then, he hadn’t left you alone. Initially, he had left his phone number scrawled on a napkin, which you promptly ignored. Such advances from inebriated, lonesome men were all too familiar— their attempts at wooing the bartender often aimed at securing complimentary drinks or borne from relationship troubles that had led them to the bar in the first place.

They all normally moved on after one night, but not Tony. 

Tony came back three nights in a row after, making pass after pass, calling you doll and honey through whiskey-tinted lips. You had been polite in declining him, partly because you had googled him after a $300 tip on the second night and realized who he was (some hot-shot CEO with a few legal issues you chose not to look into). But also because, against your better judgment, a small, insignificant part of you didn't want to decline. His appearance in the bar made your night infinitely more enjoyable. Funny enough, you’re certain his charisma was so enigmatic it spread the room and raised everyone’s mood. 

Unlike your typical patrons, Tony possessed an undeniable allure, an allure that kept you talking and pouring drinks—well past closing time. Perhaps because your usual patrons didn't leave extravagant tips or wear thousand-dollar watches. More likely, was how easy it was to talk to him about anything . Local politics, the nature of friendship, European art- it didn’t matter. 

On top of it all, there was no denying how attractive he was—towering over you with silk ties and shiny grins. Despite whatever attraction you held, you knew better than to get involved with him. Something told you he wasn’t worth the trouble, not to mention he was almost 20 years your senior. 

Still, every night ended the same, with Tony insisting he take you on just one date. You’d give a kind smile, flip the sign to closed , and craft a polite but convoluted (and reluctant) excuse. This passive resistance only seemed to encourage him, possibly because he saw through you, recognizing that tiny part of you that longed to say yes.

Maybe it’s what gave him carte blanche to wait outside on the fourth night until you closed the bar—alone. 

As you stepped into the cool night air, a sleek black car glided to a halt beside you. You thought nothing of it, locking the door behind you and starting your usual, albeit long, trek home. You glanced back at the sound of the passenger window rolling down, revealing Tony leaning over the center console, a playful smile on his face. Quieting the alarm bells in your head, you offered a curt wave and resumed your stride.

As you do, Tony calls out your name, gesturing you over. At the time, you hoped all he wanted to do was exchange some small talk or maybe he left something in the bar yesterday. You couldn't fathom why you obeyed, heading towards the open window instead of heading home. Just like now, Tony's true intentions were unknown. You convinced yourself that the worst he could do was ask you out again and make things awkward.

“Miss me?” he asks with that same flashy grin. His gaze roams over your simple jeans and t-shirt, heavy enough to make you feel exposed.

“Everything okay?” You choose to ignore his question to hopefully get to the reason he’s here after hours. 

Under the parking lot’s harsh fluorescent lights, Tony's disappointment shines. 

"Everything's fine," he replied in a sing-song tone, reaching across to open the passenger door. "Come on, let me give you a ride home."

The alarm bells grow louder, leaving you to stammer over your words.

“That’s generous, thank you, but I enjoy the walk.” A good lie holds a little truth to it, right?

Tony does a disapproving, almost condescending tsk , patting the empty leather seat. 

“Now, what kind of guy would I be if I let a pretty girl like you walk home all alone?”

Despite the rhetorical nature of his question, you struggled to resist the urge to retort, to point out that allowing you to walk home alone would make him appear rather ordinary—a quality he clearly sought to avoid.

“Really, I’m fine, thank you.” You try to sound more assertive this time, but your voice still wavers under his gaze.

Tony continues to insist, using every persuasion tactic in the book. Your mind whirled with a flurry of thoughts and possibilities. After all, he was a familiar face, a regular patron who had never made you necessarily afraid (normally quite the opposite). And a highly respected businessman. Plus, eight hours of tending bar left your feet aching. You did like the solemnity of the long walk, but tonight you were dreading it a bit more than usual.

What was the worst that could happen?

So, you inevitably gave in, watching his smirk stretch into another toothy grin as you opened the passenger door. Tony’s cologne saturated the plush leather interior, filling every corner of your nostrils with bergamot. In the dim car, you grant him a meek smile.

“That’s my girl,”

There’s an edge in his words, suddenly forcing you to wonder if you were better off walking. You tell yourself he’s a handsome billionaire doing his charitable act for the week-nothing more. 

Tony reaches for the gearshift, rolling your window up and muffling the sounds of the city. 

“Let’s get you home.”

The worst turned out to be not so bad—still stunned by your own beauty in the mirror. 

At first, you were nearly mortified when you noticed Tony’s route doesn’t quite follow the directions you gave. With a dry throat and skipping heart, you struggled to find the right words. Tony had remained unusually silent, not making witty quips or heavy-handed compliments. It worsened your unease. One he must have sensed, glancing over at you.

“Don’t worry,” he draws out, making yet another unknown turn. “I’m taking you home— just have a surprise for you first, dear.” he finishes, winking. 

The vulnerability you knew you had—getting in this car alone with him—it swelled in your throat.

Now, you stared at that same throat, adorned with shimmering diamonds. 

Tony’s surprise turned out to be a private fitting at some lavish boutique you never knew existed. 

You tried to protest as the car pulled into the storefront, noticing a lack of light inside and still cautious about what he had planned. Tony simply gave you a stern shush, and pointed your attention back to the building. Then, to your astonishment, the windows filled with orange and white hue. Out of the ornate glass doors, a tall, blonde-haired woman peered, and a wave of fear suddenly ebbed away from your body, only to be replaced by a flood of bewildering confusion.

The blonde woman, whose name you can’t pronounce, devotes a half hour measuring every aspect of your body. She swatched an array of dark hues and fabrics against your skin, contorted and posed you in every conceivable manner. Despite the weird, yet so far, non-hazardous situation you were in, a cloud of confusion still clung to your thoughts, while Tony remained outside the dressing room. 

Even still, you felt entirely too exposed, waiting anxiously. Your only recourse was to gaze at the marble ceiling, trying to figure out what the hell Tony was playing at. He wasn’t particularly eccentric all those nights at your bar, you figured he had to be more level-headed and reasonable than this. 

The woman eventually reappeared, holding the tight red dress on a satin hanger.

Leading to your mesmerized trance, still engulfed in the mirage before you.

“Hey, talking to you there.” 

Startled, you had forgotten he'd even asked you a question. Hell, you had forgotten he brought you here at all. Worse, you didn’t know what to say. The honest answer was an unequivocal yes – you adored the dress, but you knew alone it cost more than you ever made bartending, not to mention the necklace. 

The pit in your stomach churned at the reminder of Tony’s presence. The beauty you saw in the mirror suddenly felt ill-gotten- like a bill you hadn’t paid. Technically, you were brought here against your will by a man who you, although reluctantly, rejected. An unforeseen product of his infectious smile and your polite demeanor. 

You reluctantly turn slightly to face him, trying to find the words to get out of this without escalation. A shiver ran down your spine as his molten gaze traversed your form, causing your face to warm.

“I think you look stunning.” he says, gaze still fixed on your body. It wasn’t unusual for Tony to compliment you, as he often did at the bar regardless of whatever tired, stained state you were in. This time though, with the way he’s staring, it does something else to you.

“Thank you, but,” you trail off, stealing a quick glance back in the mirror. “I–It’s a bit out of my price range.”

Tony scoffs playfully, giving a dismissive wave as he rises from the armchair.

“It’s on me.” he declared, slow and deliberate as your nerves spike.

“Really, thank you, but I can’t accept this. I should be getting home.” you stammered, attempting to keep a level voice.

Your words tumbled out in a rush, but Tony continued, making your heartbeat escalate with each passing moment. 

To your surprise, he stops his advance to sigh at your anxious form. 

“ You are worth a million times that dress and more.” 

You avert your eyes to the floor, left again without the right words to maneuver out of this awkward conversation and trying to ignore the heat on your skin.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you, doll.” Tony’s voice shifts to an unfamiliar tone, one that forces your head up.

“What’s with the whole ‘ uninterested ’ act?” he hums, resuming his walk towards you.

You stammer, trying to deny his accusation, knowing wholeheartedly he was right. Tony came to a stop in front of you, reaching out to caress your shoulder. As you instinctively recoil from his sudden touch, his calloused hand stiffened to hold you in place. 

“I’m not acting .” you finally manage with a wavering voice valiantly ignoring the want and fear his touch stirred in you.

“Oh, is that so?” he taunts sourly, bringing his free hand to your waist. “Why’d you get in the car then? Why are you letting me touch you?”

You don’t have an excuse for that one, staring back at Tony in silence. You could try and hate his arrogance, but that hasn't worked so far, so no point trying now. 

“Just take me home, okay?” you whisper, eyes flickering between Tony’s hand and his slightly parted lips.

He makes a face at your words, eyebrows scrunching and mouth turning into frown. 

“You think I’d hurt you?” Tony sighs, offended. He releases your arm out of his grasp and steps back from you. Still, he maintains the closeness between you, still locked on your eyes.

Instantly, you feel terrible for assuming the worst. Sure, you didn’t exactly ask for any of this, and maybe he was persistent, but all he had done was give you a dress and a ride home. Tony had ample opportunity to do whatever he wanted, and you were fine. And nothing he’d said had been wrong . So what exactly were you worried about?

“No, no,” you quickly scramble, shaking your head. “I just—what do you want from me?”

Tony sighs again, this time deeply, shoving his hands into his suit pockets. “Told you—a date, that’s all.”

“Really? You’re really doing all this just to take me out?” You asked in confusion. 

“You keep saying no even though I can tell you want to. ‘Figured you could use a little push.” He chuckles and a hand leaves his pockets to rake through his brown locks.

“I-I, why all this, really, come on-what are you playing at here?” You gesture to your outfit, still in disbelief.

“What can I say, I’m all about presentation and you deserve the best.” Tony grins, making his second attempt to stroke your cheek. This time, you let him, even if you're not sure why. Maybe persistence did work best on you. 

Regardless, you roll your eyes at the honeyed words. You can tell by the look in his eyes that he’s still waiting for a yes , and you’re running out of logical reasons to decline. God knows the idea of a date with Tony Stark was something any other woman would jump at. So why not you?

“I work nights , Tony—”

“How much?” He cuts you off sharply, the hand on your face tenses ever so slightly.

“What, I don’t—”

“How much do you make in a night? Hourly, tips, everything—how much?” 

You’re starting to think he enjoys confusing you. “I don’t know, it varies. Maybe $200 on a good night?” 

With that, Tony turns back to the armchair his jacket rests on, and you have to ignore the way the loss of his touch makes you feel. He fiddles with the garment for a moment, rummaging through the pockets until he produces a thin leather wallet. As five crisp hundred dollar bills emerge, he struts back to you.

“Here, now you can call in tomorrow night.” He says matter-of-factly, holding out the bills. 

You scoff at his audacity, feeling a bit offended at his demeanor. “I’m not some product you can just buy.”

“Oh, doll, don’t think so low of yourself,” he chuckles, “Your time is valuable, I’m just hoping this makes it easier for you to spend it with me.” 

The paper is folded between his fingers, before he takes your hand and places them inside. When in doubt, fall back to basics. Money normally fixes most problems. You could have said any number and he would’ve made it happen. He was nothing short of infatuated with you- so no cost was too high. 

“Fine.” You respond indignantly, staring at what’s easily half of your rent before glaring back up at him. If a date was all he wanted— fine . If he turned out to be a huge dick you’re expecting, you could leave and never speak to him again. You're certain he at least wouldn’t keep showing up at your workplace after. 

“We’ll see how much longer you can keep up this act.” He smirks, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. 

Just as you're preparing to tell (lie) him again that you weren’t pretending, he walks back to the chair and takes a seat, pulling his phone from his pants pocket.

“Go ahead and change, I’ll have everything wrapped up for you to take home tonight. You can be ready by 7 tonight, yes?” Tony doesn’t look at you when he speaks, fingers typing away on the electronic screen.

