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urdreamydoodles · 2 months ago

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MCU characters and how they meet their soulmate ?

MCU CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

How they meet their soulmates

Characters: Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff, Bruce Banner, Clint Barton, Bucky Barnes, Sam Wilson, Peter Parker (Tom H.), Stephen Strange, Thor Odinson, Loki Laufeyson, T'Challa, Marc Spector, Steven Grant, Jake Lockley, Scott Lang, Matt Murdock, Frank Castle, Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter, Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff, Wade Wilson & Logan Howlett

Tony Stark

- You do not meet Tony Stark the way people meet in books or movies. There is no slow unraveling, no lingering glances across a crowded room. No, Tony Stark arrives in your life like an explosion—sudden, blinding, impossible to ignore. He is a force of nature, all sharp wit and arrogance, a storm wrapped in designer suits and expensive cologne. And yet, beneath the flash, beneath the charm, there is something else. A tiredness. A weight he carries behind his smirk.

- He notices you before you notice him. And that is saying something, because Tony Stark does not spend time watching people—he is the one being watched. But you are different. You are not awed by him, not tripping over yourself to impress him. You challenge him. And Tony Stark, for all his genius, cannot resist a challenge. “Do I know you?” he asks, as if he hasn’t already run through every possible scenario of how to get you to notice him.

- You meet in the middle of chaos, because that is where Tony lives. A gala, a lab, a battlefield—it doesn’t matter. He sees you, and the world shifts just slightly on its axis. But love? No, love is not something Tony allows himself to believe in anymore. Love means loss. Love means pain. But you are persistent in the way the sun rises, in the way the ocean reaches for the shore. And maybe—just maybe—Tony Stark is tired of running.

- He flirts, of course. It is his armor, his shield. But there is something different in the way he teases you, in the way he watches your reactions like a scientist studying the most fascinating discovery of his life. “You must be new,” he says, tilting his head. “Because I’m pretty sure I’d remember someone like you.” And when you roll your eyes instead of blushing, when you match him word for word, something in his chest clicks into place.

- He does not call you his soulmate. That word is too soft, too fragile. But one day, when the world is quiet, when he is half-asleep and you are curled beside him, he murmurs, “I think… if I believed in fate, it would look a lot like you.” And in the morning, when he pretends he doesn’t remember saying it, you only smile. Because Tony Stark may not believe in soulmates—but he believes in you. And that is enough.

Steve Rogers

- You meet Steve Rogers the way a ship meets the shore—gradually, naturally, like something inevitable. He does not rush toward love, does not chase it down like a man afraid of time. No, Steve Rogers has patience. And when he looks at you, it is not with the urgency of a man who fears loss, but with the quiet certainty of someone who knows exactly what he wants.

- He notices the little things. The way you tilt your head when you listen, the way your fingers drum against your thigh when you’re thinking. Steve is observant, not just because of the soldier in him, but because he cares. He does not love lightly, does not give his heart in pieces. When he loves, it is whole. And that is why he waits. Waits until he knows you see him not just as Captain America, not just as a man out of time, but as Steve.

- You do not fall into each other. There is no whirlwind, no reckless rush. Instead, there is understanding, companionship. It starts as friendship, because that is the foundation of everything Steve Rogers believes in. “You’re easy to talk to,” he admits one evening, leaning against a doorway, his arms crossed over his chest. And the way he looks at you then—soft, steady, certain—it is a look that says more than words ever could.

- When he touches you, it is with reverence. Not because he is afraid you will break, but because he wants you to know—to feel—that you are something precious. A brush of fingers against yours, the warmth of his palm against your lower back. He does not need grand gestures, does not need elaborate confessions. His love is in the way he listens, in the way he stands beside you in a crowded room, in the way his eyes soften when they find yours.

- The moment he knows, truly knows, is quiet. No fanfare, no dramatic revelation. Just a moment—simple and perfect. You are laughing at something, a sound so genuine and free that it tugs something deep in his chest. And that is when it hits him. This is home. You are home. And Steve Rogers has spent too many years without one to let this slip away.

Natasha Romanoff

- Love is not something Natasha Romanoff trusts. It is a foreign language, a place she has never dared to call home. She has seen what love does—how it weakens, how it breaks. And yet, when she meets you, something shifts. Not in a way that is loud or obvious, but in the smallest of ways. In the way her walls do not feel as necessary. In the way your presence does not feel like a threat.

- She does not flirt, not in the way most people do. Her affection is in her attention, in the way she remembers things others overlook. Your favorite drink, the way you fidget when you’re nervous, the songs you hum under your breath when you think no one is listening. Natasha watches, learns, memorizes. Because that is how she protects, how she cares.

- You do not realize she has chosen you until one day, you find yourself safe in her presence. There is something unspoken between you, something steady. You do not have to ask for her loyalty; it is simply there. And when she does touch you—fingertips grazing your wrist, the ghost of a smile as she tugs you closer—it is deliberate. Natasha Romanoff does nothing by accident.

- She lets you see pieces of her that others do not. The way she tilts her head toward the sunlight, the way her laughter is rare but real when it comes. She lets you in—not all at once, but slowly, cautiously, as if waiting for the moment you will turn away. And when you don’t, when you stay—that is when she begins to believe in the possibility of us.

- One day, in the quiet of an empty room, she speaks—not with words, but with her hands, with the way she leans into you, with the way her forehead rests against yours. And in that moment, she is not Black Widow, not an assassin, not a spy. She is just Natasha. And for the first time in a long, long time, she is not afraid.

Bruce Banner

- Bruce does not believe in soulmates, not in the traditional sense. The idea that someone could look at him—at all of him—and not be afraid? That is not something he allows himself to hope for. He has spent too many years running, hiding, keeping his distance. Because love, in his world, is dangerous.

- When he meets you, he is wary. Not because he does not like you, but because he does. And that is terrifying. You are warmth, kindness, something soft in a world that has never been soft to him. And so he keeps his distance at first, watching from afar, convincing himself that he is only curious. But curiosity turns to admiration. And admiration? That is a dangerous thing.

- You are patient with him. You do not push, do not demand. You simply exist beside him, a presence that is neither overwhelming nor suffocating. And for Bruce, that is everything. One day, he catches himself reaching for you—without thinking, without fear. His fingers barely brush yours, but the moment feels monumental. Because for the first time in years, he is not pulling away.

- He falls in love in moments, in increments. In the way you talk about things you love, in the way you tilt your head when you listen. And one day, when you look at him—really look at him—with no fear, no hesitation, he thinks: Maybe. Maybe this could be real.

- When he finally says it, it is not a grand confession. It is quiet, almost hesitant. “I think… I think I’m in love with you.” And when you smile, when you take his hand without hesitation, he exhales a breath he did not know he was holding. Because for the first time, Bruce Banner is not afraid of himself. Not when you are beside him.

Clint Barton

- You don’t meet Clint Barton in a way that feels significant at first. There’s no dramatic music, no lingering glances across a battlefield. He’s just there, like he’s always been, like he always will be. Steady. Reliable. He notices you before you notice him, blending into the background like a shadow, like a ghost. But Clint Barton doesn’t waste time on people he doesn’t think matter, and the way he watches you—curious, assessing, interested—means that, somehow, without trying, you’ve already become important to him.

- He isn’t flashy, isn’t loud. He doesn’t sweep you off your feet or try to impress you. That’s not Clint’s way. Instead, he worms his way into your life so naturally that you don’t realize it’s happening until one day, you’re reaching for your coffee, and he’s already got one waiting for you. Until you’re in the middle of a conversation, and he finishes your thought before you do. Until you catch yourself looking for him in a crowded room, and the moment you find him, his eyes are already on you.

- He makes you laugh. Not in the practiced way of a man trying to win someone over, but in the way that feels easy. Like it’s second nature. “You’re trouble,” he says one day, shaking his head as he smirks at you. “I like trouble.” And maybe you should be wary, maybe you should tread carefully, but Clint Barton is the kind of man who makes you feel safe even as he leads you straight into danger.

- It’s in the small things, the details. The way he stands between you and an exit without thinking. The way he nudges his food onto your plate when he sees you eyeing it. The way he never quite lets you out of his sight, as if he’s already memorized a hundred different ways to keep you safe without you ever realizing. Clint Barton is a protector by nature, but with you, it’s personal.

- He never says the words soulmate, never makes grand declarations. But one night, when it’s just the two of you and the world feels quiet, he murmurs, “Wherever you go, I’ll find you.” And in his voice, in his eyes, you hear the promise: Always.

Bucky Barnes

- Bucky Barnes does not believe in fate. He does not believe in soulmates. He does not believe in a world that gives people things without demanding something in return. So when he meets you, when something deep inside him stirs in a way it hasn’t in decades, he does not trust it. Does not trust you. Not because you’ve done anything wrong, but because he has learned, over and over again, that good things do not stay.

- He tries to ignore it. Tries to ignore you. But Bucky Barnes has never been good at lying to himself. Not when you laugh and something in his chest tightens, not when you look at him like he’s just a man—not a soldier, not a weapon, not a ghost. And that? That is dangerous. Because Bucky Barnes does not know what to do with kindness, not when it’s freely given.

- You are patient with him. You do not push, do not pry. You simply exist beside him, letting him come to you in his own time. And it is that patience that undoes him. Because Bucky has spent too long being feared, too long being avoided. But you? You are not afraid. You meet his silence with understanding, his hesitation with warmth. You never ask for more than he can give. And that? That is why he wants to give you everything.

- The first time he touches you, it is tentative. Fingertips brushing against yours, brief but deliberate. It is a test, a question without words. And when you do not flinch, when you do not pull away, something in him shifts. He lets himself be closer after that. Lets himself want. Because maybe, just maybe, he is not as broken as he thought.

- He does not tell you he loves you. Not with words, not at first. But one night, when he is half-asleep, when the world is quiet and his guard is down, he exhales against your skin and murmurs, “You’re my safe place.” And that? That is enough. That is everything.

Sam Wilson

- Sam Wilson is warmth. He is laughter and easy smiles, the kind of man who makes strangers feel like old friends. And when he meets you, it is no different. He is charming, quick-witted, effortlessly magnetic. But beneath all of that, beneath the teasing and the grins, there is depth. There is steadiness. Because Sam Wilson does not love halfway.

- He flirts with you before he realizes he’s doing it. “You got a smile that could end wars,” he tells you, and when you roll your eyes and call him out on it, he just grins. But what starts as playful banter shifts into something real, something deeper. Because you are interesting, and Sam Wilson is a man who chases the things that make life worth living.

- He is observant. Picks up on things before you ever say them. He knows when you’re holding back, knows when you need space, knows when to push and when to stay silent. And that? That is what makes him dangerous. Because Sam Wilson does not just see people—he understands them. And when he starts understanding you, when he starts peeling back the layers, it is impossible not to fall.

- He makes you feel light. Not in the sense that he takes away your burdens, but in the way he carries them with you. He does not ask you to change, does not try to fix you. He just stands beside you, unwavering, unshaken. And that? That is what makes him different.

- The moment he knows is quiet. No grand revelation, no dramatic confession. Just a moment—a simple, perfect moment—where you laugh at something stupid, and he thinks, Oh. There you are. And from that moment on, there is no turning back.

Peter Parker (Tom H.)

- Peter Parker falls in love like he does everything else: all at once, headfirst, completely. He does not ease into things, does not take his time. No, Peter Parker feels—deeply, intensely, without hesitation. And when he meets you, it is immediate. A spark, a pull. Like gravity has just shifted, and suddenly, you are at the center of his universe.

- He is awkward, at first. Stumbles over his words when he gets nervous. But when he talks to you about things he loves—science, Star Wars, the feeling of swinging through the city at night—his nerves disappear. Because Peter Parker may be shy, but he is passionate, and when he lets you in, when he shares the things that make his heart race, it is the most honest kind of intimacy.

- He looks at you like you are the most fascinating thing he has ever seen. Like he is memorizing every detail, storing it away for later. The way your eyes crinkle when you smile, the way your voice sounds when you say his name. And when he falls, it is not gradual. It is instant. A realization that hits him like a train: Oh. It’s you. It’s always been you.

- He gets flustered when you touch him, no matter how small the gesture. A hand on his arm, fingers brushing his. It takes everything in him not to combust on the spot. But the first time you kiss him? He forgets how to breathe. Because Peter Parker has dreamed of a lot of things, but nothing—nothing—has ever felt like this.

- When he tells you, it is rushed, breathless, spilling out of him like he can’t hold it in any longer. “I love you,” he blurts out, wide-eyed and terrified. But when you smile, when you take his hand and squeeze, he exhales a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Because Peter Parker may not always know what he’s doing, but with you? He is sure.

Stephen Strange

- Stephen Strange does not believe in soulmates. He believes in logic, in science, in the tangible threads of reality that can be pulled and shaped at will. Love, in his mind, is chemical, nothing more. But when he meets you, something in him hesitates. A fraction of a second too long. A moment where time stretches and bends, and he is caught in it.

- He tells himself it is coincidence, this way you linger in his thoughts long after you’ve gone. That it is simple curiosity, nothing deeper. But then he begins to seek you. Subtly, at first. A glance across the Sanctum, a conversation extended a few minutes longer than necessary. And then, before he even realizes it, you have become necessary.

- He resists it. Of course he does. Stephen Strange is not a man who falls easily, and he is certainly not a man who hands over his heart without a fight. But you—you—slip through the cracks of his carefully constructed walls like light through ancient stone. And for all his knowledge, for all his power, he does not know how to stop it.

- He begins to notice things. The way your hands move when you speak, the way your lips curve before a smile fully forms. The way his name sounds softer when you say it. He hates that he notices. Hates that it matters. Because Stephen Strange is a man who has lost too much, and the idea of wanting something—someone—so deeply is terrifying.

- But one night, when the world is quiet and he is exhausted in a way that magic cannot heal, you touch his hand. A simple gesture, nothing grand. And yet, it is enough to unravel him. Because in that moment, he understands: he has already fallen. And this time, for the first time in a long, long while, he does not want to get back up.

Thor Odinson

- When Thor Odinson meets you, it is with the full force of a storm. He does not quietly fall in love. No, he crashes into it. Like thunder against the sky, like lightning through his veins. He sees you, and in that instant, you are known to him. A force as undeniable as the pull of Mjolnir in his grasp.

- He is immediate in his affection. In the way he smiles, in the way he speaks your name like a declaration. Thor does not hesitate. He does not play games. He wants, and he shows it. You are magnificent, he tells you. You are radiant. You are the sun itself, and he is not ashamed to orbit you.

- He watches you with reverence, as though you are something divine. He listens—truly listens—when you speak, as if every word you say is worthy of being carved into history. And when he laughs, it is unrestrained, full-bodied, a sound that shakes the air between you. He laughs with you more than he has in years, and it is then he realizes: he is home.

- He is protective, but never possessive. He trusts you. And that trust is sacred. He does not doubt your strength, does not seek to cage you. Instead, he stands beside you, a storm at your back, a warrior at your side. And if ever you should fall, know this: he will tear apart the heavens to catch you.

- One night, as the stars stretch endless above you, he turns to you, expression unguarded, voice low with certainty. “I have lived a thousand years,” he murmurs, “and yet I think I have only just begun. Because you—you are where my life truly starts.” And with that, the sky itself seems to hold its breath.

Loki Laufeyson

- Loki does not fall in love. That is what he tells himself. Love is a trick, a weapon wielded by the foolish, and he has long since sworn to never be such a fool. But then there is you. And suddenly, everything he has ever known begins to unravel.

- He resists you at first. Pushes, teases, taunts. If he can keep you at a distance, if he can make you believe he does not care, then perhaps it will be true. But you are not so easily deterred. You see through his sharp words, through his smirks and his laughter that never quite reaches his eyes. You see him. And that? That is dangerous.

- You match him, step for step, wit for wit. You are not afraid of him, and that is what terrifies him most. Because he has built his life around being untouchable, unreachable. And yet, here you stand, hands open, eyes steady. You do not ask for the parts of him he is unwilling to give. You simply wait, patient, unyielding.

- And then, one day, without realizing, he gives. A glance held a moment too long, a touch that lingers. A secret whispered between you, something sacred, something real. He does not say the words, not yet, perhaps not ever. But you know.

- Because Loki Laufeyson does not love lightly. His love is sharp, it is consuming, it is fierce and endless. And when he loves, it is not a fleeting thing. No, when he loves—when he loves—it is forever.

T’Challa

- T’Challa is a man who carries the weight of an entire nation on his shoulders. He is a king before he is anything else. He does not have the luxury of reckless love, of foolish infatuation. But then there is you, and suddenly, he begins to wonder if perhaps the gods have written you into his story all along.

- He notices you first in silence. The way you move, the way you are. Strength and grace intertwined. He is drawn to you, though he does not yet know why. It is not a matter of beauty—though you are, undeniably, beautiful. It is something deeper. Something that hums beneath his skin like an unspoken truth.

- He is careful, at first. Measured. T’Challa does not rush, does not leap without looking. But as the days pass, he finds himself seeking you out, lingering in conversations he once would have ended quickly. And when he speaks to you, when he listens, it is not as a king, but as a man.

- He is deliberate in his affections. Every touch, every glance, every word is given with intention. There is no hesitation, no uncertainty. He knows what he wants, and he chooses you. Not because of fate, not because of prophecy, but because he wills it so.

- One night, beneath Wakanda’s endless sky, he turns to you and says, voice rich with quiet certainty, “A king’s heart belongs to his people. But my soul, my soul—it belongs to you.” And in that moment, there is no crown, no throne—only him, only you, only the promise of forever.

Marc Spector

- Marc Spector does not believe in soulmates. He barely believes in himself. His life has been shaped by war, by violence, by loss. Love? Love is dangerous. Love is something to be taken away. And yet, when he meets you, something in him stirs. A quiet ache, a pull he does not want to name.

- He does not make it easy. He keeps his distance, walls high, gaze sharp. He is kind, in his own way—offering gruff concern, a jacket when you’re cold, a silent presence when the world grows too loud. But he does not let you in. Because he knows what happens when you love something. You lose it.

- But you do not scare easily. You do not demand softness from him, do not reach for the broken pieces and try to fix them. You simply stay. And that? That terrifies him more than anything. Because Marc has spent his whole life running, and now, for the first time, he wonders what it would mean to stop.

- The moment he realizes he loves you is quiet. Unassuming. A night like any other, the world reduced to nothing but your breathing beside him, the way your fingers brush against his own. It is not grand. It is not a revelation. It is simply true. And he does not know what to do with that truth.

- But love is not something he can fight—not this, not you. And so, in his own way, in his own time, he lets himself have you. A hesitant touch. A murmured confession. A love that is raw and aching and real. And when he finally holds you, truly holds you, he whispers against your skin, "I don’t know how to do this. But I want to." And for him, for you, that is enough.

Steven Grant

- Steven Grant believes in soulmates. How could he not? He has spent his life buried in stories, in myths, in ancient echoes of love that spanned across time. He does not think he is meant for something so grand—not him, not quiet, lonely Steven. But then, one day, he meets you, and suddenly, the world is not quite so lonely anymore.

- He falls fast. Hard. Like a man who has been waiting for a single drop of water in a desert, only to be given the ocean. He stumbles over his words around you, fidgets under your gaze. But oh, the way he looks at you. As if you are a wonder carved into history, as if he is memorizing every part of you like scripture.

- He wants to know everything. What makes you laugh, what makes you sad, what dreams live inside your head. He listens, truly listens, as if every word you speak is sacred. And when you ask about him, he hesitates, shy but eager, because no one has ever wanted to know him the way you do.

- He is gentle in his love. Soft-spoken confessions, hands hovering like he’s afraid you might disappear. But make no mistake—his love is fierce. It is unwavering. It is yours. And he would give you every star in the sky if you asked, even if he had to climb to the heavens himself to retrieve them.

- One night, he holds your hand in his, thumb tracing over your knuckles, gaze earnest. "I think, maybe, I was always meant to find you," he says, voice quiet but certain. "Like one of those myths, yeah? The ones where two souls are tied together, across lifetimes." And with that, his fate is sealed. Because Steven Grant does not love lightly. He loves forever.

Jake Lockley

- Jake Lockley does not speak of love. He does not believe in fate or destiny or the soft promises that come with them. Love, to him, is just another game. Another risk. One he is not willing to take. But then there is you. And suddenly, every rule he has ever followed begins to crack.

- He watches you before he lets himself know you. Observes. Studies. You are a puzzle he does not understand, and yet, he cannot stop looking. You move through his world like something untouchable, and yet, he aches to touch. To have. But Jake does not get to have things. And so, he fights it.

- But love, real love, is relentless. And you? You are patient. You do not push, do not demand. You see him, in a way no one ever has. And for the first time in his life, he does not feel the need to run. He does not feel the need to hide.

- When he finally gives in, it is not with words. It is in the way he stands closer than necessary, the way his fingers skim your wrist like a whisper. The way he shields you in a fight, not because he thinks you are weak, but because the thought of losing you is unbearable. His love is unspoken, but it is fierce.

- One night, after too much silence, after too many unsaid things, he finally turns to you and murmurs, "You’re mine." Not a question. Not a plea. A statement, low and rough with something he does not dare name. And when you do not pull away, when you only smile, he knows—he is yours just as much.

Scott Lang

- Scott Lang falls in love like he does everything else—with his whole heart, unguarded and eager. He is not subtle. He does not play it cool. He sees you, and suddenly, you are the best thing to ever happen to him.

- He flirts, shamelessly, but there is no arrogance in it. Just warmth, just affection. He wants to make you laugh. Wants to see you happy. Because, for him, there is no greater joy than making you smile. And when you do, when you so much as glance at him with amusement, he swears he feels lighter.

- He tells himself he is being ridiculous. That it is too soon, too much. But Scott has lost too much to waste time pretending. He wants to know you. Wants to hear about the things you love, the things you hate, the things that make you you. Because you? You are worth knowing.

- When he realizes he loves you, it is not some grand revelation. It is in the small moments. The way you roll your eyes at his bad jokes but laugh anyway. The way you remember the little things he says, even when he forgets them himself. The way you fit into his life like you have always been there.

- One night, without thinking, he blurts it out. “I love you.” Just like that. No pretense, no hesitation. And when you look at him, eyes wide, he only grins, shrugging. “What? I do.” Because Scott Lang may be many things—reckless, impulsive, a little bit of a mess—but when he loves, he loves openly, fully, honestly. And there is nothing in this world he would rather be than yours.

Matt Murdock

- Matt Murdock has always lived in the dark. It is familiar, predictable. He has built his world out of quiet suffering, out of whispered prayers and clenched fists. Love? Love is something distant. Something dangerous. And yet, when he meets you, he feels the earth shift beneath his feet.