He misses the eye roll you give walking back to the dressing room. 

Sure enough, you make it home without any bodily injuries or traumatic experiences. Tony kisses your hand when you go to exit the car, dress and jewelry in tow. He reminds you to be ready on time tomorrow, and you enter your apartment feeling like you just walked out of a movie. 

This felt entirely too insane. You found yourself more than lucky all those nights he flirted with you, but this took the cake. 

It’s nearly 5 in the morning when you toss the dress onto your green couch. The half-finished canvas and paintbrushes in the corner of your living room go abandoned for another night. For some reason, you can’t bring yourself to do anything, replaying every detail in your head. Instead, you find yourself sat on the worn cushions, staring at the lilac bag, adorned with the boutique’s fancy name in silver lettering. Next to it, sits a smaller version, possessing a white box. You’re fixated on the bags, mentally picturing your reflection from earlier. 

Contrary to what might Tony believe, you didn’t think of yourself as ‘low’, just maybe not genius-billionaire-playboy-philanthropist levels. Self-confidence wasn’t something you were lacking, but it wasn't in extreme surplus either. You didn’t know his type, but you figured odds are you weren’t it. You could imagine the kinds of girls Tony could get, with a lot less hassle, too. So, why you ? 

Eventually, the sounds of your roommate waking fills the apartment, forcing you to realize it’s around 6:30 and your mind’s been taken over with purple and red hues for too long. You give a short good morning and abandon the couch for the comfort of your bedroom, deciding to save the shower for later and get some sort of rest. 

You don’t answer when she asks about the bags, convinced you’ll wake up in a few hours and find this was all a weird dream.

The train rushing by your window wakes you before your alarm gets the chance, blaring its incessant tune throughout the small space. The afternoon sun diffuses through the sheer curtains, covering the room in golden light. It gives you a peaceful few minutes where you’re groggy enough to forget about Tony.

Then, the memories pour in. 

The night plays back in resplendence. You don’t know he managed to get you to agree after all that. A tinge of excitement filled you alongside the dread. 

You hoped last night for it to all turn out as fiction, but lo behold, the shiny bags sit atop your dresser like a bad omen. Poking out from your purse are the crisp bills. A cursory glance at your phone reveals two things— one, it’s almost 4 pm and two, a text from an unsaved number.

[ hope you didn’t forget. see u soon. ]

You wondered where on Earth he got your number. 

As much as you hated feeling you owed him something, a part of you was glad you did. Although you didn’t plan on admitting it, you were into him. You were just convinced his behavior was too good to be true, a precursor to something worse. Plus it bugged you that it was apparently impossible for you to hide it from him.

Nonetheless, you rise from your bed, heading for the shower you skipped earlier and thinking of a response.

[ 9 pm right? ] 

The bathroom door creaked as it opened, drowned out by the traffic on the street below. 

[ are you this difficult with everyone? ]

Water spouts from the shower head as a dry chuckle echoes in the chamber at his response. You hadn’t actively dated in a while, but it was a common complaint. Normally they would say stubborn or strong-headed, but difficult worked too. 

You work through several different waves of nerves and anticipation as the clock ticks down to 7. Your boss, ever an asshole, wasn’t thrilled about you calling off. It almost made you reconsider, tell Tony you couldn’t. Something told you he wouldn’t appreciate that, though, so you stood your ground with your boss instead of him and got the night off. 

When the time came to slip the red dress on again, you felt off. At the store, the lighting and lavish background only added to your beauty. In the dim, run-down atmosphere of your apartment, you’re out of place, like a fraud. The browns and greens drown the shimmer on your neckline, reminding you that you had no business dating someone like Stark. 

Your mind’s saving grace is the buzz of your phone, a text from the punctual Tony, arriving right at 6:58. 

You expected the veil to be pulled from your eyes. Tony’s true nature, whatever that may be, would be revealed and all his charm would fade away. Clearly, something was wrong with him to go after some bartender, to go after you. The date would go sour, he would move on, and your life could continue as planned.

Instead, you end up having one of the best nights of your life. 

The restaurant is indescribably out of your depth. It’s clearly a popular romantic site for A-listers, with mostly couples filling the warmly lit dining area. Everything seemed meticulously prearranged— the host leading you two towards a tucked away booth just at the sight of Tony. You're worried he’d be overly touchy and make you uncomfortable, but instead his hand rests against the small of your back as you navigate to your table. 

He was nothing short of a perfect gentleman, pulling out your chair and pouring your wine. Conversation flowed just as it did at work, at least once you got your nerves out of the way. You learned a bit more about Stark Industries, even though he was clearly skipping some details for reasons you were too enamored to think about. 

Occasionally during the dinner, people would come up and exchange a few words with Tony, and he always introduced you. There was something about the level of attention that just pulled you in. You had started to think you were overthinking this whole thing, that maybe something nice could come out of this. If wooing you was the goal, he was well on his way to success. 

As the final bites of dessert lingered on your plate, a subtle disappointment crept in, acknowledging the inevitable conclusion of the evening. It had been an embarrassingly long time since you'd gone out for a night like this, and you wished you’d agreed sooner. 

The idea of shedding the vibrant sanguine dress and returning to the routine of crafting dry martinis the next night sounded more dreadful than ever.

Yet, that’s exactly what you did. 

When Tony drives back and walks you to your apartment door, you half-hope he’ll ask you on another date, and half-fear he’ll try and make a move. To your surprise and disappointment he does neither, opting instead to tell you what a wonderful time he had before departing. 

You feel a bit foolish for expecting anything more, closing your door with a heavy sigh. Your roommate seems to read your emotions on your face, deciding it best not to ask why you were dressed like that. 

The remaining hours of the night pass with you getting ready for bed and staving off sleep to not wake too early for work. Every so often, the urge overwhelms you to see if Tony texted. Teeth brushed— no text, shower—nothing, late night popcorn snack—nope. Every time you look, you grow more annoyed, feeling like some sort of teenage schoolgirl.  

By the time your head hits the pillow, you’re close to desperation. 

When you wake, it doesn’t take a few minutes for Tony to come to mind. He’s the first thing you think of. You groan in frustration when your notifications disappoint you again. Two texts from your roommate about her night out, a missed call from a friend, and a few emails, but no Tony.

You really do try to make it through the afternoon without thinking about him. You fail regardless, spending every second of the day consumed by bergamot and red. The one thing that keeps you from reaching out first is the certainty you’ll see him this evening. He’ll saunter in, order a single malt and overpay. The script unfolds in your mind—engaging conversations that span the night, and it’ll end with another pass made your way. This time, you won’t hesitate to say yes. 

The hours at work tick by painfully as you wait for him to show up. For the first time, you’re doing terribly at work. Wrong servings are poured as your eyes bounce between the bar's entrance and the mocking hands of the clock. 

Inevitably, you switch the sign to closed . A sliver of hope remains, hinged on the small chance he could appear outside as he did before. And still, he doesn’t.

Self-doubt starts to overtake you. Maybe you said the wrong thing, or did something abnormal that made him suddenly change course.

Once you're home, your resolve breaks, and you open the messages app in an act of desperation. 

[ thanks again for the other night  ] 

As soon as you hit send, you’re convinced it’s single-handedly the stupidest text ever sent. Before you can think of what to add on to repair it, your phone buzzes.

[ not a problem ]

[ i had a good time, nice place ]

[ miss me already huh ]

[ who said anything about that? ] 

[ thought you weren’t interested, but look whos texting me ]

[ yeah, to say thx ]

[ you said that when i dropped you off. gonna have to try harder doll ]

How did someone so arrogant manage to have you swooned?

[ fine. maybe i did. ]

[ see, was that so hard? ]

With a huff, you crawl into bed. You weren’t the romantic type by any measure. Your romantic philosophy entailed waiting for the right person to come into your life. Naturally, you assumed what everyone said was true—that’d you know the one when you saw it. In the case of Tony, it wasn't a lightning-strike love at first sight, but rather a rapid realization that there was an intangible something about him. Excluding the early worries over his intentions, he spread this sense of ease throughout you whenever he was around. 

On Tony’s side, it was more akin to obsession at first sight. He’d had decades of escapades under his belt, all incomparable to you. A limited edition, one of a kind, breathtaking woman he knew he couldn’t let slip away. 

You were a fresh breath of air in his world of tragedy. People in his sphere were usually tainted by it, but not you. You didn’t have some preconceived, inflated notion of him.  He was happy to recognize the mutual attraction. Unfortunately for him, you being from outside of his world meant losing you if you found the wrong information at the wrong time. 

He felt you deserved a life without the grime and troubles of everyone else. He just knew that’d only be possible with him . He just had to keep a few things from you for a little while. Long enough for you to be too committed to leave.

Tony learned at a young age that planning is the key to everything, so that’s precisely what he does. 

The lack of interaction was a purposeful step on his part, only partially. There was little fun in biting back the urge to talk to you again, to kiss you goodbye at the door, but he knew it was the best method to have you hooked. Originally, he meant to visit the bar once more tonight, see if your face brightened up when he walked in. That plan is foiled by an unmovable meeting, which keeps him occupied until close. You just happened to beat him to the text. 

For you, the date served as a testament that he wasn't some idealized, too-good-to-be-true fantasy. It wasn't a dream; it was a tangible reality and you found yourself unwilling to let it slip away. The initial worries had given way to what you prayed was something genuine.

[ so do u often take people on one date then ghost or is it just me? ]

[ doll, i don’t bore myself or waste my time with people i don’t enjoy. ]

[ i’m sure there’s better options for you ]

[ not better than you ]

[ hows that?  ]

[ i’ll tell you if you agree to see me again ]

In the dark of your room, the message illuminates your face, stirring the anticipation in your gut. This is what you wanted, the perfect opportunity. 

[ deal . ]

From then on, you and Tony find yourselves going out a few times each week. Whether it's another intimate dinner or museum, Tony consistently showers you in gifts—ranging from exquisite jewelry to coveted concert tickets. He makes jokes about making even more grandiose gestures, like moving you to a better neighborhood or getting you a car so you don’t have to walk home at night. Despite the overwhelming generosity, you can't help but feel weird at the unfamiliarity of it all, lamenting that they aren’t necessary (though you never admit how much you were beginning to love it). 

Nonetheless, Tony remains steadfast in reassuring you, emphasizing that the smile on your face is worth any amount. There’s little doubt to this, given he hasn’t made a move beyond kissing your cheek a few times. You’d like to think someone with ill-intentions would move a bit faster. 

His charismatic nature continues, enveloping you in a world of affection and companionship beyond your wildest expectations. He treats better than you could ever fathom, and asks for seldom in return. Stark handles every detail, every direction providing you with much needed mental relief. 

The thing you’re most grateful for is the ease of it all. It’s easy to indulge in him, to agree to his few, but necessary stipulations ( don’t spend my money poorly , answer when I call , be honest with me , etc. etc.) They were much milder, and more enjoyable, than ones you had in past relationships. Your most recent ex? He’d ask for a photo of your timecard from work, paranoid you were sleeping around. 

However, it takes a while for you to shake off the nagging suspicion that he’s just playing the long game. Your relationships had often ended in emotional horror for at least one side, and you dreaded a repeated end. Gradually, though, you feel more secure, even as he pulls you more and more out of your comfort zone. 

Although it didn’t really help you understand where his money came from, he brought you along to company dinners and fundraisers. These outings, while a testament to the serious nature of his work, become less enjoyable for you. Mostly because Tony’s line of work seemingly employs nothing but the most annoying of the 1%. 

He has a terrible habit for making you feel like (and dress you like) fine art. Yet, amid a room of stunning women with envious glares directed at you and Tony, you feel like second-rate trash, despite the arm draped on his meant to signify your belonging. It didn’t help that at the end of the day you and Tony never put a name to what you were, and you had no idea who he was with when you were apart. 