- He does not know what to do with you. You are light, and he has spent too long in the shadows. But oh, how he wants. How he aches. He hears the steady rhythm of your heart, the way it stutters when he gets too close, the way your breath hitches when he says your name. And he knows. Knows that this, whatever it is, is real.

- But Matt is a man of guilt, of sacrifice. He convinces himself he does not deserve you. That his life is too dangerous, that you are better off without him. So he keeps his distance. Wears his charm like armor, keeps his touches fleeting, his words careful. But love? Love has never been something he could fight.

- One night, after a battle that leaves him bloody and broken, he finds himself at your door. He does not speak, does not explain. He just stands there, breathing heavy, hands shaking. And when you reach for him, when you pull him inside and whisper his name like a prayer, he realizes—he was always going to be yours.

- When he finally admits it, it is quiet. A confession murmured in the dark, between shared breaths and tangled sheets. "I tried to stay away," he tells you, voice rough with something fragile. "I couldn’t." And you do not tell him that you already knew. That you had felt it in every touch, in every stolen glance. Instead, you press your lips to his and whisper, "Then don’t." And he doesn’t. Not ever again.

Frank Castle

- Frank Castle does not believe in love. Not anymore. He once had a heart, a home, a future. He once had everything. And then, in a single moment, it was all taken from him. Now, love is nothing but a ghost—something that lingers in the spaces between grief and rage. Something he can never have again.

- And then, there’s you. And suddenly, the world is not so quiet anymore. Suddenly, there is something—someone—that makes him pause. That makes him feel something other than anger, other than loss. And it terrifies him. Because Frank knows what happens when he loves something. It dies.

- He tries to push you away. He is cruel, sometimes, in the way that broken men are. Short words, cold silences. He convinces himself it is for your own good. But you? You are relentless. Not in a loud way, not in a desperate way. Just in the way you stay. In the way you look at him like he is worth saving.

- The first time he lets himself have you, it is a surrender, not a victory. A slow, aching unraveling. He grips you too tightly, kisses you like a man who does not believe in second chances. And when he pulls away, when he looks at you like you are something holy, something his, he does not say "I love you." He does not have to.

- Frank Castle loves with his hands, with his body, with the way he shields you in a fight, the way he pulls you close at night like the world might steal you away. He does not speak of forever, because he does not believe in it. But when he looks at you, when he stays, you know—he would burn the whole world down before he ever lost you.

Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter

- Dex has always been searching for something. For someone. His whole life, he has wanted to belong. To be seen, to be chosen. And then he meets you, and for the first time, the world makes sense. Because you see him. You do not flinch. You do not run.

- He is drawn to you like a moth to flame, reckless and desperate. He wants you, needs you, in a way that is terrifying in its intensity. But Dex does not know how to love gently. He loves like an obsession, like a wound that will not heal. He wants all of you, wants you to need him just as much.

- He is good at pretending. At being charming, being normal. But with you? With you, the mask slips. And when you do not pull away, when you meet his darkness with steady hands and patient eyes, something inside him cracks. He has never been given love without conditions, without expectation. And he does not know what to do with it.

- The first time he truly breaks in front of you, it is ugly. A night filled with too much anger, too much pain. His hands shake, his breath ragged. "Tell me to leave," he whispers, voice raw. "Tell me you don’t want me." But you don’t. You never do. And that? That is what undoes him.

- Love does not fix him. It does not erase the sharp edges, the fractures in his soul. But it gives him something real. And for the first time in his life, he is chosen. Not as a weapon. Not as a tool. But as a man. And that? That is enough.

Wanda Maximoff

- Wanda Maximoff has always known loss. It is woven into her bones, into the very fabric of her being. She does not expect love. Does not dare hope for it. Because everything she loves is taken from her, and she does not think she could survive losing anything else.

- And yet, when she meets you, something inside her shifts. It is slow, hesitant. She does not trust it, does not trust herself. But you? You are patient. You do not push. Do not demand. You simply exist, warm and steady, a presence she never realized she needed.

- She loves you before she even realizes it. In the way she reaches for you first, in the way your laughter softens the sharp edges of her world. But Wanda is afraid of love. Afraid of what it could mean, of what it could cost. She tries to keep her distance, but it is already too late. You are in her veins, in her breath, in the spaces between heartbeats.

- The first time she says it, it is not in words. It is in the way she looks at you, magic flickering at her fingertips, a silent promise woven between them. It is in the way she lets herself need you, in the way she trusts you with parts of herself she has never shared before.

- Wanda Maximoff does not love in halves. She loves with her whole soul, with a devotion that is fierce and unyielding. She does not promise you forever—she has learned not to trust forever. But she promises you now. And for her, for you, that is everything.

Pietro Maximoff

- Pietro Maximoff has always lived like a storm—fast, reckless, untouchable. The world has never been able to keep up with him, and he has never minded. Until you. Until the moment he meets you, and for the first time in his life, something makes him want to slow down.

- He falls for you without realizing it. At first, it is playful—quick remarks, teasing smiles, fingers brushing yours for just a second too long. But then it is more. It is the way his body moves toward yours before his mind catches up. The way his heart races for reasons that have nothing to do with speed.

- Love terrifies him. He has lost too much, too many. His sister, his home, his past—all ghosts that whisper warnings. But you? You make him forget to be afraid. You make him believe, for just a moment, that maybe—maybe—he was never meant to run alone.

- The first time he realizes it, truly feels it, it is quiet. No jokes, no flirting. Just the way you look at him, like he is worth something. Like he is more than a blur, more than a joke made of speed and bravado. And in that moment, he knows—he is yours.

- Pietro Maximoff does not love in small ways. He loves like the wind—wild, consuming, everywhere all at once. He leaves notes in places only you will find, brings you flowers at impossible speeds, holds you like he is afraid you will disappear. And maybe, just maybe, for the first time in his life, he isn’t running away from something. He is running to you.

Peter Quill

- Peter Quill has spent his whole life with his head in the stars, chasing the next thrill, the next adventure. Love? Love is a complication, a risk. He has lost too much, and he knows better than to hope. But then there’s you. And suddenly, the galaxy does not feel so big anymore.

- He fights it at first. Makes jokes, turns everything into a game. But it’s a losing battle. Because you see through him. See the man beneath the charm, beneath the cocky smirk and quick wit. And worse? You don’t turn away.

- He doesn’t know how to handle it. He is reckless with his feelings, careless with his heart. He pushes, then pulls, then pushes again. But you stay. You match him joke for joke, but when it counts, when it matters, you are there. And that? That undoes him.

- The first time he calls you his, it is unplanned. A fight, a close call, adrenaline in his veins. "Don’t touch my girl," he growls, fists clenched, eyes burning. And when it’s over, when you’re safe, he looks at you—uncertain, hesitant. But you just smile, because you had known long before he did.

- Peter Quill does not love with caution. He loves in grand gestures and stolen songs, in whispered confessions under alien skies. He plays you mixtapes, sings to you when he thinks you aren’t listening. And when he holds you, it is with the quiet desperation of a man who has spent his whole life searching for something he did not think he could have. Until you.

Wade Wilson (Fox)

- Wade Wilson does not believe in soulmates. He does not believe in much of anything anymore. The world has taken too much, left him too broken. He is a man stitched together with bad jokes and worse decisions, and love? Love is for people with futures.

- And then there is you. And suddenly, love is not some distant thing. It is here. It is real. And Wade—God help him—does not know what to do with it. So he does what he always does. He hides behind sarcasm, behind crude jokes and exaggerated bravado. But you? You just see him.

- The first time he realizes he loves you, it is terrifying. Because it is not a loud thing. Not some big, dramatic moment. It is the way you look at him without flinching, the way you laugh at his worst jokes, the way you stay even when he gives you every reason not to.

- He tries to push you away. Tries to convince you that he is not worth it. But you are stubborn. You kiss the scars, touch the jagged edges of him without fear. And when you whisper, "I love you," he cannot breathe. Because for the first time in a long, long time, he believes it.

- Wade Wilson does not love easily, but when he does, it is all-consuming. He loves in stolen moments and whispered jokes, in fierce, desperate touches and ridiculous, over-the-top gestures. He calls you a hundred stupid nicknames, leaves you notes in the weirdest places, holds you like you are the only thing keeping him tethered to the world. Because maybe, just maybe, you are.

Logan Howlett (Fox)

- Logan has lived too long, lost too much. He does not believe in love. Not anymore. He has seen it ripped away too many times, left too many ghosts in his wake. He is a man built for war, for pain. And yet, when he meets you, something inside him shifts.

- He resists it. God, he resists it. He grunts instead of speaks, glares instead of softens. He convinces himself that you are better off without him. That he is a man made of blood and violence, and you—you—deserve something gentle. Something whole.

- But love is not something he can fight. It is in the way you touch him, like he is not a weapon, not a monster. In the way you hold his hand like it is not something meant for killing. And Logan? Logan is tired of fighting.

- The first time he says it, it is rough, almost angry. "I love you," he growls, like it is being ripped from his chest. And when you smile—when you accept it—something inside him breaks. Because he had never thought this was meant for him. Had never thought he could have this.

- Logan Howlett does not love gently. He loves in quiet, protective touches, in fierce, desperate devotion. He loves in the way he stands in front of you in a fight, the way he holds you at night like he is afraid you will vanish. He does not promise forever—he has lived too long to believe in it. But he promises you. And that? That is more than enough.

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thedreamlessnights · 1 year ago

Note

Since requests are open, here's my suggestion: I recently revisited my old mythology book and found one of the myths about aphrodite bathing in a lake and blinds some pervs that sneaked up to watch her. Now, the reader might not have the powers of a goddess but you know what she does have? A dagger-happy vampire boyfriend more than willing to shank unwanted peeping toms (in his defense, he actually asked if he could be there, so no harm done here). Idk, I just like the idea of the reader having scary dog privileges and Astarion not minding looking menacing/scary while doing so

Thank you so, so much for this request, anon. It's an absolutely incredible concept, and it fits Astarion so well! I had such a fun time writing it, and I really hope you enjoy the result!

For Your Eyes Only

Astarion x F!Reader - NSFW

Content warnings: Mentions of brief, non-consensual voyeurism. Somewhat graphic violence, as well as mentions of blood, degrading terms, and the description of an injury and death. Explicit sexual content, including: oral sex (receiving), penetrative sex, fingering, multiple orgasms, blood drinking, and ear play. Tags: Takes place post-Cazador, some point in Act 3. Includes mild spoilers. Established relationship, a bit of emotional hurt/comfort, and tender smut.

Word Count: 5.8k

After the darkness and chill of the Shadowlands, the heat in the city feels suffocating.

You missed the warmth dearly back then, trudging through despair and gloom, thinking of nothing but the inevitable relief of the city. Your bones always ached something awful in that foul place, never warm enough to ward away the icy air. Now, though, it occurs to you that you hadn’t fully appreciated the cold when you had it.

The sun that streams down from the skies is blistering - scorching, even - and without reprieve or relief. Sweat courses down your neck, soaking the collar of your shirt. Your socks are damp inside your boots, and where the leather meets your calves, they’re chafing.

Gods, what you wouldn’t give for a bit of that chill again. Even with the achy bones.

What’s worse is the mud, somehow. One would think that Baldur’s Gate would be scarce on its share of the stuff, but it’s everywhere. Tracked up from Rivington, puddling in the streets, clinging to the bottom of boots.

Granted, your boots have seen more than their fair share of mud since the nautiloid: sticky, wet, warm. It’s seeped into socks and splattered across new armor, stained some of your favorite nightwear. Sometimes, when you’ve finally settled down for dinner, you’ve been able to taste it. No amount of scrubbing rids you of the earthy, bitter taste for long.

The mud in front of you is different, though. By all accounts, the heat should have baked everything at least somewhat dry, but this puddle remains. If it can even be called a puddle, really. The gloppy, wet mess looks more like a pond, and completely blocks the only path ahead. Even the edges of it remain entirely liquid. If you didn’t know better, you’d think it’d just rained.

A quick glance at your map confirms what you’d feared; this is the only nearby route to your destination. You’re on the outskirts of the city. Rock walls line either side of the path, too steep to climb. You know for a fact that Shadowheart had recently used your last Potion of Flying. Either you lose hours of progress to get Gale from camp so you can cross, or you’ll have to proceed through this stupid pond.

Astarion watches you eye the mess with a dramatic flick of his wrist. “Oh, by all means, darling, you go first!” he exclaims, raising a brow. “It won’t be me jumping in that slop.”

Karlach frowns at the mud’s appearance, tapping the toe of her boot against the surface. It ripples at the movement, brown waves gently sloshing against the surface of the nearby stone. “Can’t be that deep, right?”

“I don’t know,” you reply. You’re aching for a stick or loose branch, something to measure it, but there’s nothing around. Just grass and stone, the scalding sun on the back of your neck, and the muddy pond directly in the middle of the path.

“I say we go back,” Shadowheart urges. “I don’t know about any of you, but I’m not keen on dirtying myself.”

“We’d have to backtrack through hours of traveling,” you point out. “There’s no other way forward. I’ve checked the map.”

“Fine,” she relents, crossing her arms across her chest. “You go first, and we’ll follow behind you. Once we’ve seen it’s safe, that is.”

And, hells, you do not want to step foot in there. Not one bit. Still, do you have much of a choice? Your feet are already aching from the day’s walk. It would be devastating to lose all your progress. So, no - you really don’t have a choice, not if you want to get those Netherstones and stop the Absolute in time. The quakes in the city have only been getting worse.

“Alright,” you finally reply, your voice stronger than you feel.

You step forward, pressing your right boot against the mud, then apply your weight. Your heel breaks the surface with a terrifying rush of movement, and your leg instantly slides down into the muck - much deeper than you’d thought, deeper than it should be. When your foot hits the bottom, sticky, cold mud splatters up, painting your shirt, neck, and parts of your face.

Suddenly, the day isn’t quite so warm.

When you finally muster the courage to look down, your right leg is submerged up to the knee, soaking through your trousers. You can practically hear the sick squelch of it making its way into your socks, squishing between your toes.

“Urgh,” you mutter, wrinkling your nose as you attempt to pull your leg up. “Disgusting.” But it won’t budge. In fact, your squirming seems to be making you sink down even further. You try to shift your weight, but your balance is uneven with one leg in and one leg out. You’re dangerously close to losing your footing, and every bit you struggle threatens to tilt you face-first into the makeshift mud pond. In a prime moment of idiocy, you plant your other foot in the mud for support, and find your bottom half completely unable to move.

“What a brilliant idea,” Shadowheart says. “Now you’re stuck.”

“Thank you, Shadowheart,” you grit out, sweat dripping down your neck as you attempt to twist yourself around. “I had no idea!”

Karlach steps behind you, laughing a little. “Come on. Up you go, soldier,” she says, leveraging her arms under yours and giving a quick tug. You’re expecting the mud to release you, but it doesn’t. Your legs don’t budge - not even an inch.

“What in the…?” she mutters, giving another pull. This one has more force behind it; when she tries to haul you up, white-hot pain sears up through your ribs, ripping an agonized cry from your lips. No matter how hard she yanks, the mud’s grip only tightens around you. It’s beginning to feel like you’re a brittle piece of rope in a vicious game of tug-of-war.

“Shit! I’m sorry!” she exclaims. “So, so, sorry!”

“What are you doing?” Astarion asks, his voice suddenly sharp. “You’re hurting her! Put her down!”

“So she can get sucked further into the mud?” Shadowheart asks. Her voice is lined with fear now, which is scaring you more than anything else about this miserable situation. “We have to get her out!”

But it quickly becomes clear that no matter how hard Karlach pulls, it’s useless. Every yank is agony, and you only sink further and further. Tears stream down your cheeks from the pain, and your spine feels like it’s gained a good two inches from being stretched, but still nothing. No give at all.

Eventually, Karlach lets you go. Your body plops down in relief, but the mud is somehow deeper than it was before. It’s up to the bottom of your ribs now.

“Fuck me,” she pants, wiping her forehead. “What should we do?”

“How should I know?” Astarion’s face is drawn, more pallid than usual. His lips are pinched into a line. He should be telling you I told you so, making jokes - and you know he would be, if he were anything but absolutely terrified. Your panic is bad enough with the heaviness of the mud on your chest and lower body, but the look on his face? That tells you it’s even worse than it feels.

“Step back,” Shadowheart instructs quietly. “I have an idea.”

Once the two of them are out of the way, she steps forward. Stretching out her hands, she mutters an incantation into the air. In seconds, the slight chill of the mud surrounding you becomes sharp, painful ice that burns against every exposed inch of skin it touches. A very muddy shade of ice, but ice all the same.

Karlach’s axe crashes through the surface and it shatters, breaking around you. After another hit and a moment of digging, she finally has you out: freezing, still covered in mud, and very sore - but alive.

“Thank you,” you manage, choking out the words between your shivering.

“Never say I didn’t do anything for you,” Shadowheart says, smiling a little. She lets out a breath of relief, the tension bleeding from her shoulders. “Now. Turning around, are we?”

By the time you get back to camp, you’re the most uncomfortable you’ve ever been in your life. You’re wet and cold and exhausted, caked with dried mud that pulls at your skin when you move. It’s in your hair, on your face, and in your shoes, squelching with every step. The feeling makes you want to crawl out of your skin. Your ribs are sore and achy, and - on top of all of that - you’ve lost a good day’s worth of travel.

The only thing you want is to fall into Astarion’s arms, but he wrinkles his nose when you come near, holding out a finger to stop you. “Oh, no you don't,” he says. “Bath first. Then you can talk to me, darling.”

It seems no amount of persuasion is going to change his mind, so you head back to your tent and grab a number of supplies - soap, sponges, a towel, and a change of clothes. Your trusty knife for protection. The river is bound to be freezing, but it’s better than sponging yourself down and hoping for the best.

Thank the gods you’d found a decent pair of boots in an abandoned house today, because the ones that are currently plastered to your feet will take days to dry out, even in the hot sun. When you get to the nearby river, you don’t even bother to take them off before you plunge them into icy water, sufficiently drenching them until you can furiously loosen the mud enough to slip them off and toss them onto the riverbank.

The rest of your clothing gets the same treatment: the trousers which slowly pull away from your skin, the shirt that’s splattered with mud and covered in it up to the waist. Your hair will no doubt be a disaster, too.

You’re still sitting in the soaking-wet clothes when you hear the sound of a twig snapping behind you. Your hand instantly grabs for your knife, ready to throw it at whatever threat might be in the woods as your eyes sweep along the trees.

Nothing. You find nothing.

“Darling,” comes Astarion’s voice. He slips out from the shadows, immaculately clean, gazing down at the weapon in your hand with a lifted brow. “Planning to render me dead twice-over?”

“You scared the living hells out of me, Astarion!” you snap, sucking in a shaky breath. The blade drops from your loosened fingers, softly thumping against the dirt. “What are you doing out here?”

He steps closer, taking a seat on a nearby log. “You were taking ages to get clean,” he whines, sprawling out his legs in front of him. “And, unfortunately, our companions haven’t had an argument all night. How else am I meant to entertain myself? So here I am. Trudging through the woods for your company.”

“You could give me a warning next time,” you reply, still a little jarred. “I thought you were someone hoping to catch an eyeful.”

A smirk flickers across his lips. “Oh, but I am,” he says. “Do you mind terribly?”

Against your will, your cheeks heat, and his smile widens. “I don’t mind,” you say. “Not if you behave, that is. Hands to yourself.”

“I’ll be on my very best behavior,” he promises. Leaning forward, he prods your boots, wrinkling his nose at the sight. “Gods below. Those disgusting things should be burned.”

“I have an extra pair.” You move to tug your shirt off, but it’s clinging to you. “Gods damn that stupid mud pile. I should have asked Gale to use a cleaning spell.”

“Oh, please,” Astarion says. “He’s been sulking in his tent all evening. Apparently, being asked to blow yourself up by an old flame doesn’t do much in the way of socializing.”

The shirt finally pulls free, and it’s clear that your smallclothes have received the same treatment as the rest of your garments. Gods, you really should have asked for that cleaning spell. This mud is going to take ages to get out.

“Hand that here,” Astarion says, motioning for your shirt. You toss it to him, and he inspects it closely before setting aside.

“What?” you ask. “What were you looking for?”

“Oh, darling, nothing,” he says. “That’s my ‘to be burned’ pile. We’ll get you a new one.”

You’d argue, but you aren’t very attached to your current outfit - and besides, after weeks of trekking through wilderness and Shadowlands alike, it’s falling apart even without the mud.

“Do what you want with it,” you grumble, finally pulling off your smallclothes. “That shirt was barely surviving anyway.”

You glance over your shoulder and find him observing with a raised brow, slowly taking the sight of you in. You must look like a mess, but you’d never know it from the glint in the eye, or the complacent smile that plays upon his lips. Heat stirs low in your belly, simmering under your skin. Later, you tell yourself. When you aren’t covered in filth.

You lather up the soap on your sponge, scrubbing away the mud the best you can, but the damned stuff takes ages to get off. By the time you’re finally clean, the silvery moon is high in the sky, and your skin is beginning to prune.

Astarion makes a small comment or two, but mostly seems content to watch you in silence. His gaze burns over every inch of exposed skin, leaving phantom heat wherever it stalls. All you want is to get out of this damned river and touch him, but you’re determined to get every bit of the mud off before you do, and it’s taking much longer than you’d hoped.

When you’re finally presentable, you start on cleaning your filthy smallclothes. The soap is slippery, making it difficult to do much scrubbing, and the water alone is doing hardly anything.

Astarion watches you struggling, huffing as you nearly drop the soap bar in the river. After a moment, he lets out an exasperated sigh. “Dearest, you do realize that it would be much easier if you-”

But his words suddenly cut off. His head snaps toward the woods, and every nerve in your body burns with fear. In the span of seconds, he’s lunged forward, grabbed your knife, and darted after the sound.

Not a moment later, there’s a loud crash - some form of impact as he tackles whatever it was that he heard. You instantly push yourself out of the water without thinking, numb, your heart pounding in your chest as you stumble into the forest after him. It only takes a few steps in before you see it: a man on the ground, Astarion’s knife to his throat.

Your stomach churns, and your skin prickles in the air’s chill. How much had he seen? How long had he been standing there?

Astarion is shouting something at him, and the stranger is struggling against his hold, but it’s useless. He’s a scrawny, weak little thing, no match for Astarion’s lithe, nimble strength. No amount of twisting or fighting dislodges Astarion’s grip. After a moment, he finally gives up, cackling like an old hag as his head plops down against the dirt.