It doesn’t harm the connection too much for you, but it does lead to your first argument after a blissful first month. 

Truthfully, it’s mostly your fault. You’d gotten a bit more than jealous at some socialites' snide remarks about Tony being with someone so young and ‘rudimentary’, as she deemed. You blame the alcohol for tossing your drink in her face. Tony had warned you before about keeping positive appearances, but oh well. Vodka has a tendency to do nefarious things. 

The entire car ride back, Tony gets a number of phone calls, leaving you the sinking feeling you’ve angered the wrong person. There’s something semi-terrifying on every inch of his face as he talks in terms you don’t understand. The calls don’t stop until long after you make it back to the tower. You’re seated on a leather couch in his office, anxiously preparing your explanation for what happened. 

At the end of what he hopes is the last call, he turns to you. The look in his eye disintegrates whatever words you had mustered together. 

“What were you thinking?” he asks harshly, but with a low tone as if he’s trying not to sound as pissed as he truly was. 

“Tony, I didn’t think it would-”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, holding his hand up in a quieting manner. There’s a few beats of silence, where you’re wretched with guilt, not even knowing fully what you did wrong. 

“My associates are not people to mess with, honey. You need to be able to control yourself. Your little show almost ruined a deal I’ve been working on for months.”

“My little show ? You didn’t hear what she was saying and how was I supposed to know-”

“That’s my mistake for expecting you to have thicker skin than that.” Tony reprimands, his eyes reflecting an anger that leaves a mixed feeling in your gut. .

“You’re right, next time a woman starts talking about how better off you’d be with someone else, I’ll go ahead and give them your number. God knows you live for the fucking attention.” you retort, tears of frustration burning in the back of your eyes as you stand to head for the elevator. 

Tony moves from his spot in the middle of the room to cut you off, blocking your path out. 

“If you’re gonna act like a jealous brat, at least have the guts to admit it. Don’t try and make it about me.” His voice keeps its edge, standing close enough to force you to look up to meet his eyes. 

He’d never been so much as annoyed by you, and the anger in his dark irises was unbearable. Behind the darkness is something else, a heat that trails down your lips. Still, the sourness in the room is enough to make you repentant. 

“I,” you sigh, averting his eyes to stare at your heels. “I’m sorry, okay?” Your voice is small and shameful under his gaze. 

Tony’s hand meets the bottom of your chin, tugging your head back up. 

“Look at me.” he says sternly, and you’re reminded of the boutique that feels lightyears in the past. The touch twists your shame cruelly into a tight knot. 

At the sight of your watering eyes, his expression softens. A flared temper had been a life-long condition, but his last wish was letting it off on you. There was something about the way you underestimate your value to him, it makes him want to stop holding back—show you just how badly he needed you. He’d done a piss poor job of keeping you isolated from this side of his life, but it couldn’t be undone, and you needed to be able to handle it. And a sobering part of you knew you were overreacting, at least a little bit.

“You can never do something like this again, are we clear?” 

You nod, taking a deep breath. A calloused thumb strokes your face, rendering every word he said null. 

“That’s my girl.”

It reassured you that this had to be a one-off situation-a unique, heat of the moment event that caused everyone to act out of character, not just him.

In the morning, the full weight of his words hits you like a brick wall. You do a bit of mental gymnastics on yourself, flipping between blaming yourself for Tony’s reaction and blaming him for behavior. Ultimately, at the battle’s end, you let the blame reside with you. 

The next few weeks are a return to your new normalcy, turning any thoughts of ending things unnecessary. Aside from that night, Tony’s allure didn't stop, and it became safe to say you were falling, rapidly. You texted and called nearly constantly whenever you weren’t together, not that Tony seemed to mind at all (it helped that he was never far from his phone). It was clear Tony did all he could to make your outings last longer, but eventually one of you (typically Tony) absolutely has to head home. 

You’re left with a somber emptiness every time, waiting to see Tony to feel whole again. The level of care you were showered in was, well, addictive. There was enough to ignore the ambiguity surrounding whatever your relationship was, and what his life was like outside of you. Trust wasn’t exactly your strong suit, so an occasional strife happens whenever you think about it too long. It still tested his patience, and resolve, irately wishing you’d take him at his word just once. 

Something poetic could be said about rose-colored glasses and red flags.

One spring night, the rain grows far beyond what Tony’s outdoor plans can accommodate. Not wanting to cancel, he moves the date to an art gallery. There’s no hiding your excitement, and Tony expected as much. He was saving this location for another time, but you sound far too happy on the phone to regret it. 

Unsurprisingly, the night goes just as fantastic as any other with Tony. You loved art in nearly any form, and dreamed of creating pieces worthy of hanging in a gallery. This one though, is unlike any you’ve ever seen, a high-ceiling bright open space, with prices starting in the six figures. 

They’re all worth the price to you, elaborate shapes and colors sitting in huge antique frames. Like any other night, he occasionally slips away for a phone call, or you’ll turn to see him typing away another email or memo. It’s not frequent enough to bother you, and either way you accept it as an occupational hazard of seeing someone like him. Besides, you were too busy enjoying the art to care. 

Tonight though, you feel bold enough to dig into it. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Tony pocket his phone for the fourth time in a half hour, striding back over to you with a grin. You were transfixed by the painting in front you, having stared at it for the last fifteen minutes. It was a mirage of playful colors, swirling and fading down to a dusky abyss. Two faint abstract shapes floated in the gradient, seemingly intertwined and bursting outwards. You’re certain Tony will give you grief for fawning over what probably looked like kindergarten work. 

“I could just buy it for you, then you could stare at it all day.” he taunts once he’s in ear shot, looping his arm through yours. 

You laugh back at him, resuming your slow stride through the rest of the quiet gallery. 

“It’s like eight feet tall, no way it’s making it up my stairs in one piece.” you laugh, “You absolutely have to buy something for yourself, though. Something that, y’know, inspires you.” you say playfully, stopping to get a better look at another piece. 

“You are the only muse I need.” 

He plants a kiss on your forehead when you roll your eyes at his saccharinity, letting you slip away. You really were all the motivation he needed, especially if you kept wearing tight black skirts like the one you're wearing now. When you finally turn back to him, his hands are occupied again, typing away incessantly.

“What kind of company do you run that they can’t survive without you for a few hours?” you taunted playfully. You’d idly clicked your heels on the dark stone floor, studying the machinations of his face, trying to get a sense of what transpired in his head. 

The phone is switched off in his hands, abandoned in his pocket before beaming at you.

“A very important one.” he drawls, circling the soft skin behind your exposed collarbone with his fingertips. The padded digits trail around in random shapes, inkling up your neck slowly.

“But I have recently taken on a new,” Tony pauses, still drawing northward to caress your face. “-endeavor, that’s requiring a lot of attention right now.”

“A new endeavor?” You really try to act interested, but his touch sends shivers down your back. A subtle graze on the soft corner of your mouth becomes the most sensual touch in the past two months (and you weren’t expecting it here of all places). You, permanently apprehensive of scaring him off, never made a move to progress things physically, no matter how much you thought about it.

He says something else your brain can’t be bothered to process, giving a final circle on your cheek before meeting your eyes. “But, my attention should be on you, honey.”

Your mouth is suddenly painfully dry, clearing your throat before responding with a forced laugh.

“You’re fine, I was just prying.” 

Tony reassures you softly, “Nothing wrong with that.” giving you one of those toothy smiles that makes your head a bit light, especially with his closeness. “But only if you listen when I answer.”

You chuckle at being discovered, shaking your head slightly. 

“Sorry, zoned out for a second.”

“Well, doll, you missed an invitation to Los Angeles, gonna have to pass that on to someone else I’m afraid.” 

He shrugs his shoulders defeatedly when you scoff and swat his shoulder.

“Had you been listening , you would have heard that I’ve just been made partner in new company, and there’s supposedly a very nice celebration happening this weekend.”

It takes a beat for you to fully process the short time frame. 

“So, you should definitely come.” The matter-of-fact tone he uses breaks your stunned state with a laugh. 

“Unlike you I cannot just go to California for a weekend-”

“Aht!” He intercepts, smiling. “I recall two hours ago, a certain someone told me she was off Friday and Saturday, therefore, you can just go to L.A., this one weekend.”

Now, that was very true, and put you in quite the predicament, stammering at his growing smile until you finally found an excuse.

“I don’t have a valid ID.” you say proudly, crossing your arms.

“I have a private plane.” he responds pointedly.

“I’m terrified of airplanes.” 

“That’s a lie.” he laughed, resting his hands on your hips. “What is the problem with taking a trip with me? Is it LA? Cause I can just ask for it to be moved—”

“No, no,” you gave a disheartened laugh and sighed, “It’s just, I don’t know, a lot?”

“California’s pretty normal these days-”

“Okay, okay. Just what is your end goal here? With all this?” The incessant question in the back of your head, which you hoped didn’t cause another instant implosion.

“What do you mean?” Unbeknownst to you, Tony knew precisely what you meant, from the countless conversations, and had a very concrete answer, but there was some enjoyment in stonewalling you. 

“I mean you’re always trying to do insane things like trying to fly me across the country but you haven’t even so much as kissed me getting kind of confused-” 

“Would kissing you get you to go to L.A. with me?” Tony cuts off your exasperated tangent, laughing softly.

You roll your eyes, bracing your arms by your side, preparing to walk away. Tony senses he might benefit from a moment of seriousness and stops you with a hand on your wrist and quick spoken apologies.

“Having you on my arm is more than enough for me, doll. If you want more, that’s up to you.” This was by no means new information to you. He’d given similar reassurances to you, none which seemed to ease you for long. 

“So, answer the question, would that get you to go?” Tony pushes, leaning towards you.

“Probably.” You wish he didn’t have this effect on you so easily, but the words barely manage to register above a whisper. 

For your admission, you're rewarded with the taste of bourbon on your lips as his hand abandons your arm to rest under your chin. His teeth graze the skin of your bottom lip, stubble tickling your chin.  When he pulls away, he can’t help smirking at your dazed look. Really, Tony dreamed of doing a lot with you, but saw no need to rush. Especially since every light touch so far left you a flustered mess.

“We’ll leave early Friday morning, you can sleep on the plane, sound good?”

You don’t have a reason to protest anymore.

 After Tony drops you off, he decides to get something for future you. The colorful painting finds a new home, wrapped in an empty room at the tower, shelves lined with blank canvases and paint. 

ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴛᴡᴏ ʜᴇʀᴇ

[bunnis-monsters]

Prettiest catch

Yandere!Merman x Fem!Reader

Bunni’s Monstertober Event

Oct 3rd

Oct 2

Oct 4

warning: dubcon, yandere behavior, breeding, kidnapping

summary: you explore a cave by the beach and find an isolated spot to swim, but little did you know a merman that has been watching you for a while is waiting for you beneath the surface.

Hanging out at the beach in early October wasn’t the most fun activity you could have done, but it was either walk along the beach and pick up shells during the fall when no one was around, or go home and watch TV.

Getting some air was good for you, that’s what your therapist had said. A little adventure was something to get you out of your rut and help you explore new possibilities.

So that’s why when you saw a cave by the water, you decided… why not! You were bored, wanted to explore and if something happened, at least you didn’t have to go into work tomorrow.

You were glad you wore your wetsuit when you felt a wave crash against you up to your thighs. The cave didn’t seem to be that big, so you figured you’d take a peak then leave and go eat something warm before going back home and washing your shell collection.

The ground was slippery, so you hugged the wall and moved slowly. You knew you were clumsy, and as you moved further and further into the cave, you were beginning to question yourself.

Why had you gone in there?

No one knew where you were and if you weren’t careful, you could hurt yourself and possibly die. Your body would never be found, and your family would be left wondering where their daughter was for the rest of their lives…

But your mind cleared of these doubts almost instantly when you reached the end of the cave.

It was lit up by glowing plants, perhaps mushrooms growing on the walls. A pool of water, clear and clean was at the end… though the dark side at the end of the pool did spook you a little, you couldn’t help but be captivated by the beauty of it.

Little fish and sea creatures swam and floated in the pool, some bioluminescence. “Aren’t these type of fish usually very deep in the sea? I’ve only seen them in videos…”

You marveled at the creatures, dipping your finger into the pool. Some of them approached, giving your hand a light touch before swimming away.

“Aww…”

They seemed friendly enough, and the water was pretty warm! It made sense, the cave was humid enough.

So this led you to make a mistake. You stepped into the water, sighing in relief as the chill of the October day fade into a pleasant warmth.

But you noticed something… off. While wading through the water, suddenly all of the little creatures began to scurry away and hide. Had you scared them? Now you felt bad…

It hadn’t been you that scared them, though.

You felt eyes on you, a predatory gaze of some hungry creature. You were being measured up…

“… hello?”

You glanced to the dark corner, seeing the water ripple slightly. Suddenly, you saw a pair of yellow eyes, the light reflecting off of them.

“F-fuck!”

You’d heard of salt water crocodiles, they were aggressive and territorial, you certainly didn’t want to be in the water with one!

But within seconds you were pulled under water. Whatever was after you was fast enough to get across the pool of water and pull you under before you could even think.

Just as fast as you were pulled under, you were pulled back up. Something pushed you into the rocky surface of the cave, and your ass felt cold as your wetsuit was torn.

Were you about to be eaten alive? You’d rather drown than feel teeth sink into your flesh and tear you apart!

But instead your legs were being spread, something toying with your hole in an amateurish way as if studying you.

Moments later, your thigh was being lifted up and pulled to the side, rotating you just enough so you could see what had you in its grasp.

The creature had scaly skin, but a humanoid appearance. His teeth were sharp and bared in what almost seemed like an aggressive display, his dark eyes staring down at you with a predatory look.

“Quiet…”

Something rubbed against your cunt, covering you in a sticky, almost gooey slick. “Mine…”

A strange purring sound rumbled in his chest as he rubbed his webbed hand along your belly. “Little mate… watching you for so long… mine…”

You cried out as you were speared with his fat cock, teeth sinking into the sensitive flesh on your neck. It felt sticky and cold, being fucked by this strange merman creature…

“My pretty little thing…”

He had been watching you for months, biding his time until he had you close enough to take, to breed you and keep his pretty little catch all to himself.

Now he was cumming inside, his scaly body rubbing against you as he continued to fuck you through his high. Your warm, gummy walls felt more amazing than he could have ever thought.

And he would never let you go.

After you were nice and exhausted from being bred, he nipped at your through, his long tail swaying in the water as he carried you to a far away island.

No one would find you there, and he could keep you trapped while you grew his young in your soft belly.

——————

NSFW TAGLIST: @sunset-214 @strawberrypoundtown @avalordream @icommitwarcrimes @bazpire @im-eating-rn @anglingforlevels @kinshenewa @pasteldaze @unforgettablewhvre @yoongiigolden @peachesdabunny @murder-hobo @leiselotte @misswonderfrojustice @dij-ology @i8kaeya @lollboogurl @h3110-dar1in9 @keikokashi @aliceattheart @mssmil3y @spicyspicyliving @namjoons-t1ddies @izarosf1833 @healanette @lem-hhn @spufflepuff @honey-crypt @karljra @zyettemoon1800 @exodiam @vexillum-moeru @imperfectlyperfectprincess1 @binnieonabike @enchantedsylveon @mysticranger575 @readeryn68 @danielle143 @kittenlover614 @filthybunny420 @annavittoria-mm @makimamybelovedwife @blubearxy @omglovelylaila @toocollectionchaos-universe-blog @fruk-you-usuk-fans @wil10wthetree @hammerhead96-blog @slightlyusedfloormat

[osaemu]

GOJO SATORU: IT'S GONNA FEEL SO GOOD, I PROMISE!

.ೃ࿐ he's dreamt about fucking you for months, and now that you're finally in his sheets, he has no intent of letting you go—especially when he finds out that he's your first time. NSFW

contents: fem!reader. virgin!reader. kinda sorta subtle coercion, corruption kink, slight dubcon, fingering, p –> v, lots of praise!!, mentions of prior dirty dreams (about you).

author's note: had this stuck in my drafts for a while so uhhhh. yea enjoy. tagging @mymegumi bc i love selene ꨄ︎

"please, baby, it'll feel so good," satoru cooes, threading his fingers through your hair and pulling your face closer to his. "i promise i'll be gentle."

you shrug, scrunching up your nose at satoru hesitantly. "i don't know..."

your boyfriend presses his lips to yours briefly and smiles tenderly. satoru's soft eyes are fixed on you, only you as he widens them pleadingly. "i wanna teach you how to fuck. please, sweetheart, we can stop anytime. jus' wanna make you feel good, i promise!"

it's only partially a lie—yes, satoru certainly wants to teach you to fuck, but he's not entirely certain that he could just stop anytime. especially because he's well aware that fucking a virgin is such an addicting experience—satoru knows you're gonna be so tight that you'll just suck him in, and he isn't that confident that he'll be able to stop once he's started.

but whatever, that's a problem for later—for now, he's focused on persuading you to spread those legs for him and show him your pretty pussy.

you pause, considering his proposal. after a couple seconds, you nod hesitantly. "you promise you'll be gentle?" you ask meekly, averting your eyes.

satoru nods, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. "of course—now c'mon, let's get those clothes off of you, baby." and a couple agonizing minutes later, you're half naked underneath a shirtless satoru, and his fingers trace the inside of your thigh.

"so first, i'm gonna make you cum on my fingers, 'kay?" satoru informs you. "needa loosen you up so you can take my dick."

"o-okay," you whisper, swallowing nervously. "i'm a little scared," you admit, fiddling with the waistband of your lacy underwear. "will it hurt?"

after a moment, satoru nods in response. "at first it will. but then you're gonna feel so good, i promise."

"you promise?"

"i do."

satoru tugs down your panties and grins at the sight of your pussy, untouched and reserved just for him. he's dying to just fuck you then and there, rough and no prep, but he made a promise. and satoru has no intention of breaking it.

"ready?" he breathes, positioning his fingers just outside of your entrance. when you nod, he shakes his head. "i'm gonna need to hear it from you, baby. use your words."

"i'm r-ready," you confirm, inching your thighs farther apart for him.

"good girl."

then satoru slips his fingers inside, and you can't suppress the sudden moan that slips out of your lips. to you, it's embarrassing, but to satoru, it's music to his ears. he steadily pushes his fingers farther and farther into your tight cunt, and satoru can't help but marvel at the way you just suck him in.

"you're so fuckin' tight," satoru mumbles, eyes fixed on your pussy. "and so wet, too. i've barely even touched you, fuck."

it's agonizing, really—the sensation of having someone else's fingers inside of you is so new and so strange that you can almost ignore the pain (which is present but not as throbbing as you had feared). satoru makes sure to be as gentle as he can, which unfortunately isn't quite as gentle as you'd like—but it's not too rough for you to handle.

satoru starts widening his fingers in a scissor-like motion, stretching you farther apart to make room for his already rock-hard dick. you squirm around him and whine about how deep his fingers are, but satoru dismisses your complaints with a laugh. "c'mon, this is barely the beginning. if ya can't take this, how're you gonna take my dick?"

a couple minutes later, when satoru finally deems you loose enough, he pulls out his now-drenched fingers. looking you in the eye with a smug smile, he slips his fingers into his mouth and licks your slick off of them. "mm, you taste so good, pretty. lemme see if you feel as good as you taste, yeah?"

and that's how he convinces you to keep your thighs nice and spread wide open for him as he positions the head of his dick at your entrance, practically trembling from the effort it takes to not just pound into you. you're so compliant and perfect for satoru, and it takes every ounce of his willpower to resist the urge to push you up against the headboard and fuck you until you pass out.

but somehow, he manages to control himself. "alright, baby, this is gonna hurt," satoru warns, touching his reddening tip to your soaked pussy. "you ready?"

"y-yeah," you breathe, distantly noticing the way your hands start to tremble. satoru exhales softly and shakes his hair out of his eyes before gently pushing himself inside of you, and the first thought that enters your head is that he's ridiculously big—it feels like you're getting torn apart every second he goes in farther.

"satoruuu," you whine, starting to paw at his chest when he goes in farther, and it's too much, too fast, but he only grins down at you in response. "it hurts, ow... y're too—"

"uh uh, just shut your pretty mouth n' take it," satoru groans, shifting the angle of his hips and going in a little deeper. you cry out in pain, face scrunching up in an effort to numb the stinging sensation around your waist. satoru dips his head and kisses your forehead, murmuring praises on how well you're doing.

"it'll feel so good soon, i promise, baby," he insists, pressing his lips to the spot in between your eyes. "you're takin' me so good, fuck— agh, you're so damn tight, this one's gonna hurt like hell, but you can take it, yeah? my pretty princess, you'll do anythin' i say, won't ya..."

satoru doesn't give you a chance to respond before he says something about this being the last stretch, but his words don't really sink in until he's two more inches deep into you. his last thrust is so sudden and jarring that it makes you cry out his name, over and over and over until the pain evident on your face starts to turn into something that looks a lot like... pleasure?

a self-assured smile grows on satoru's flushed face when he sees the chance, and a thousand more words of praise fall from his lips. your vision's a little fuzzy in the corners, and your mind is all but gone—it's hard to focus on anything but the slowly fading pain.

satoru starts to move his hips back and forth, easing your loosening cunt into him and nodding at the way you slowly start to show signs of wanting more. your eyes brighten up a little and you seem more alert the longer satoru opens you up.

"startin' to feel good now?" he asks, smiling smugly when you nod your head. "yeah, told you so." the prominent blush on his face starts to creep down his neck, and when you reach up and tentatively touch his cheek, that's when he loses it.

it takes every drop of self-restraint in his body to not flip you over, face-down and ass-up and fuck your tight cunt the way he's dreamed about for months. satoru's imagined it for so long that it's practically a reality for him—the way you would whimper his name and claw at the sheets, the way you would cum all over him too many times to count, all of it. he's seen it a thousand times in his head, but having his fantasy so close and yet so far drives him insane.

but as you smile up at him, the almost unnoticeable tremble in your bottom lip assures him that this probably isn't the time. after all, you're not leaving him anytime soon, so he might as well train you first before even attempting any of that on your perfect, untouched body.

"what do i do now?" you ask, and the simplicity of the question is almost childish. especially when satoru almost laughs in response, soft blue eyes glinting with amusement.

"jus' lie there and stay pretty f'me. and keep your legs spread wiiide open," satoru cooes, shaking his hair out of his eyes only for it to fall right back in.

"yeah, you're doin' so good that i don't even buy that you were a virgin—or are you just naturally made for me, huh? maybe that's it, 'cause i swear on my life that i've never fucked a cunt this fuckin' pretty, heh."

[dark-roleplay-finder]

🖤 Hello all! I am looking for a specific fandom and a weirdly specific request.

This is for Marvel/MCU/NMCU. I write Karen Page and am looking to write her against any and everyone but I am definitely interested in Poindexter (show-based) or Russo (show-based) for this. I'd love to explore some what-if and darker themes with them (noncon, dubcon, stalking, etc). This goes for other characters who might also fit the bill in the universe or other universes (crossovers are welcome! The Boys, anyone?). I also have an AU for her that could work well with either of them also (Queenpin Page).

Literate, multi-para to novella length writing preferred. 21+ writers preferred. I have 20+ years of roleplaying experience under my belt. Prefer discord or gmail/docs for writing.

Like this and I will get to you!

Like this post and the asker will reach out!