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t kill you here and now,” Astarion hisses, anger contorting his features.

In response, the man spits in his face. “She’s your bitch, is she?” he croaks. “You can take a turn after I’m done with her.”

Astarion snarls in response, gripping the man’s collar and pressing the blade deeper into the skin until it draws blood.

“Wait,�� you call, stepping closer. “Don’t.”

Astarion blinks in disbelief, sitting up, careful to keep his weight on the stranger underneath. “My love, you can’t be serious,” he says. “You want to spare this-”

“Spare?” you echo, cutting off his words. “Who said anything about sparing him?”

Something glints in his gaze as he takes in your words. “Darling,” he drawls, his tone admirational. “By all means.”

He hands you the knife, and you kneel down next to him. It’s heavy in your hand, cold and smooth as you run your finger over the flat edge of the blade. You stare at the shimmer of it for a moment, entranced, somehow calm in the midst of this chaos. Then you slam the bottom of the hilt into the man’s nose.

There’s a sickening crunch before he screams, blood streaming over his mouth and spilling down his chin. Even after last night’s feeding, Astarion tenses up at the smell of it, but the curl of his lip tells you that he won’t be drinking from this piece of absolute refuse.

When the stranger reaches over and grabs at your arm, you almost don’t even realize - you’re so caught up in your own mind, in the weight of the knife in your hand. Then his nails dig into your skin, and everything hits you at once.

The freezing night air. The stinging, throbbing pain that flares through your skin as he claws at you, unable to do much more. The feel of Astarion’s hand, gentle but firm, prying the knife from your grip. It happens before you can even react - a swift slice of the blade, slitting the man’s throat. Dark blood, gushing from the wound and onto the dirt below.

For a moment, there is nothing but the sound of your breathing. Sharp but shallow, straining in your chest. Jagged air that flows in and out, but it does nothing to stop the increasing amount of black in your vision.

You’ve fought and killed more people than you can count so… why does this feel different? Why here, why now? You’ve nearly died before, so why does the scrape on your arm feel like it’s much more than that?

Then Astarion’s hands envelop your cheeks, blissfully cool, and the panic and pain seep out all at once.

“Darling,” he’s saying, half-breathless, “are you alright?”

You manage to nod, and some of the concern leaves his eyes. He runs his fingers over the scrape on your arm, and you wince. “We need to get you patched up,” he murmurs, his brows pinching together.

“Don’t take me to Shadowheart,” you choke out. She’s already done you enough favors, and you won’t be able to stand her disapproving gaze if you disturb her rest after today’s fiasco.

He huffs. “Stubborn little thing,” he mutters, but he doesn’t argue.

Instead, he heads back to your supplies by the river. When he returns, he wraps a towel over your shoulders, and it’s only then that you realize you’re naked. Completely, utterly naked. It had been bold of you to break that bastard’s nose in the nude, but… well, it hadn’t been your intention.

He’s dead now, though. He’ll never look at you again.

Astarion sweeps you up into his arms and carries you out of the woods along with your clean change of clothes, holding you tight against his chest and leaving your soiled clothing behind.

You can’t find it in you to care at the moment. You’ve scrounged up plenty of clothing along the journey; those torn, stained things won’t be missed. Not to mention, if you ever need more, Astarion will gladly steal you some new ones.

He takes you to your tent, and you’re grateful to see that everyone else has turned in for the night. Anyone awake to see you would inevitably have questions, and this only affirms your decision to avoid Shadowheart - if you woke her up to heal a minor scrape on your arm, she’d be seething.

And though she’d undoubtedly be sympathetic after hearing the cause, you don’t think you can muster up the words to tell her what’d happened.

After he’s carefully set you down on your bedroll, Astarion yanks the flap of your tent closed and reaches for your pack, digging through the contents until he’s found some bandages. His grip is gentle as he takes your arm and swipes some remnants of a healing potion over it. You’ve been through this dozens of times, but you can never seem to shake the urge to wince as it sets in - the potion stings just a bit before it soothes, a sharp tingling that fades into a sweet, balming relief.

You’ve calmed down some, warming up in your tent with him, but Astarion’s hands are shaking as he wraps the wound. His brows are pinched together, his swallows are thick and strained, and he can’t seem to meet your eyes, even when he’s done bandaging you up.

“Astarion,” you murmur. “He’s dead.”

He stills in place, jaw clenching as he inhales sharply, still not meeting your gaze. Instead, he glowers down at the tent’s floor, his hands balling into fists. “He deserved so much worse than that,” he snaps.

You don’t argue with him. Instead, you let him fuss over you, taking the time to smooth through your wet hair, plucking out remaining leaves and twigs from the woods. He gets you into a warm, fluffy robe - only the gods know where he’d managed to find something like that - then pulls you close, his thumb stroking over your cheek. You rest your head against his chest and close your eyes, listening to the soft sounds of his body working under his skin. No heartbeat, of course, just the quiet churn of his movements, the rise and fall of his ribs that’s become habit to him.

After a moment, he takes your face in his hands, just as he had in the woods - but when you meet his gaze, there’s a sharp intensity in his eyes rather than fear. He takes you in little by little, tilting your head up to brush his fingers over the fading marks on your neck.

Then he leans in, and you catch the smell of him you know so well, lingering on his skin like soap. Bergamot, rosemary, brandy. It’s what you associate most with him, that sweet, sharp scent that bathes over you. When his lips finally meet yours, the kiss is rough and desperate, heated and aching. His fangs scrape over your lip, grazing the delicate skin but not breaking it. His tongue slides into your mouth, and his hand returns to the back of your neck, tightening his grip.

One of your hands fix into his shirt as you lean into him, nipping at his lip. You shift your free hand up into his hair, tousling through the soft, silky curls before gently tugging. He groans and pulls you closer, and - gods, it’s incredible. Warmth drags down your spine like a hot coal, searing and addictive. You squirm a little in his grasp, shifting until you’re straddling his hips, and he pulls away to kiss down your jaw, murmuring soft words into the skin.

When he gets to your chest, you let him untie the robe and spread his hands underneath, peeling the fabric off your shoulders, fingers slowly warming as they trail down your back. His hands settle on your waist as he kisses you again, mouth soft against yours.

Gods, you need him. You’re already soaked, and he’s barely even touched you.

You can feel him hardening underneath you, his movements growing desperate, his breathing labored. You grind your hips against him and he lets out a strained noise against your lips, shuddering. He pulls away, examining your expression as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.

The movement is tender and incredibly sweet, but you’re hardly patient. You’ve been wanting him ever since he sat on that log in the forest, gaze roaming over every inch of you. You let out a soft whine, attempting to tug off his shirt. He does absolutely nothing to help you.

“Astarion,” you breathe. “Please.”

“Hm? Did you want something, darling?” he asks, the desire in his voice betraying his otherwise casual tone.

“I want you,” you tell him, rolling your hips again in search of the friction you so desperately need. “Please. I want you.”

“Easy, love. You have me,” he replies, brushing his thumb against your lips. Your heart swells with a fondness that would threaten to make you cry if you weren’t so ridiculously needy.

And finally, thank the gods, he takes off his godsdamned shirt.

You run a hand up his shoulder, then into his hair. You’d once thought that he was using a special shampoo - his hair was so soft, it seemed the only explanation. Then you’d seen him with the same shampoo you were using, and you’d practically wept with envy over his ridiculously perfect genes. Even now, as you run your hands through the silk-soft curls, you don’t understand it.

Then you trace up the line of his ear, and he shudders, leaning into your touch. When you gently massage the tip of his helix, he lets out a soft, seeking noise and his eyes flutter shut. Hells, you swear that you can feel him growing even harder beneath you. Another roll of your hips and his eyes slowly open again, half-lidded and glazed with desire. His hands firmly grip your waist, and there’s the briefest sensation of falling as he rolls you back onto your bedroll, tucking the pillow under your head.

He kisses along your clavicle, nosing down your ribs, humming against your skin. Feather-light brushes of his lips meet your ribs, then your breast, pausing to swipe his tongue over your nipple before he proceeds downward. When he arrives at your navel, your legs automatically spread open for him, and he lets out a hum of approval. He takes a leg in his hand and kisses up the thigh, warm, sharp kisses that trail up to the place you want him most.

He starts off slowly - a long lick over your clit, a quick swipe of his tongue before he settles between your legs, propping your thigh over his shoulder and starting a maddening rhythm. After all this time, you really should know how much pleasure to expect - but after everything, after his confession in the Shadowlands and the fear with Cazador, this still feels… new.

And Astarion is very, very good at what he does. He seems to know exactly what you want before you do, before your mind can put it into tangible thought, and before your body can even search for it. He works a finger into you, then two, and you’re left gasping and squirming as he sets an agonizingly slow pace. After a moment, he speeds up, just where you want him, perfect, perfect-

And then he pulls away, and the look on his face practically shouts that he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. Of course he does. He’s always been a tease. His fingers continue their work, languidly dragging in and out of you as he speaks.

“You know,” he says, pressing a kiss to your thigh, “back at the river, this was all I could think about. Getting my mouth on you. Watching you come apart piece by piece.”

Gods, he’s been direct before, but never that direct. Frankly, you’re surprised you don’t come then and there. Instead, you clench hard around his fingers and whimper, rolling your hips in time with his movements.

“Astarion,” you pant, unable to coax your mind into forming a coherent reply. “Gods, Astarion.”

He hums in response, flashing you a wicked grin. “That’s it, darling,” he encourages, shifting his fingers until they’re brushing against a spot that makes your vision black out. “Say my name. Let everyone hear you.”

You manage a laugh that quickly fades into a soft moan. “The entire camp will kill me if I wake them up.”

He nips at your thigh. “Let them try,” he muses. “They’ll have to get through me.”

He lowers his mouth between your legs again, and your head falls back against the pillow. It’s an embarrassingly short time before your muscles start to tense up, wiring you with pleasure from head to toe. One of your hands fixes in his hair, pulling tightly as white-hot pleasure sparks through your abdomen, and oh, gods, you’re coming-

Your vision cuts out again. Your mind fuzzes over, drunk with pleasure, leaving you shuddering, clenching around his fingers, moaning into your free hand.

You know he’d prefer to hear you, but if you actually disturb any of the others, you’ll die of embarrassment. One day, the two of you will have your own house with a real bed, and you’ll be as loud as you want. For now, you muffle your cries into your fingers and tremble through your climax.

Your body floats weightlessly for a moment in what must be Elysium, until you finally rejoin yourself and find your limbs heavy and uncoordinated. Astarion huffs, placing a final kiss on you until he crawls upward, kissing up your chest again.

He’s still holding himself back - you can see it in the way he moves, in the tension of his muscles and the coil of his shoulders. There’s a fire in his eyes, a hunger that you recognize so well. When he reaches your neck, you instinctively tilt your head, allowing him access to his usual spot.

For a moment, he hesitates, his warm breath fanning over the skin as your pulse hammers in your throat. Then he groans, grinding himself into your leg as he bites down, chasing his pleasure against your thigh as your blood spills into his mouth.

You know this routine so very well by now. The sting of the bite, and the numbness that follows. The ebb and flow of your blood, filling his mouth. The slight dizziness that comes before he pulls away, swiping his tongue over the bite for one final taste.

“Gods,” he pants, gripping your shoulder. Then, to your utter disappointment and confusion, he pulls away. “Wait here, my sweet. I need to - I’ll be right back. I promise.”