[dollfacefantasy]

CRY IF I WANT TO ♡

pairing: negan x fem!reader

summary: life has been different since you've been taken to the sanctuary. you're not sure how you fit in here. some may call you one of the wives, but you don't think that's accurate. maybe his pet? his doll? as the days pass, you're not sure it really matters. the distinction doesn't get you any closer to escape.

cw: nsfw (18+), dark fic, smut, dubcon, p in v, oral sex (f receiving), kidnapping/captivity, stockholm syndrome, coercion, forced ddlg/daddy kink, humiliation kink, dacryphilia, violence (from negan, simon, and reader), hurt/comfort sorta

wc: 10.9k (oops lol)

a/n: ermmm... hehe yeah. i've been wanting to write this so i hope someone likes it. reblogs, comments, and asks are appreciated <3

kinktober slot: day 13 - mindbreak (i think)

"Rise and shine, little lady. We got a lot of things to do today."

Your eyes flutter open, the bright light from the window in front of you broken up by the silhouette of the man at your bedside. The sight of him, even just the outline of his body, sends a nauseating crackle of dread through your bones. It's a feeling you can't verbalize of course - not if you want this day to resemble any sort of pleasant.

"There she is," Negan says, speaking with his signature cadence that made you want to rip out your hair, "How'd you sleep, babydoll?"

"Fine," you rasp as you slowly sit up. The mornings were the only time you could get away with dull answers like that. Any small bit of attitude could be blamed on you being 'cranky' rather than feelings of hatred that hadn't been broken down by this point.

He smiles at you, his rough hand cupping your jaw.

"You're so pretty in the mornings," he mumbles, sweeping a thumb over your pouty bottom lip.

You pause for a second, but so does he. Like he expects a reply. Unfortunately, you know the words he wants to hear. Swallowing the last sliver of dignity you have, you force out the response you'd been trained to say over the last however-long.

"Thank you, daddy."

He grins even wider if that's possible and pats your head. "You're welcome. Now let's get you dressed. Like I said, daddy's got a lot to do today."

You get out of bed and follow him over to the dresser that held your outfit for the day. The chill of cold air bites at your legs as the lack of blankets leaves them exposed. The generator had been out for the past day or so, leaving the Sanctuary victim to the harsh Winter raging outside. You were hoping he'd take that into account when picking your clothes, but you didn't hold out too much hope.

The two of you shuffle around the gray furniture of Negan's room. Even though you'd been in here more times than you could count now, you still marveled at the quality of the chairs and sofa. Items like these seemed luxurious with how the world was outside these walls.

When you reach the dresser, you follow the routine you'd become used to. You peel the small shirt you're permitted to sleep in off and drop it in the basket nearby. Your panties are next to go. You pull the dainty garment down and toss it to the same place as your top.

You can feel his eyes on you with every move you make. They watch how your breasts bounce when freed from their confines. They admire the curve of your ass when you bend over. They glimmer with smug satisfaction as you stand there nude before him.

"I'll tell you what. I never get sick of seeing this," he teases.

You offer a weak smile in return. The lack of energy almost seems to please him more.

He walks around to stand behind you, giving you a light pat on the ass as he does. His hands land on your hips first and then slide up to cup your breasts. He pulls you back, positioning you flush against his chest.

"You know I'd keep you like this all the time if I could," he murmurs in your ear, "Sweet and ready for me. Ripe for the pickin' whenever I felt the need."

The deep, gravelly rumble of it seems to trigger a flicker of heat in your lower belly on instinct, and you despise yourself for it. Shame burns so hot in your heart, it threatens to take the nausea you felt earlier into a full on dry heave. You're glad there's not a mirror in front of you. It's easier to keep a docile look plastered on your face when you don't have to stare yourself in the eyes.

The rough pads of his fingertips pinch and tweak your nipples, causing you to squirm a bit where you're standing, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of a noise. You can feel the warmth of his breath fanning across your neck.

You choose not to say anything to his last statement. There's no guarantee that he hasn't actually considered that, and you don't want to find out. Displaying you in that way in front of everyone doesn't seem like his style, but back when he had you lined up on your knees with the rest of your group, you wouldn't have imagined yourself ever calling him daddy either.

As you'd quickly learned in regards to most things around here, the risk just isn't worth it.

"I'd never do that to you though. Don't think anyone could keep their hands off if they saw all of you, and I just can't have that," he whispers, calming your fears for you. He pulls his hands away from your breasts and steps back to grab the pieces he'd be putting you in today.

He starts with panties. This pair is pink and ruffly just like the last. You step into it with rehearsed timing. One foot then the next. He slides them up to your hips and lets the elastic snap into place against your skin.

You had no clue where he got this shit. You didn't want to believe that his hold on his men was so strong that they'd waste an entire supply run raiding a Victoria's Secret, especially for women they never even got to touch.

It wasn't worth thinking about though. It's not like discovering the origins would spare you from wearing the damn things every day.

Next, Negan shakes the wrinkles out of your dress. You step into that too, just like you did with the underwear. Looking down, you catch a glimpse of the garment.

It's just as humiliating as all the rest he makes you wear. The fabric is bright white and baby pink. Like everything else, you have no idea how it was kept so pristine. The waist is accentuated with a pretty pink ribbon wrapped around it, tied into a large bow at the front. It's extra tight up top and melts into a puffy skirt down below.

He shimmies it over your body and yanks the zipper up in back. The dress conforms to the shape of your figure, leaving little to the imagination in terms of how much the neckline shows and how high the hem of the skirt sits.

Spinning you around, he whistles when he gets the full picture.

"Good God Almighty. Pretty as a picture," he praises, reaching out to pinch your cheek.

Again, you force yourself to smile.

He'd already dressed himself for the day before getting you up, so the rest of the time before you leave the room is spent working through the remnants of your morning routine. He takes you into the bathroom connected to his room to brush your teeth and do your hair.

"Say ah, sweetheart," he smirks before jamming the brush into your mouth.

He's not careful or attentive. He only does it long enough to let the weight of humiliation settle in your stomach. It's always obvious when it kicks in. You get this look on your face like that of an abandoned puppy. Only then does he let you spit and move on to the next task.

He styles your hair into something cute, though you hate it anyway. Like the dress, it's only intended to make you stick out. To draw attention to your status as his possession.

The last thing he does is put your socks and shoes on. Your feet get covered in a pair of frilly ankle socks before he slips a pair of chunky sneakers on you. At least if this place got overrun and you had to bolt, you wouldn't be totally fucked.

"You ready to go, honey?" he asks you when the first part of your torture has finally come to a conclusion.

Again, you nod while looking up at him.

He grins at you. "You're quiet today," he says.

"Sorry, daddy," you respond. The way he said it sounded like teasing, but you could never be too careful.

"Don't be. I like it," he says.

You don't know how he does it, how he deflates you so easily without even trying.

He turns and grabs that stupid bat he carries everywhere, swinging it to his side before facing you again and sticking out his hand.

"Got my two favorite girls, now we're really ready to go," he says. He gestures with his fingers. A small impatient reminder. "You know the rules."

Of course you know what he's referring to. Always hold daddy's hand when you leave the bedroom. One of the rules he'd prattled off to you when he first brought you here.

You reach out and take his outstretched hand, earning a kiss to your head.

The way he'd been holding his arm caused the leather sleeve of his jacket to ride up a bit. Beneath the stiff fabric, you could see the fading scar you'd given him around the same time you'd been informed of the rules. Two crescent shaped marks in the pattern of your teeth.

You can barely stand to look at it now. All it does is bring back memories of when you still held hope for escape or rescue. Back then, you'd thought it'd only be a matter of days until Rick or Michonne burst into the small bedroom they were keeping you in.

The day you'd sunk your teeth into him, he'd just finished giving you one of his speeches about your new life at the Sanctuary. According to him, you'd be so much happier here. Sure you couldn't see your family, but now you had someone better than them. You had him. And he would spoil and take care of a pretty thing like you in the way you deserved. Show off to the rest of your old group how generous he could be.

He'd reached forward to pinch your cheek just like he'd done earlier today. You wanted to smack him away, but he had your hands bound. So you did the next thing you could think of and bit him. Hard.

His eyes burned with fury you hadn't seen since. You can still hear in your mind the way he yelled, shouting "Goddamn it" so loud that the walkers out at the fence probably heard.

After that was a bit hazy. He'd snatched that limb away from you before bringing it back and striking you hard across the cheek. You'd nearly fallen off the bed from the force.

"You little bitch, you try some shit like that again, and I'll knock your fucking jaw loose," he growled before yanking you up right and forcing you to look at him.

Involuntary tears leaked from your eyes as you glared up at his face. Blood oozed from the stinging wound you could feel inside your mouth.

That cut had healed by now though.

You squeeze his hand harder while walking down the hall out of his room. Even though it was the hand that struck you, it was the only thing you had to hold onto now. 

Your brain tries to compartmentalize him nowadays. There's Negan, and there's daddy. Negan is the one who gets mean. Negan is the one who yells. Negan is the one who killed your friends. Daddy is the one who cares for you. He keeps you safe and healthy. He'd never hurt you like that. You didn't think you'd survive with a shred of sanity without that distinction.

He feels your little grip and squeezes your hand in return. That's what daddy does.

You stay close to his side as he guides you on the walkway that looks down on the commotion of the main room. Even after what you guessed had been a couple months, if not more, you still didn't like this place. Everything was so transactional. No one cared about each other. It was all about what everyone had to offer. That was by design of course, but it didn't make you any less critical of it.

Your eyes scan the clusters of people below. Although you weren't allowed to socialize on your own, you were starting to get a grasp on the cliques here. Negan's closest advisors all seemed to amalgamate in one area, spare the guy with the burnt face. The table closest to the window was where most of the soldiers ate while the one by the door seated the workers.

You weren't completely sure what class you fit into here.

The most obvious guess would be the group you're about to encounter, Negan's wives. But there are stark differences between you and them that prevent you from feeling camaraderie.

The two of you approach the room where he keeps this group of women. He maintains a tight grip on your hand as you slip through the doors. The disparities between you and the others become obvious as soon as you're within a few feet of them.

All of these women get to dress in black. They stand tall in heels, have earrings dangling next to their faces, and for some, a red tint painting their lips. All of them get to openly glare at him. They don't have to hide their hatred behind a feigned smile or soft laugh.

You know it isn't right to be jealous of them. They're suffering too. This isn't a happy situation for them either. But god, you can't help it. Envy nearly sears a hole through your heart every time you come into this room. What you wouldn't give to be one of them. To be allowed to drink and talk with other people. To not be under the constant threat of punishment.

Despite all these thoughts swirling through your head, you manage to keep your mask on. A simple, thoughtless look on your features as you stand next to him like an oversized accessory.

He looks down at you before dropping your hand.

"Stay right here for me, sweet thing. Daddy's only gonna take a minute," he says.

He stalks off to the back corner of the room with a woman you'd come to learn is named Sherry. They speak in hushed tones, so you can't make out what they're saying. You figure it's about one of the girls sneaking around with some other guy. That's what it's usually about when he makes a stop here with you in tow. Even with their status elevated above yours, they don't get to escape the wrath of his possessiveness.

You stand there awkwardly, arms crossed over your midsection while your weight shifts between your feet. No one tries to talk to you. You can feel their eyes on your pastel form, but their gazes don't hold curiosity or interest. It's pity.

In the beginning, you thought they were looking at you with jealousy. After all, you got your own cell and then graduated to Negan's bedroom while they had to share amenities.

But they weren't naive like you had been. None of them wanted Negan's attention. They didn't want to be his pet or his dolly or whatever the fuck he would classify you as. They had each other, and they got to share the load between all of them.

You sigh quietly and look down at the sparkly trim of your white sneakers.

He finishes his conversation with Sherry and then migrates across the room towards a blonde, crying girl. They speak at the same volume as him and Sherry. It's not worth trying to eavesdrop on.