And before you can protest, he’s scrambling out the tent. For a long, numb moment, you stare at the tent opening, wondering if you’re dreaming. The silence of the tent grates on your ears, echoing the sound of your breathing until you can barely stand it. Then he’s pushing inside again, a scroll in hand as he closes the tent.

“Do I want to know what that is?” you ask.

“A scroll of Silence, darling. I’ve been saving it.” He flashes you a grin, murmuring the incantation as the scroll shimmers in his hand. Pure Weave, confined into parchment.

You don’t hear the spell take effect, but you feel it. It’s a thickness in the air, a heaviness in your movements.

Astarion doesn’t waste another second. He pushes up to kiss you, and it’s messy - your tongue against his, the sting of sharp teeth, your hand in his hair and his hand on the nape of your neck. There’s the taste of metal and herbs: your blood mixed with the remnants of a healing potion. He spreads your legs with his knee, then sits back on his heels and reaches down to undo his trousers.

You study him for a moment. The crease of his brow. The alabaster of his skin, sculpted out like a statue from marble.

If you were an artist, you’d make him your life’s work. You’d chip out his every feature little by little, painstakingly working away at the stone to define the look in his eyes when he tells you he loves you. You’d spend ages carving every wrinkle, every line, every perfect imperfection. The touch of it would be cold, like him, but it could never compare to how he looks as he settles over you, eyes blown dark with desire.

He inches closer, still on his knees, and takes hold of your thighs, lifting them up to meet his hips before gently easing inside of you. He lets out a sharp exhale as he slowly presses deeper, his grip shifting to your waist.

Nothing could compare to the way it feels as he fills you up inch by inch, murmuring praise, telling you how beautiful you are for him. “Darling,” he bites out, gritting his teeth at the pleasure. “If anyone ever tries anything like that with you again, I’ll tear them to shreds.”

You laugh a little, breathless, delirious in the delicious stretch of him inside you. “I won’t stop you. I just might ask to break their nose first.”

He shakes his head, but a small smile plays on his lips before he straightens and starts his rhythm. Slow, even thrusts that leave you grasping at the blankets beneath you, trying to steady yourself in the waves of sensation. He stares down at you, half-drunk on your blood, lips parted and his cheeks flushed.

“You feel incredible,” he breathes. “Gods. You’re incredible.”

Your eyes don’t quite know where to land. They never do. Now, they flutter over his abdomen, taking in the sight of the muscles that ripple and contract with the rolling of his hips. The droplets of sweat that slowly build on his skin, glimmering like crystals.

His jaw clenches, and his pace starts to quicken, and the feeling of him inside of your aching cunt is just so godsdamned good. His cock stretches you out like it was made for you, and soon your lungs are hardly filling with air. You can’t think, and you can scarcely breathe. All you know is that you’re not going to last much longer.

You tug at the blankets and shut your eyes, and he lets out another soft, aching noise as he thrusts deeper, faster, filling you up, the slick sound of your arousal echoing through the tent and mixing with the heaving of your breaths. You clench around him and he groans, shifting the angle of your hips, rhythm frantic.

“That’s it,” he pants. “Come for me, darling.”

And you do. Your body clenches around him as you cry out, back arching, pleasure overtaking every thought but one: Astarion. Astarion, Astarion, Astarion. Your breaths scrape shallowly through your chest and ecstasy burns through every inch of you, every nerve - until you feel paralyzed. Content, thoroughly fucked and sated, but paralyzed.

You’ve just started to come back to your senses when Astarion follows you over the edge, a moan tumbling from his lips that sounds remarkably like your name. His hips thrust a few more times, chasing after his pleasure, clumsy movements that slow to a halt as he shuts his eyes. He shudders, then slackens, carefully pulling out of you before he wraps his hands around your thighs and gently lowers them back to the bedroll.

You can barely move, still lost in the aftershocks of pleasure as he cleans you up, smoothing the hair out of your face as he lays next to you.

“You know,” he says, “I think I’m going to ask Gale to make us another one of those scrolls.”

And, gods, all you can do is laugh.

#astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion x you #astarion fic #astarion smut #bg3 x reader #mywriting

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viperify · 6 days ago

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trope - dbf!tom ehehehehe

smut duh “Keep your voice down. Or don’t. Let them hear.”

1k celebration | ᴅᴀᴅ’ꜱ ʙꜱꜰ!ᴛᴏᴍ ʀɪᴅᴅʟᴇ x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

⋆⭒˚. One Day.

Short Summary: He is supposed to be your private tutor. But behind closed doors, you two are so much more than just that.

Warnings: 18+ only! age gap. reader is in her 20’, Tom is in his 40’. cockwarming, impact play, unprotected piv, creampie

A/N: dbf, huh? I see you, Mary. I see you.

wordcount: 1,1k

In this fic, you will find HINT NR #4.

Your father hiring a private tutor for your uni courses definitely has helped improve your grades. It has enriched your life in… let’s say—many ways.

Before your first session, you hadn’t bothered to ask who it was that would be tutoring you. It didn’t matter to you—until it did.

When he walked in, a lump formed in your throat—and for a moment, you wished you could vanish from the face of the earth.

One of your father’s best friends—Tom Riddle.

Now, that wasn’t an issue per se. The main problem was that you two had gotten to know each other too well. So well, you’d spend every other weekend in his bed—unbeknownst to your father.

And these tutoring sessions, which granted the both of you hours of alone time, did nothing to help the situation.

—

That’s how you, this time, ended up on Tom’s lap—skirt bunched around your waist, his semi-hard cock buried deep inside of you. But no—he doesn’t let you move an inch, keeping you still. Proceeds to tell you about all these different potion ingredients that you’d have to know for your next exam, how many stirs are required, the brewing duration, and so on.

One of his hands pointing at text passages of your workbook, long, slender fingers, veins decorating the back of his hand and forearm. You wish you could trace them with your fingers, just like you have done countless times.

The other hand—squeezing at your barely covered thigh, trailing higher and higher with each little detail he explains to you.

And he expects you to concentrate.

You don’t pay attention to what he is saying, not really. The feeling of him stretching you just right, the slight curve of his length which you have learned to love being too good of a distraction.

“Tom, please—“ you whine, resting your head on his shoulder, staring up at the ceiling. It’s quite high, decorated with golden artwork—hand-painted, and hundreds of years old, as your father has told you countless times. Apparently anything is more interesting than studying at this point.

“Please what?” Tom asks, giving you the slightest thrust to avert your attention back to him. “You will have to be more specific if you want something, darling.”

“Please just— fuck me. I need you. Now.” You feel more than pathetic when you say it. Begging a man twenty years older to fuck you. Your father’s friend, to be very specific. And your dad, who does not know what’s actually happening during these tutoring sessions he pays for.

“We are far from done with your exam preparation.” He observes, caressing your thigh. “And stop clenching. It’s not getting you there any quicker. I have self-restraint, which you clearly lack. Dumb little girl.”

By the time you are finished, the sun has set, barely strong enough to provide sufficient light to read.

“I suggest we are done for today. You think you deserve a reward for squirming and not paying any attention? I don’t.” Tom murmurs, shutting the books and returning them to their spot in your private library with a flick of his wand.

“But— please, Tom. I have been waiting—“ you pout, but he interrupts you, tugging at your hair, pulling you closer until you feel his breath on your cheek. “Then work for it. Show me how badly you need this, need me.”

He doesn’t have to tell you twice. You get up, turning to face him—straddling his lap once more. Your hand wraps firmly around his cock—thick and heavy, glistening with your arousal—and you stroke him once, twice before you sink down on him again.

Eyes on his, watching his every reaction. The slight twitch at the corner of his mouth, the low groan when you manage to take all of him.

Tom’s fingers are quick to unbutton your blouse, just far enough to reveal the soft curve of your tits—humming at the sight of you wearing no bra. And when you start to move, slowly rolling your hips into his—he shushes your moans with a kiss—slow and tender, hands slipping underneath the fabric of your top, palming your waist.

His eyes are locked onto yours when you break apart. "Keep your voice down. Or don't. Let them hear." He breathes, thrusting up into you—just once, making you gasp.

All while knowing your parents are in the room next to the library.

“You are impossible,” you rasp, breathless. Though, it only fuels you. You lift yourself, higher, and sink down again. Again and again, until your thighs ache and tremble for relief.

Tom notices—hands tightening their grip on your waist, keeping you pressed closely to him as his hips lift to thrust into you from below—deep and steady, laced with urgency.

A shriek escapes your lips when his palm comes down on each of your tits—though quickly shushed by his hand clamping over your mouth. “Come with me, sweetheart. Be a good girl and come all over my cock.”

You nod eagerly, eyebrows furrowed as you reach to circle your clit—the sounds of your muffled moans and skin slapping against skin echoing in the spacious, otherwise completely silent library.

Your father would disown you for this if he ever found out. But God, if it is wrong, why does it feel so damn right?

The thought of getting caught only pushes you closer to the edge—and when Tom pushes in just right, making you feel all of him as he brushes against your most sensitive spot—your climax washes over you in waves, in a way that leaves you trembling, moaning his name as your walls pulse tightly around him.

He follows right after, thrusts growing erratic as he spills his release deep inside of you, breathing heavily against the soft skin of your neck.

You stay there for just a moment, calming down together before he lifts you off of him. Fixing his appearance as he presses a last kiss to your lips. Not a goodbye, never. A see-you-soon kiss. One with heat and longing. One that tells you he yearns to take you home with him.

Soon. One day, he’d make you his. Have you all for himself instead of just these stolen moments.

But for now, he turns his back towards you, arm clutched tightly over his briefcase. Tom looks back once more before he steps out of the door, a grin playing on his lips.

“Don’t forget to pull your skirt down, doll.”

thank you for reading! feel free to reblog and leave feedback <3 — masterlist. | 1k celebration. <- event masterlist.

#ᯓᡣ𐭩 ᴍᴀʀ’ꜱ 𝟣ᴋ ᴄᴇʟᴇʙʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ .ᐟ ₊ 𝜗𝜚 ⟡˚˖#ᯓᡣ𐭩 ᴍᴀʀ’ꜱ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ✎ᝰ.ᐟ #tom riddle #tom riddle smut #tom riddle fanfiction #tom riddle fanfic #tom riddle fic #tom riddle x reader #tom riddle x you #tom marvolo riddle #tom riddle imagine #slytherin #slytherin boys #slytherin boys smut #slytherin boys x reader #harry potter #harry potter fandom #divider by strangergraphics

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thisfeelslike-iykyk · 7 months ago

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love languages ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

hp boys x reader (ft. harry potter, ron weasley, fred weasley, draco malfoy, cedric diggory, remus lupin, sirius black, james potter, tom riddle) backtrack: "the feels", twice inspiration: my post for pjo (here) that has the same concept

harry potter

giving: acts of service

harry always fights to protect those he loves, lest we forget the battle in the department of mysteries to “save” sirius, and even those he could not care less about (ahem draco). he’s self sacrificing, literally walking to his own death in the last book to save everyone else. and on a day to day basis, he goes out of his way to include or be nice to everyone, especially those who don’t really have friends, like luna or neville. he’s less about grand gestures and sappy love, instead preferring to care for his loved ones in practical ways.

receiving: words of affirmation

before harry went to hogwarts and met his friends, he literally received no love. petunia, vernon, and dudley would emotionally and physically abuse him. for that reason, I think harry would really appreciate someone praising him or just simply saying an “I appreciate you” or even “I love you”. also for that reason, I think physical touch might be a receiving love language for harry too.

ron weasley

giving: acts of service

oh gosh here we go, I already know there’s going to be so many “acts of service” guys on here. ron’s one of the most loyal people in the series, he’s always there for his friends and he is super selfless and protective of them. curse the movies for taking away his moment where he stands up on a broken leg to protect harry from a literal serial killer (well not really, but they didn’t know it at the time). he’s not the most, uh, articulate should we say, but he always helps his friends out.

receiving: words of affirmation

growing up in a family as big as his, ron got cast aside a lot. I mean, his literal deepest desire was to be noticed by others and not be overshadowed. and deep down he definitely knew that his family loved him, it was just kind of hard to see sometimes since his parents’ and siblings’ attention was always so divided. (side note, as an only child I could not imagine being in a family of ron’s size; one of my best friends has two sisters and she’s one of the nicest people I know, and I definitely think there’s a correlation) so if someone were to finally notice him and genuinely love him for who he is and tell him that, it would make him so happy. finally, he’s enough as he is. finally, he feels like someone loves him.

fred weasley

giving: quality time

quality time and acts of service are the big ones for fred. he’s willing to put himself into dangerous situations during the war (rip fred weasley, you deserved better) and the battle of seven potters. besides that, he thrives on bringing people together and making connections. he’s super friendly to everyone, a classic jokester, and he shows his love through the time he spends around people, especially george. they were always together. it hurts that they can't be anymore.

receiving: quality time

fred spent like all of his time with george when they were first starting weasleys’ wizard wheezes. granted, that was because starting a business takes a lot of time and effort, but it shows how fred is willing to spend time focusing on his passions. that led me to think he’d find it super important to spend time with his loved ones, and he would want his partner to spend a lot of time with him too. he uses humor as a defense mechanism and a coping mechanism, but deep down he knows that the war is actually dangerous and will have real consequences, such as bill getting mauled or george losing an ear. (or, you know, FRED LOSING HIS LIFE.) so he treasures every little moment with his loved ones.

draco malfoy

giving: acts of service

thinking about this was actually really hard. draco’s such a cold person, and he’s never shown love; all his selfless actions can be chalked up to fear and having no choice. so I had to look at when and why he married astoria. and this meant dipping into the cursed child, which I’ve never read fully but have read enough to be able to say I hate it and I don’t accept it. he truly did love astoria, even when his relationship with his parents suffered because of it. he became a better person because of astoria--miss girl really said “I can fix him”. he even went so far as to disregard his father’s wishes when he wanted to let the malfoy line die with him. so I think when he really does find someone he loves, draco can be a pretty selfless person.

receiving: words of affirmation

gosh, just how much do people suck up to him? he was treated like a king in his early hogwarts years, and he loved it. I think the deeper reason is that he grew up without a ton of verbal affection from his family, so that’s something he craves from other places--a partner, or peers. the first time he hears an “I love you”, he’d be absolutely shocked and maybe turn cold or shut down. after some time and patience from both of you, he’d slowly begin to accept praise or loving words. if he’s feeling brave, he may even reciprocate them. only when it’s in the middle of the night and he’s pretty sure you’re asleep, though.

cedric diggory

giving: quality time

cedric spent a lot of time with cho when they were together; they would always go on dates and spend a lot of time together in between classes. it shows how much he values spending time with his loved ones. another giving love language of his is definitely quality time, because cedric is 100% a giver. he tipped harry off about the golden egg. he wanted harry to take the cup when they were in the maze. he’s just such a nice guy.

receiving: physical touch

this is for two reasons. one because I want it to be, and two because did you see his face when rita skeeter ruffled his hair in the movie? the guy was not having it, but I bet if the right person did it he’d be all blushy and smiley. also when harry went to the courtyard to tell him about the dragons, he was literally laying in his friend’s lap. and I can’t remember correctly, but wasn’t it said that he and cho would constantly hold hands? yeah. enough said.

remus lupin

giving: acts of service

remus does so much for others. he was one of the best defense against the dark arts professors for a reason. and even if his competition wasn’t so poor, I’m sure he would’ve been just as popular. he’s a natural mentor and caregiver, always there for others and sometimes neglecting his own needs because of it. he engages with his students on a personal level, especially harry, and he is always willing to put himself in danger for others, as seen in the battle of seven potters and the battle of hogwarts.

receiving: words of affirmation

this and quality time. for quality time, he spent a lot of time with his friends in school, and he spent a lot of time with harry when he was the datda professor. this time really helped grow his relationships and helped him feel close to his newfound family. as for words of affirmation, I think it’s obvious; as a kid, he never really had friends, and as a result he secretly yearns for encouragement and emotional support. kind words and whispered promises that everything will be okay. that is how remus lupin feels loved.

sirius black

giving: quality time

sirius spent so much time with his friends when he was young. he had a really rocky relationship with his family, so he gave all of his love to his friends. he and james were practically inseparable, they had such a nice connection. on top of that, after barely any human interaction for twelve whole years in azkaban, he treasures every single moment he has with his loved ones. it’s like every time he and his partner are together, he looks at them and can hardly believe this is real. but it is real. he’s out of azkaban, he’s free, and he has such an amazing partner to spend the rest of his life with. that’s decades! (I can’t with sirius’s death, I--no. he did not die.)

receiving: words of affirmation

sirius spent his childhood and adult life being rejected and ridiculed. that’s got to hurt, especially when he was literally in azkaban for something he didn’t do. he was so deprived of love and general human interaction for twelve years that I imagine he’d initially be kind of awkward or even scared when his partner first shows him love through praise or verbal affection. after a while though, he’d warm up and hopefully show that youthful, happy side of him again. also, he’d probably be big on quality time, since he got none of it at all during his azkaban years.

james potter

giving: words of affirmation

ah, finally someone who’s not acts of service or quality time! at this point I think maybe it’s just me. james is teasing and playful with his words; he’s very vocal about his affection and appreciation for his friends and loved ones. he did, after all, ask lily out pretty much every time he saw her. not at all like remus, who is a love letters and secret admirer kind of guy.

receiving: words of affirmation

james loved hearing praise and support. especially when he was in school. fuel his ego. that’s it.

tom riddle

giving: words of affirmation

I don’t think voldemort could physically feel love. I sometimes wonder if tom riddle and voldemort were different people, and honestly that’s a can of worms I don’t want to get into right now. I believe there’s some sort of theory that he can’t feel love because he was conceived while his dad was under a love potion? I have no idea. the important thing is that we all know how good tom riddle was at manipulating people. flattery gets you nowhere, they say, well clearly not if you’re tom marvolo riddle, because flattery got him everywhere. so he would use words to flatter people and show his admiration or appreciation of them, but was any of it actually real? I doubt it.

receiving: words of affirmation

honestly kind of the same deal with draco, but he's a lot worse. he wants to be treated like a king--scratch that, he wants to be treated like a god. he craves affirmation for his greatness and abilities. all his followers praise him endlessly, calling him “my lord” and sucking up to him. he also wanted his ideologies to be affirmed and supported by others. let’s face it, words of affirmation were just another way for him to prove to himself that he’s the greatest.

just a heads up guys, I'm so tired as I'm writing this so it was unedited

divider by @enchanthings

taglist: @loveinalocket, @raysmayhem-72, @stars-tonight, @toooster, @soft-likethesunset, @sheisntyou

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isakvaltersnake · 7 months ago

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things from the 2001 television programme band of brothers that haunt me to this day:

- we’re paratroopers lieutenant, we’re supposed to be surrounded. not to be your 60 year old military obsessed uncle about it but that line goes hard

- nix’s little giggle he does sometimes

- I’ll never forgive them for leaving gene’s medic training out of their training montage. in fact you know what? go back in time, film a parallel sequel of the other 9 eps from gene’s pov

- popeye’s “they called you guys too?” and the way his accent specifically scratches my brain

- they gave me moose heyliger and his massachusetts accent for like 20 minutes then the narrative snatched him away from me and i still miss him

- the way meehan looks at winters after he tells him to close the flap, in fact let’s talk about how every single one of winters’ commanders are obsessed with him in one way or another he truly is the it girl

- the chaos and fear that precedes gene and the calm and comfort that follows him

- I know everyone thinks “we’ll go to chicago, I’ll take you there” is the insane line but the one that actually makes me lose sleep is “what, and give up all this?” THAT MAN SAID I WOULD RATHER LIVE THROUGH THE HORRORS OF WAR THAN HAVE LIVED MY LIFE WITHOUT YOU

- alley is So Beautiful and I don’t think we collectively talk about it enough

- babe being some rando replacement in episode three and whilst his other replacement friends are being absolutely roasted he is immediately adopted by bill and then gets gene fucking roe of all people to connect to him?? he’s too powerful I need to study him

- speirs being this ghoulish terrifying boogeyman until lip is anywhere near him then he’s suddenly dimples and kicking his feet and giggling

- speaking of lip and speirs their little sarcastic in jokes, lip finishing speirs’ sentences fml it’s giving married

- you been working out? IN FRONT OF EVERYONE?? LIEB YOU SLUT?? THEN YOURE GONNA LAY IN HIS BED WAITING FOR HIM??? insane behaviour

- the unexplored but high potential friendships and the way I wanted like 16 more episodes for shifty and lip, nix and luz, nix and web, sisk and perconte, winters and gene, grant and tab, lieb and alley, speirs and harry, etc

- the more haggard and bitchy nix gets the hotter he gets. he also must be studied.

- “you should pack up those ears and go home” ok sobel kinda ate with that one ngl

- speaking of sobel the little confused/bewildered/piss-pants faces he makes david schwimmer the actor you are

- the silly little wide stance pennywise ass run hall does before he gets murked RIP king

- klepto speirs ilysm

- joe toye and his brass knuckles are v sexy

- sink letting nix give winters his oak leaves was very shipper girl of him

- lip harry nix speirs winters in the eagle’s nest dream blunt rotation

- the unsustainable amount of cunt served by nix, frank, babe, and luz at all times is truly a marvel

- tab really checked lip’s dick and balls mid battle and honestly that’s friendship

- bit parts for simon pegg, tom hardy, andrew scott, james mcavoy, michael fassbender, jimmy fallon ?? bob casting director you will always be famous

- peacock is so fine if he was even a little good at his job I’d be obsessed with him (special shout out to the scene of him getting sent home on furlough)

- I could list out every one of their meaningful little moments together but really it’s babe and gene just tethering and grounding each other and how they seem to gravitate to each other out of blind instinct? that’s some Brontë whatever our souls are made of bullshit I’m afraid

- ok I know I said I wasn’t talking about little meaningful moments but gene staring across the convent at where babe is sitting, lost in the peace

-bull in replacements getting imprinted on by a bunch of baby ducks and being SO PLEASED ABOUT IT he’s not the stepfather, he’s the father that stepped up

- speaking of, the underutilization of bull in the back half is such an out of character bad call

- you are officers, you are grown ups, you oughta know. HE’S RIGHT AND HE SHOULD SAY IT AND THAT’S ON GENE BEING THE ONLY ONE ALLOWED TO TELL OFF WINTERS

- I know nix and winters are married and whatever but the real married couple behaviour is luz constantly pissing off joe and joe immediately letting it go

- lip and speirs and their mutual competency kink

- I’M REAL SORRY FRANK skinny ilysm

#band of brothers #I mean there’s more for sure #but it’s a start

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muletia · 4 months ago

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[tfp] obsessed!orion pax x human!reader valveplug, minors don't interact!

based on this delicious ask about orion overloading from inhaling your pheromones and some tags provided by @tom-foolery-incorporated <3

word count: 800

Holding Orion’s helm on both sides, you pull him toward you, feeling no resistance from the startled mech. His faceplate lands against your chest, and you immediately envelop him in warmth, letting him sink into the softness of your human body. The familiar shape of your torso and the rhythmic symphony of your heartbeat give him a sense of comfort and belonging, as if, after a long, exhausting day, he has finally found his way home. Orion lifts his optics to you and smiles in gratitude, though you cannot see the expression.