Instead, you patiently wait the couple minutes it takes for them to finish up and for him to return to you. When he walks back over, you can tell the discussion hadn't been a positive one. His shoulders seem weighed down by whatever information he'd gathered from them.

But the dark cloud above him fades away as his hand slips back into yours. He leads you out of the room just as you'd come in and continues walking with you.

You hesitate but decide to try. "Are you ok?" you ask softly.

His head turns slightly to cast you a look. For a moment, it seems the daddy act has fallen away. He looks at you like he would any other woman who asked him that. Cold. Analytical. But the persona makes its reappearance seconds later as he pulls on a smirk for you.

"Just fine, honey. You don't gotta worry about me," he answers.

You know you should just nod and shut up, but it drives you crazy being led around like a child expected to be seen and not heard. So you decide to try again.

"Did they do something bad?" you ask. You hate how weak your voice comes out. There's no spark to it, no bite or sharp edge. All of that, he'd extinguished in you.

He drops your hand and drapes his arm over your shoulders, pulling you to his side.

"What are you so curious for, huh? You know something about it?" he responds.

You shake your head. Your arm rises and wraps around his torso.

"No. I just don't like when you're upset," you say. You lean your head into his chest to really sell it.

"Oh-ho, look at you. Turning on the charm," he chuckles, "I am just fine, sugar. I swear it. Sometimes those girls give me trouble, but it's nothing I can't handle."

You decide to just take it and nod this time. 

He looks at you with satisfaction. "They can't all be like you, y'know? So well-behaved," he praises.

The compliment makes your blood curdle. You couldn't stand that he would act like obedience was your defining trait.

When you were with your group - your family more like -  you would never have been described as obedient. Whether at the prison or Alexandria, it felt like every other day you were sneaking off to try something. You were always quick to spring into action, never the type to let someone belittle you. Rick got on your ass about deviating from plans in spurs of emotion more than anyone else. Maybe that's how you wound up here.

You had tried to stop them from taking Daryl. On that dark night in the woods, surrounded by the ring of headlights, you had tried. You didn't rush at Negan like your friend. Not wanting someone else to get their head bashed in, you were more subtle than that. But you attempted to get in the way of the guys carting him off. That's what landed you here. Tucked under his arm, the very weapon that took away two people you love swinging a foot away from you.

But you swallow down all of this rage and nod again. You nuzzle into his chest, a way to conceal the tightening sensation in your throat and the sting of tears at your waterline.

This is the worst part about Negan, you decide. The way he makes you act like you want it.

From your first day here, he made sure to tell you over and over how he's staunchly against rape. He's not a monster. He's not that kind of guy. No, no. You are a prisoner, so yes, technically here against your will, but never in a million years would he violate you in that way.

And he'd stuck true to that. Whenever you screamed or cried or yelled "no" on a loop until he shook you around like a bobble head, he always backed off of his advances. He never copped a feel or slid a wandering hand in your panties while you slept, never held you down or physically forced himself on you.

Instead, he broke you down until saying yes seemed like the only sane option.

You didn't want his affection? That meant you must not want to talk to anyone at all. For days. You didn't want to sit in his lap? Maybe you'd prefer kneeling by his feet for a week, in private and around everyone else. You didn't want to sleep in his bed? Fine. You could sleep on the concrete floor without a pillow or blanket while the heat was out.

You reflect on all of this as the two of you trot through the boxy halls. He takes you around on all his errands for the day. You stop by the doctor's office, inventory, and Dwight's room. All over the place. You stay quiet the whole time. busying yourself with your thoughts as you stay attached to him.

Everyday the line between survival and free will becomes blurrier. You tell yourself that you have to be like this with him. You'll be worse off if you don't act the part of the sweet, adoring girl he wants. But then sometimes you wonder if you truly are becoming obedient. Like a wildcat tamed into a lazy house pet. You almost never resist his touch anymore. You even go to him for comfort sometimes.

The idea kills you, so you deem it best not to think about for now.

Rather, you focus on guessing what the rest of the day would hold. It's already the afternoon by now. The sun hangs low by the tree line, shimmering into the Sanctuary through the rectangular windows across the walls. He wouldn't have a meeting with the lieutenants today. Those were almost always around lunch time. You didn't think he'd spend it with one of his wives either. If that was the case, he usually gave you a heads up in the morning.

The most likely possibility you come up with is the dilemma from earlier. You had never been invited to see the culmination of those though. Normally, he kept you safe and sound in his room while he tended to matters like that, ready to provide him some stress relief when he finished.

But things can always change, and now it seems like that's the case.

He guides you back into the main room. A crowd has gathered down below. You can't see the center point of their conglomeration. All you can sense are the nerves vibrating between everyone.

Their feet shuffle around on the hard concrete flooring. They look between each other with anxious eyes. Hushed chatter clouds the area until you and Negan begin to descend the stairs. That's when they all go quiet. Mouths close and pupils snap to the position of their leader.

You look down to lessen the ache of humiliation that came with accompanying the center of attention. The few times you had scanned the crowd for others' reactions, seeing if you could find a sympathetic gaze or outraged expression, all you found was animosity. The male workers and soldiers leered at you. They smiled and smirked, visibly amused by your girly outfits and docile disposition. On the other side of the aisle, the women glared, taking in the details of your appearance with disgust, like somehow it was your fault you got toted around like this.

His voice booms out to his audience as he takes step after step towards them.

"You all know what we're here for today," he starts, "We got simple rules 'round here, but some people still seem to have trouble following 'em."

Your hand stays linked with his as the two of you reach the landing.

"Watch your step, babydoll," he murmurs to you before continuing his speech. Your cheeks burn with shame.

"It feels like I'm doing this every other month. It's getting ridiculous," he lectures, "I don't like having to be so harsh. Truly, I don't. But rules are rules, and I don't know how I can make myself any clearer. They are not optional."

He walks further into the room with you. Being level with everyone else, you can see more of what's happening. They're gathered around a furnace. Dwight stands near the opening to the flames, clearly preparing something. Another man sits a few feet away. Over in the corner, the woman from earlier is looking at him and crying.

Looks like your guess was correct.

"So we're gonna do this again. Hopefully it's the last time," he concludes.

The crowd parts as you and him head towards the center of the room. He leads you over to an empty spot near the wall. Dropping your hand, he cups your jaw and makes you look him in the eyes.

"Stay right here for me. Daddy'll be right back," he says.

You nod and then watch as he turns away, waltzing over to where Dwight stands.

While your eyes are up, they can't help but catch on somebody familiar standing at the front of the crowd.

Daryl.

Your heart stutters, and you can see on his face that his does too. He looks worn down. Eyes dimmed and face hollowed. His clothes, dirty and ill-fitting. You start to feel tears pricking at your waterline from the sight. You weren't the only one they'd broken down.

In him, you find the compassion you'd been searching for. The look that told you at least one person here didn't take enjoyment from your suffering. But it comes from someone who truly can't help you. Who's in a situation as bad as your own.

You sniffle and try to wipe away any beginning tears before Negan or someone who would tell him notices.

The loud creak of a metal door opening drags your attention to the furnace though. You watch as Dwight pulls out the item he'd been preparing. A burning, metal iron becomes the new focus of everyone in the room.

Upon seeing the small object, so many things connect in your head. You know what's going to happen. You realize why Dwight's face is scarred. You understand why that woman is crying. And you know no one is going to stop any of this now or in the future.

Your heart pounds harder, and your breaths become shaky. Tears blur your vision further. You dig your nails into your palm to try and ground yourself, but it doesn't help. The scene in front of you has whipped your mind into a frenzy. You haven't felt this bad since the early weeks of being in this place.

This stupid fucking place. You hate it. You hate how cruel it is here. How disconnected and lifeless everything feels. You hate him for being the only one allowed to really live. You hate everyone else here for letting him get this powerful.

It's a complete spiral whirlpooling in your mind, only made worse by the fact that you have to keep it contained. You try to tell yourself you just have to wait it out. This couldn't take more than five minutes and then you could go back to the bedroom. You'd be ok. You could take off this itchy dress and put your hair back to how you like it. You could kick off these shoes and hide yourself beneath the warm blankets. None of these people would be around, all you'd have is the quiet between those walls where daddy could make it all better.

As you're in the process of mentally talking yourself down, Negan takes hold of the iron. To free up his hands, he offers Lucille off to someone nearby. Your eyes follow his leather-clad limb to the neck of the bat and then up to its new handler. You see Simon.

You have to look down now. If you don't, everyone here will see the look of pure terror on your face. You close your eyes and rein in whimpers that threaten to spill from your lips. Everything feels fuzzy around you, intangible and like your hands would drift right through them. Your head heats up, the sensation making you dizzy. You try to steady yourself by leaning back against the wall, but the cool, flat surface does little to ease your nerves.

It does even less when you hear his voice closing in on you.

"Hey there, princess," he starts, voice laced with mockery, "You feeling alright?"

You're not looking at him, but the image of his stupid face projects with HD clarity in your mind. You swallow hard and nod.

Laughing lowly, he comes to stand beside you. "You sure about that? You're looking kind of lightheaded," he taunts.

"I'm fine," you choke out.

His hand darts up and grabs your jaw. He doesn't gently guide your eyes where he wants them to look. He yanks your face in his direction like an unruly child with a doll.

"I don't know about that. You're looking kind of rough," he says while glaring down at you with those ruthless eyes, "Maybe I should take you over to the doctor's. We both know Negan wants his favorite toy kept in good condition."

Your entire body vibrates with hatred for this creature. Every breath you take acts as an effort of restraint, a way to lull yourself into not ripping out what hair he has left.

You didn't just despise Simon because he's an asshole or because he was the person harassing your group leading up to that horrible night you were taken. Your aversion for him stems from experiences entirely your own.

A few days after the biting incident, you had tried getting physical with Negan one more time. You'd managed to worm one of your wrists out of your restraints, and instead of aiming for escape, you decided revenge held a higher priority. You waited for him to come check on you, keeping your arm tucked to your body as if it was still bound.

When he finally came in, you sat there and took the speech, took the condescension, and took the promises that you would conform. And then he leaned a bit closer. That's when you backhanded him as hard as he had you the few days prior.

After the hit landed, you lunged forward and tried to wrap the rope connected to you around his neck. You pulled as hard as you could, and for a moment, you thought you had won.

But wrangling you off was easier than you anticipated. They hadn't been allowing you much food or sleep, so the strike took most of your energy. It only took him a handful of seconds to snake his hand under the rope and then pry your arms away.

He stood up and slammed you into the wall with his hand around your throat. In that moment, he didn't look at you with the same fury he had before. This time around, frustration dominated his gaze.

"Was that fun for you?" he asked.

You didn't answer. Your chest puffed with exertion while your eyes stared daggers into him.

"What did I tell you last time? What did I fucking tell you?" he asked. Despite the look in his eye being less volatile, his tone of voice was dangerous as ever. "I told you I would knock that jaw of yours loose. That's what I said, and I meant it. I don't want you thinking I didn't. But I'm not gonna do that right now because I don't think it would work, and I'm not one to waste my own time."

Internally, pride swelled in your chest, thinking you had called his bluff. But then he kept speaking.

"I have a bad feeling that if I struck some sense into you that you'd just try to strike it into me right back, and I can't have that. That's just not gonna fly around here," he said, "So I'll tell you what: I have a better idea. You don't wanna play with daddy? Then you can spend a weekend with your Uncle Simon. See how much fun he can be."

Back then, you didn't know Simon as the right hand man. You didn't have his name and face connected yet. Now, you wished you could go back to that state of mind.

You were with him for three days while Negan did a tour of the outposts and subjugated communities. Only 72 hours. But an hour of him would have been enough to scare you for a lifetime.

When he first came into the room, you didn't get the feeling that him and Negan would handle you so differently. You could tell from the way he looked at you that, like his boss, he looked at you as something to toy with. A source of amusement. The difference, you soon found out, was how they played with their toys.

Unlike daddy, Simon didn't talk just to talk. He didn't warn you of future spankings or timeouts. He hit. And he kicked. And he shoved you down and tossed you around. He didn't offer the same condolences daddy did, there was no "this hurts me more than it hurts you." Nothing he did even bothered Simon. He watched you hurt, and he enjoyed it.

You didn't even get a reward once you'd settled down. Your attitude had disappeared almost instantly. Having the wind knocked out of you once was enough for you to become more amicable, but your change in demeanor didn't phase him. It wasn't his goal.

The only rules Negan left him with were the basic ones for the Sanctuary along with no killing you or causing permanent damage. But that didn't mean he couldn't threaten you with breaking them. He went on and on during the down periods where you cowered in the corner or huddled against the wall of your bedroom cell, telling you stories of how he went rogue before. Any horrible thing he could think of, he dangled in front of you as a potential fate.

When Negan finally came back, you eagerly awaited him. Despite your sleep deprived and bruised condition, your eyes stayed locked on the door like a puppy expecting their master. For the next week, you latched onto him. Didn't want to leave his side. He had made his point. You could hate him as much as you wanted but leave you alone with Simon for a little while, and you'd beg for him back.

That's how you feel right now, staring up into Simon's eyes while he holds your jaw. The pressure his fingers put on your cheeks serve as a reminder of the pain he can inflict while his other hand holding the bat twirls the weapon near your calf. As much as you had been internally preaching your hatred for everything to do with Negan minutes ago, all you want to do now is run into his arms.

You feel more tears wanting to slip down your cheeks, but you try your best to hold them in. The more you cry, the more I like it. That's what he'd told you more than once over those three days.

"Just leave me alone," you tell him. You try to sound as firm as possible, but even your own ears catch the way your voice quivers. "Negan wouldn't like you talking over him."

Your attempt at taking a stand falls flat. He doesn't back off any, rather, he leans in closer.

"Negan, huh? Are you even allowed to call him that?" he mocks and feigns a pout. 

"Just shut up!" you say. You mean it as a threat; though, it hits his ears like a plea. More hot panic rushes down your spine from the stress of having to remain quiet while also trying to be assertive.

His lips flatten into a line before he continues speaking. "Your head's getting too big for those shoulders, little girl. You better watch your attitude, or I might have to suggest you're due for some more correction," he mutters.

A loud scream rips the two of you from your conversation. He drops his hand from your face, and you both straighten up against the wall. Negan stands in the center of the room, pressing the blazing iron to the side of the man's face.

He wails until he passes out, and that's when his leader peels away the device of torture. Sticky skin goes with it before snapping back against his face like a rubber band. You grimace, your stomach twisting at the sight. You'd seen so much blood and guts over the years of living out on the road and fighting with other groups, but melted skin was a new one.

Negan turns to Dwight and gives him the iron back. You breathe an involuntary sigh of relief, subconsciously soothed by the thought of him returning to your side.

The reprieve ends suddenly though when a small, sharp pain slices along the meat of your calf. You whimper and lift your leg away on instinct. Looking for the source, you see the bat twirling from the motion of Simon's wrist. One of the barbs had caught your skin. Your eyes flit up to him.

"Watch out!" you say. The old you would have been seething. She would have pulled out her pocket knife and given him a little receipt for the cut. But now, you watch him with fearful eyes, trying to gauge whether or not you would get in trouble for calling him an asshole.

"Remember what I said," he tells you quietly as a trickle of red runs down to the lacy frills of your sock.

Before you can respond, a warm hand lands on the small of your back. Your head turns to find Negan smiling down at you.

"What's with the long face, sugar? Simon bothering you?" he asks, clearly not meaning it seriously even though to you it is exactly that.

You part your lips to answer, but Simon beats you to it.

"Bothering her? C'mon. I'm just checking up on her. She looked a little dizzy, so I offered to take her to the doctor's," he says, light as ever, "I'm just watching out for her, y'know? Sweet thing like her will get eaten alive here if she's not careful."

Negan raises his eyebrows, and for a second, you think he's about to take your side. But then he just chuckles and shakes his head. 

"She's doing just fine. That was her first time seeing one of those, so she's probably a little shaken up," he says, rubbing your arm.

"Hm... Sounds about right," Simon replies, "I know that's not how her little group did things."

"Yeah. So I'll get her back to the room. Think you can handle shit down here?" he says, gesturing around to the dispersing crowd.

"Always," Simon says with a mock salute. He then hands Lucille back.

Finally, you find some relief, some true sanctuary as Simon walks away. Your body physically relaxes. Negan feels it underneath his arm and spares you a glance as the two of you walk back up the stairs.

"Is something wrong?" he asks.

You want to just take the easy route and say no, to play along with this sadistic charade and not cause any trouble. But you can't get the single syllable out. It feels impossible to even shake your head. Even though Simon's gone, the weight of everything that happened still remains along with the stinging in your leg.

Your throat feels tight, and your eyes feel like they're two seconds from overflowing. The lights suddenly seem too bright, and everyone here is too loud. You can't show him that though. You don't want more correction. You don't want someone to like it when you cry. But you can't ignore him either. That would be the worst thing to do.

All you manage in response is a shaky shrug. You let out a broken sigh with it and lean into his chest. The tension in your shoulders returns as you fight to keep the tears from leaking out against the worn leather.

At first, he doesn't say anything, and the two of you keep walking. Your steps remain in time with his as you traverse the walkway and around the corner. Then the two of you come to a stop when you're out of sight. He turns you by your shoulders, holding you in front of him so that you can't shy away.

"I got one more thing to attend to out by the fence. Think you can handle that?" he asks.

Your heart pulses to an uneven rhythm, trying to decide what to do without devolving into pure panic. You bite your lip as you mull your options over. Say yes and go with him. Then inevitably fail to contain yourself and get in trouble. Or, say no now and risk punishment for being defiant. You're not sure which one will end up worse.

"Can... can we just go back to the room?" you ask. Your voice comes out weak as if every word siphons a drop of energy from you.

He eyes you with uncertainty of his own; though, there's no fear in his look. His gaze is careful, an attempt to decipher if this is some kind of deception. You'd been pretty well-behaved as of late, but one bad day could take even the most obedient pet to a rabid dog, jaws primed to gnash.

But you didn't really have a reason to lie. The bedroom with him would provide the least likely chance at escape, and in the condition you were in now, you didn't seem to be planning an attack.

Slowly, he nods. "Sure, honey. I'll have Arat handle the other shit," he tells you before leading you in the direction of his bedroom.

The words he mumbles through his radio sound distant to you. You watch your legs switch between one and the other as you walk. On your right, you see the small red splotch staining the pristine cloth of your sock.

Before you know it, he's pushing open the bedroom door and bringing you inside. It then closes behind you, creating a barrier between you and everything else out there. It gets a little easier to breathe.

He guides you the few steps over to the edge of the bed and sits down, pulling you onto his lap. You feel his eyes scanning over you in an attempt to figure out the problem without asking. His hand rubs up and down your back over the crinkly fabric of your dress. His other palm focuses on your legs, coasting over your knees and the area of your thighs the skirt doesn't cover.

The code is harder for him to crack than usual. Normally when you got upset, it resulted from something he said. And he knows that because, usually, that's his intention. It was always either that or you'd just generally be feeling down, missing your home. But that doesn't seem to be the case right now. You seem more antsy than your normal bouts of sadness. He doesn't think it was from watching the spectacle downstairs. He knows you hate the saviors indiscriminately. Watching some random guy's face melt off wouldn't have you this upset. Finally, he relents.

"What's wrong?" he asks. He actually makes an effort not to sound like he'll make fun of whatever your answer may be.

"I just don't feel good," you choke out and bite your lip.

He feels you shudder on his lap, and he knows it's not the full truth. Pulling you a little closer on his thighs, he continues to look down at you.

"C'mon, baby. Tell daddy what hurts," he coaxes.

Your face tenses, but you know he won't drop this. "Just... just... I don't know. A lotta stuff," you say. You couldn't decide on a lie to commit to.

He sighs and bounces his leg with you on it a few times. "Did someone say something to you? Was someone bothering you?" he asks as his scope of potential causes narrow.

You're in the middle of trying to think of a cover story when his hand glides down to remove your shoes. He knocks one off. Then the other. The foamy white sneakers clatter to the ground next to his foot.

He goes to bring his hand back up, dragging it over the fine threading of your socks, but his eyes catch on the bloody splotches near the edge. Grabbing your ankle, he tugs your limb upward. It puts you at an awkward angle and nearly knocks you from your perch on his thigh. He stares the small wound down, assessing every detail of the tiny scrape.

"How'd you get this?" he asks. He looks over to you.

In reality, it may have been the most standard question in the world. But it hits your ears like an accusation and brings a fresh wave of tears that you can't control. Your lip quivers as your lids blink a few droplets over your water line.

"Simon did it," you weep.

You're scared he won't believe you, but after a few seconds, he drops your foot and pulls you close. His arms wrap around you tight and keep you flush against his chest. The warmth of the embrace encompasses you. You let the dam burst and cry into him, pouring all your sadness out against his body.

His hand sweeps up and down your back in comforting strokes. "Shh, shh, shh, sweetheart. Daddy's got you," he murmurs.

You feel him shrug off his jacket and push it aside, leaving the plain material of his t-shirt to soak up your anguish. He keeps you as close as possible. One of his hands cradles the back of your head to ensure you don't pull away.

"Does Simon bother you a lot?" he asks.

You nod. "Whenever I'm not with you," you choke out.

He hums in acknowledgement. "I'll talk to him. He's not supposed to hurt you when you're being such a good girl for daddy."

"I was trying really hard," you sob, your voice cracking, "I've been trying to be good. But he just hates me anyway. He's so mean to me."

Your arms snake around him as tight as a pair of snakes aiming to kill. You cling to him with everything you have, as if he's your one true savior from this living hell and not the cause of it.

In your head, you feel like you're annoying him. He's probably waiting for you to calm down, so he can nip this blossom of resentment in the bud. Good girls don't have tantrums or meltdowns, right? And all he cares about is that you act the part of a good girl.

But you only think all of that because you can't see the smile on his face right now.

He's grinning more than any of the times he got you to say something humiliating or cooperate with a punishment. The look he displays now reaches a new level of smugness, higher than the night he killed two of your people and traumatized the rest of them. His satisfaction runs deeper this time because right now, you're truly broken.

This isn't something you agreed to because the other option was worse. It's not something he had to coach you into or manipulate a situation into becoming. You did this all on your own. You came to him. Sure, he had to coax it out of you a little bit, but once he got his foot in the door, you let him right in. You're clinging to him for comfort, looking to him for a solution. He couldn't be more pleased. This is exactly what he wanted - to break you down. Now he just had to reel you back in the slightest bit, get you in that perfect middle ground between too independent and non-functioning.

"You have been doing really good for me, y'know? I'm proud of you, baby," he tells you in the most earnest tone he can manage, "Don't worry about Simon for right now, ok? Daddy's gonna set him straight. He won't bother you again."

You nod, but the reassurance doesn't stop the flow of tears from your eyes. Your fingers stay clenched around the fabric of his shirt.

"No more tears, honey, c'mon," he coos. He pries your limbs from around him and boosts you to your feet, standing you between his thighs. "I'll take care of it just like I take care of you. Let's just worry about what my little baby needs to feel better right now."

You take a few seconds to think about it, but the answer comes with relative ease. The most agitating thing about this situation right now is wrapped all around you, scratching at your sides and digging in under your arms.

"Can you take my dress off?" you sniffle.

His eyes fall from your face over your body. "What? You don't like this pretty little number?" he teases.

For once, you don't feel like you're two seconds away from punishment. You feel like it's a joke, and you don't have to awkwardly straddle the line between playing along with the humor and submitting to the literal interpretation.

"It's ok... it's just kinda scratchy," you say and wipe away your tears with the back of your hand.

"Spin around for me then. We'll get it off you. Can't have it irritatin' that soft skin while you're tryin' to relax."

You take the few steps to turn around. His fingers grasp the zipper and undo the baby pink prison you'd been trapped in for the day. Feeling the chafing fabric pulled away from you lets you take a real breath for the first time in hours. Already a small bit of relief. It only compounds when the garment hits the floor and pools at your feet.

He tugs you back by the waist and lays you across the bed, body on full display for him. Right now, you don't mind his gaze tracking your curves. He leans over you, his hands coasting from the sides of your breasts down to your hips.

"You're prettier like this anyways, princess," he praises.

"Thank you, daddy." It spills out as naturally as water from a faucet.

He rewards you with his lips on your stomach instead of words. Kissing the smooth, warm skin, his lips travel from just above your navel to the divot between your breasts. Your nipples rise to attention automatically.

His hands slide up to cup your mounds of flesh. He fondles and gropes them as his lips migrate up the curves to the hardening little peaks. They don't latch on just yet. He teases them with kisses instead, letting the anticipation of blissful suction build.

You take your lip between your teeth as you watch him. Chills break out across the rest of your body. You know you should be fighting. You know you should kick and scream and cry. You should try to take advantage of his closeness and get towards your revenge. But in your hellish life, are you not allowed one moment of pleasure? You haven't let those plans of escape and vengeance go, but you want this right now. You want to feel good, and he gives you that. 

This isn't Negan. This is daddy. And you don't wanna hurt daddy.

His tongue peeks out from between his lips to trace wet circles around your nipple. The sensation draws a whine from you. Your body squirms beneath him with an eagerness to feel more.

"I think I know how to make you feel better. Take your mind off all that stuff from before," he whispers.

He takes one of your nipples between his lips, flicking the bud with the tip of his tongue and scraping his teeth against the sensitive area. You reward the choice with a mewl and squirm your legs. He chuckles and then switches to the other one.

"That feel good?" he asks.

You nod, your head tilting back and your eyes fluttering.

Grinning, he continues his work on your chest. You whine and squirm for him, giving him all the reactions he craves. Soon, his hand ghosts up your inner thigh. His fingertips drag over the flesh and land on your clothed center. Through the thin pink cloth, he rubs at your clit. That garners a breathy moan and a full body shudder.

"Goddamn, you are so cute," he chuckles, "Just a few little touches and you squirm around like a virgin for me."

Heat floods your cheeks, but you don't bother disputing the claim. It was the truth. You weren't sure what it was about him that got you so amped up and needy.

The pad of his middle finger swirls around the little nub in your panties. He can already feel the fabric getting sticky from the wetness between your thighs.

"Poor baby. You're so easy to play with," he says.

His mouth leaves your breasts now and begins to retrace its path down your stomach. It glides over your skin with open-mouthed kisses all the way down to the hem of your underwear. His fingers fall away from your center to your dismay.

Your disappointment is short lived though. You feel him position your thighs on his shoulders. When you look down, his eyes are staring right back up at you, gleaming like that of a panther ready to pounce.

"You want daddy's mouth on you? Will that help you feel better?" he rasps.

You nod quickly. "Please, daddy," you whimper.

"So polite. You didn't even need me to remind you of your manners," he smirks.

You don't even care about that remark. It washes right over you. All your mind is concerned with right now is getting more of his touch.

He brings his index finger back between your legs. He hooks it beneath the soaked seat of your panties, pulling it to the side and revealing your slick folds to him. The thumb on his opposite hand comes up to rub over the length of your slit up to your clit. Back and forth, nice and slow, just to tease you.

Your hips writhe the slightest bit, and he nips the skin of your inner thigh.

"Tsk. You know good girls are patient. They don't wriggle around. I've taught you better than that," he chides.

"Sorry," you say, backing down quickly.

"It's alright. I know you're having a rough day, so I'll let it slide this time," he says. He then leans in to lay some kisses on your clit.

Your eyes roll back and your toes curl. He never let things slide. This must have been a miracle. The same man who always toted that the rules weren't optional, letting you bypass one? Maybe you were his favorite. That's what you took it as anyways.

He makes out with your cunt like it's the prettiest thing he's ever seen. His lips engulf it, spreading his affection from your little bundle of nerves all the way down, nearly reaching your puckered entrance below. You whine and clutch at the bedsheets. You were still too scared to grab his hair. You weren't sure if he'd like it and groan or glare at you in a way that said you'd pay for it later.

It doesn't matter to you right now though. What you hold isn't important when you feel this good. It feels like a firework show is erupting in your belly, bright bursts of all different colors. Your heels dig into his back, subconsciously keeping him buried between your thighs.

He's tempted to tear your panties off and fling them aside. He would if not for the limited number in his possession. If this was normal life, he'd rip a pair to shreds on a weekly basis. These things were so cute when he put them on, but when he wanted at you, he despised them. If this was normal life, he'd just buy you new ones whenever a tattered one had to be tossed. But then again, if this was normal life, he wouldn't have you at all, so it isn't really worth thinking about.

Refocusing his mind on your pleasure, he dives further into your cunt. His nose bumps your clit as his tongue fucks into you. He pushes it in a few times before pulling back and just lapping at your pussy in broad strokes, getting every drop of you he can. Two of his fingers prod at your entrance before slipping in. They fuck deeper than his tongue, but don't stretch you out like his cock. A happy medium to walk the steps of preparation.

He maneuvers his digits with expert precision, scissoring and curling them at the perfect intervals. You can't help the way your hips buck in response. He doesn't get on you about it though. He just wraps your arms around his hips and holds you in place.

Your thighs squeeze around his head too. Luckily, that wasn't against the rules. He loved feeling the heat of your plush legs wrapped around his skull, keeping him close.

He pumps his fingers faster, curling them right against that spot that got you to squeal and cry out his name.

"Cum for me, babydoll. All over my face. I wanna feel it," he rasps.

It's a fortunate coincidence he gives you that command because you were about two swipes of his tongue away from doing it on your own. You melt against the bed, eyes fluttering and body jerking and quivering as rushes of pleasure sweep through you.

Your fingers grip the blankets so tight they threaten to tear into them, but then they loosen completely and go lax next to your hips. He licks your cunt through the entire thing, not letting you come down until the euphoria has thoroughly washed through you.

While you're lying there, dazed and blissed out, he untangles himself from your legs and stands at the edge of the bed. He wipes your nectar from his facial hair before pulling his shirt over his head and unzipping his pants.

"I think daddy deserves a little reward for making you feel so good, pretty girl. What do you say?" he asks.

Of course, you nod. There was no way you would reject him while still so close to the high of your last release. He grins at your hazy movement and shoves down his pants, jerking his cock a few times and crawling on the bed to hover over you.

"You're such a good girl for me. Better than I ever thought you'd be," he says while looking down at your face.

"Wanna be good for you, daddy," you say softly, blinking at him with your misty doe eyes.

His grin spreads even wider. In your sane mind, you probably would have thought it looked like some creature out of hell. But right now, the look just makes you giggle and squirm.

Down below, he lines up at your entrance. He slides his tip through your arousal a few times, getting it nice and wet before he sinks in. A smile of your own rises on your face, and he groans at the deep satisfaction of having your cunt embrace him so readily.

"Perfect little pussy, fuck," he grunts, "Think it's the best I've ever had."

You preen at that compliment. He balances his forearms on each side of your head as he begins to thrust. Your legs rise up and lazily wrap around his waist, which he loves. He can't get enough of the fact that you want him, that you're pushing him deeper and not letting him pull out too much.

His head falls beside yours, letting you hear every pant and grunt that falls from his lips. Your walls squeeze around him every so often. The noises make your tummy flutter for him. It drives you wild to know you brought him to such a state of lust.

"Christ, you're so fucking tight," he mumbles.

You giggle again and drape your arms around his shoulders. Your eyes flutter shut. You just get lost in the feeling of him inside you, his cock battering all your sweet spots just right. He leans in and kisses at your neck. His hips pump deeper, ramming his shaft further into the warm depth of you.

In this moment, everything feels so good and pure. You can't even imagine any of the pain he inflicted on you before. It all feels like a distant dream. Memories that belonged to someone else, not you. At this second, it feels as though this bliss will last forever. Just you and him tangled in the throes of passion without a concern for anything else happening beyond the privacy of his room.

When you open your eyes, they're a little watery from all the stimulation and how good it feels mixed with your saccharine thoughts. You arch off the bed a few inches, pushing your pert breasts against the warmth of his chest. He pushes you back down with ease, keeping you angled exactly where he wants you.

Pulling back a little to look at your face, he smiles when he sees the water gathering in your eyes.

"Oh, those are the tears I like to see," he croons.

You moan, a little shiver coursing through you. It only encourages him to pound his hips harder against you, in and out, in and out, until you're both approaching the edge.

"You gonna cum again for me, sweetheart? Show daddy how good he's making you feel?" he murmurs.

"Yeah, mhm, ah-" you whimper, "I wanna cum daddy, wanna cum for you."

"I know you do," he chuckles, "I can feel it."

Your cunt contracts and releases around him with increased frequency now. He knows you're moments away from reaching the peak. Swiveling his hips, he tries to strike that chord and bring you crashing down.

You whimper, the pitch getting higher as the glass gets closer to shattering. Finally, with one good jerk of his pelvis, you tense up and cry out. A couple tears trickle from your eyes. Your nails dig into his shoulder blades.

Your body trembles and rolls with the feeling. He fucks you through it, savoring every delicious squeeze of your cunt around him. A few breathless groans rumble out of him. He gets every last second in your hole he can before he has to pull out.

He snaps his hips back, replacing the tightness of your pussy with his hand. It's not the same, but it will do. He gives it a few quick strokes before he explodes and spills on your belly. You lift your head and watch as the ropes of hot, sticky cum land on your skin.

His hips jerk with each surge of release firing from him. When he finishes, his head hangs, and he takes a moment to catch his breath. He scoots off of you and cools down beside your body on the bed. It's quiet for a few moments; though, he's never one to be vulnerable, so he doesn't let the silence linger for too long.

"You feeling better?" he asks and rotates his head to look at you.

You nod, visibly more relaxed than before.

"Thank you, daddy," you say, sweet as can be, before leaning in and pecking his lips.

He stares at you for a few moments in fond satisfaction. Then he gets up, and pulls you to your feet with him.

"C'mon. Let's get you cleaned up," he says.

You follow obediently to the bathroom where he wipes you off with a damp rag and makes sure you're all set to get some rest after. Both of you make your way to the dresser next. He pulls another set of those panties out and slips you into them. They don't feel so horrible this time around, but in the back of your mind, you're sure that won't be the case tomorrow morning. A soft, thin shirt covers your upper body next. It's the same baby pink color as the dress, but you don't mind since it's much more comfortable.

On your own, you tuck yourself to his side for the short walk back to the bed. He climbs in first and then tugs you into your spot next to him.

"I want you to try and get some rest," he tells you, stroking down the side of your face, "When you wake up, I'll get you something to eat, but for now, I want you to take a nap, ok?"

You aren't particularly tired, but while living here, sleep has become your greatest method of escape. You never reject a chance at it. The only thing is, right now, you don't really want to escape. You don't feel a horrible gnawing sensation from being so close to him.

However, you agree anyways because daddy knows best for you, and you don't want to make him upset.

You lie your head on his chest and snuggle up to him. He holds you close, rewarding the compliance by rubbing your back.

"Sweet dreams, babydoll," he murmurs.

You shut your eyes, allowing your mind to recede into visions of the life and people you had before this. The life you still hoped one day you would get back, even as it became more and more like a fantasy rather than a realistic future.