“I missed you,” you murmur tenderly, pressing a kiss to the top of his helm.

“I am glad that our feelings…” he begins, but his words are abruptly cut off by the sudden, unfamiliar scent flooding his olfactory sensors.

It is sweet, unmistakably yours, yet tainted with something unknown — something he cannot name. Has no time to analyze it before the scent overwhelms him, urging to flee, to pull away before it does irreversible damage to his processor. Escaping should not be a challenge; after all, you are not restraining him, granting him full freedom to move. But the problem is that he hesitates to run.

One breath. Then another. And another. Each inhale draws the scent deeper, seeping into his very core, coating his spark, his tank, until it finally reaches the most sensitive parts of his frame, teasing them mercilessly. It creeps behind his interface panel, wrapping around his spike and valve, luring them into a dance with the desire that consumes him in an instant. Just moments ago, all he had wanted was to hold you close, whispering sweet words in your ear, but now — now, the image of sliding his spike into your tight, burning-hot folds is the only thought left in his processor. The only thing he wants to think about. The only thing he can.

Orion takes another involuntary breath, stress-induced from the sudden onslaught of overwhelming need, and it seals his fate.

“[Name]!” he cries out, voice breaking. His concealed spike spasms, and from its tip, thick strands of pink transfluid spill out, splattering against his panel before slowly dripping downward, seeping into the seams, finding their way out. Some rivulets trail down his thighs, while others pool onto the floor beneath him.

“Orion, did you just come?” you ask bluntly. Watching the way his back arches, his optics roll upward, and listening to the symphony of his stifled moans, you are certain of the answer. You should be surprised — after all, you had barely given him any real stimulation to get him to overload — but you know your partner well enough to have learned just how little he needs to unravel. Still, the meaner part of you, the one that always surfaces when Orion is deliciously pathetic, wants to see undeniable evidence of his overload.

“Move your head. I want to see.”

“Ah!” Orion whimpers. “N-No, do not look,” he pleads, suddenly ashamed of the intensity of his own desperation.

His embarrassment does not last long, though, because Orion does not want to pull away. He does not want to lose this intoxicating sense of helplessness, this loss of control that breathing in your scent grants him. He wants to stay right here, drunk on your sweetness.

You roll your eyes. “Oh, now you’re getting shy? Please, I’ve seen you worse.”

“Mhm,” he mumbles, barely processing your words. He inhales again, this time intentionally, and just like before, your scent floods his body. His still-hard, aching spike throbs, pleading for another overload, and his valve clenches around nothing, echoing the demand. He has no choice but to take in more of your scent, to drown himself in it. He presses himself against you harder, as if trying to meld into your body, rubbing his faceplate against your chest in a desperate chase for another untouched, hands-free climax.

Forgetting his own immense strength, he unwittingly forces you several steps backward, making you struggle to keep your balance.

“Hey!” you yelp, giving him a light, scolding pat on the helm. “I almost fell!”

That, finally, seems to snap him out of it — at least for a moment. Orion lifts his optics to meet yours, guilt flickering in his gaze. “A-apologies,” he murmurs, but his focus does not last long. He immediately buries his faceplate back against you, sensitive olfactory sensors dragging over your torso, trying to provoke another overload.

“Ah! [Name], please, help me!” he whines, his voice raw with need. He has to be inside you. Needs to ground himself, to find something solid to cling to, or else he fears he will completely lose his mind.

You sigh, feigning exasperation. “As you wish, love.” and Orion hurriedly retracts his transfluid-slick interface panel.

#transformers x reader #orion pax x reader #valveplug

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nebulaafterdark · 10 months ago

Note

Hii can you please write something where the reader (could be Rhaenyra daughter) walks in on Aegon and something like this happens

https://www.tumblr.com/barbieaemond/746483713191362560/tom-glynn-carney-as-gaius-julius-caesar-octavianus

Love your work❤️

Thank you! Ok this is just a quick one, but here we go 🩷

A Reward

18+ ONLY MDNI (Targcest, smut, open marriage)

Y/N sets off in search of her husband after finding her apartments empty and the children well tended by their maids. She happens upon her husband in his bedchamber, sprawled across the mattress.

Aegon’s eyes snap up to meet hers, cock twitching as he does, fingers still lost in Chérie’s hair. He grins at his wife, dangerously close to spilling down the other woman’s throat. “Hello, my dearest love.”

Y/N smiles, “hello, husband.” She moves closer to the bed, smoothing a hand over Chérie’s dark waves and leaning forward to whisper, “do not stop.”

Chérie hums in acknowledgment, pulling away from Aegon’s weeping cock for only a moment to greet the princess with a gentle kiss. “Anything for you, Princess.”

Y/N sighs against her mouth. “Thank you, darling girl.”

Aegon lets out a groan as Chérie resumes. “What is it you’re doing down there? Plotting?”

Y/N makes her way up to him, cupping his face in her hands, “you will know soon enough, my love.”

Aegon’s chest rises and falls in quick succession, pulling her down to meet his kiss as he nears his peak, shooting his seed over Chérie’s tongue.

She swallows all he gives her, sucking him dry with cruel pulls of her mouth.

Aegon begins to protest.

“Shh,” Y/N coos, taking his restless hands in hers, pinning them to the pillow on either side of his head.

“I cannot again,” Aegon whimpers, “not so quickly.”

Chérie runs her tongue along the sensitive tip of his cock.

“Fuck!” He squeezes his wife’s fingers, helplessly as Chérie cups his stones, rolling them in her practiced hand.

Y/N presses a kiss to his furrowed brow, tears welling at the corner of his eyes.

“My love,” Aegon jerks in her hold.

Y/N breathes, “I want her to bring you pleasure as I watch.”

“Mayhaps in a moment,” he feels his softened cock begin to rise again.

The princess shakes her head, “now.”

“Seven hells,” he releases a panic laugh.

“I see the appeal of this now,” Y/N runs her nose along the length of his. “You are very pretty when you cry.”

“I wish you could see yourself, teary eyed on my cock. Absolutely sinful, you are. A wonder to behold.” Aegon winces as Chérie fists the base of his cock.

Y/N shifts, holding both his hands in one of hers to run greedy fingers over the expanse of his chest. Her nails graze his nipple, causing Aegon to buck against Chérie’s mouth. “I love you.”

“I love you more. I love you most, I love you always.” He babbles, chasing her lips, each time she dares pull away.

Chérie has been a guest in their bed too many a time to think herself an intruder, but in moments such as these, she is grateful for the reassuring pass of the Princess’s hand over her hair.

“Once you come undone, I will grant you reprieve as I reward our girl for indulging us.” Y/N promises her husband.

Aegon nods, blinking up at her. “You will be with child before this night ends.” A threat and a promise.

“Not much of a punishment for torturing you as I have.” Y/N muses.

“Not a punishment,” Aegon bites out, nearing the edge of bliss. “A reward.”

#house of the dragon #aegon targaryen x you #aegon targaryen x reader #hotd smut #aegon targaryen #hotd aegon #aegon targaryen smut #aegon smut #aegon ii #aegon imagine

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graysoncritic · 1 year ago

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A (Negative) Analysis of Tom Taylor's Nightwing Run - Introduction

Introduction Who is Dick Grayson? What Went Wrong? Dick's Characterization What Went Wrong? Barbara Gordon What Went Wrong? Bludhaven (Part 1, Part 2) What Went Wrong? Melinda Lin Grayson What Went Wrong? Bea Bennett What Went Wrong? Villains Conclusion Bibliography

I want to start this essay by admitting I’m actually embarrassed by its length. Why did I spend so much time on something I dislike? The truth is, I did not begin this with the intention of creating such an extensive, formal study of the Tom Taylor and Bruno Redondo’s Nightwing run and how it reflects the wider problems with DC’s handling of one of their most iconic characters. I was just trying to organize the thoughts that came up during discussions with other Dick Grayson fans. Before I knew it, I had enough material, enough desire to challenge myself, and enough frustrations to vent to properly create this monstrosity.

I did not begin this Nightwing run determined to hate it. In fact, I was ready to love it. As Taylor promoted the run before the first issue was officially released, I was so excited for it. As I read short interviews where he discussed Heartless, I could not wait to have a new, incredible villain. Foolishly, I believed Taylor when he said he loved Dick Grayson.

Needless to say, I was disappointed. Then frustrated. Then angry. The beginning of any story is a period where writer and reader form an indirect bond, and as the story progresses, so do the highs and the lows of said relationship. As such, a reader’s tolerance for negative factors will either increase or decrease depending on their experience up until that point.

In other words, if the writer fails to earn the reader’s trust and instead takes their attention for granted, even seemingly insignificant details become irritating in a way they would not be if presented in a better story. In such scenarios, the reader can no longer overlook those minor moments because there’s little good to balance them out with. It is a death by a thousand cuts.

In the case of Taylor and Redondo’s run, along with those thousand cuts are also broken bones, internal bleeding, head trauma, and severed limbs. A weak plot, simplistic morality that undermines the story’s stated themes, and, most importantly, a careless disregard for Dick Grayson and everything he stands for utterly destroyed my enjoyment of this series.

It is still too early to tell what sort of impact Taylor’s (as of time of writing, still unfinished) run will have on Dick Grayson’s future portrayals. But just because we cannot predict its long term significance, it does not mean we cannot critique it. Currently, we simply lack the benefit of hindsight.

If this essay were to have a thesis, then it is this: Tom Taylor and Bruno Redondo’s Nightwing not only fails to tell a compelling Nightwing story, but it also exemplifies a cynical, self-serving, and shallow approach to storytelling that prioritizes creating hollow viral moments to boost the creators’ own online popularity over crafting a good story, honoring the character in their care, and respecting his fans – fans who have, historically, often been women, queer folk, and other individuals who felt othered by a cisheteronormative patriarchal society. Taylor and Redondo’s thoughtless and superficial narrative not only undermine the socially progressive ideals they supposedly care for by propagating a cisheteronormative patriarchal worldview, but they also demonstrate a lack of love and understanding for the character in their care. At best, Taylor and Redondo have no interest in getting to know Dick Grayson, nor any respect for their predecessor and their contributions to this character. At worst, they despise Dick so much that they wish to reinvent him into something completely different, tossing away everything that was special to his fans in order to appeal to a readership that never cared about Dick Grayson.

I structured this essay so that, hopefully, each part will build on the ones that came prior. Naturally, because all aspects of a story are interlaced, there will be overlaps between each of the sections. As it may have become obvious from this introduction, I’ll be focusing primarily on the writing of this run. That is not to say that I will not address the art, but writing is the field I know most about, and so it feels only fair to focus my critique on that.

I hope that by the end of this essay, I will have successfully proved that this run’s mishandling of different narrative elements betray a cynical appropriation of progressive ideology and a disregard and disinterest in what makes Dick Grayson so special to so many people. This is an attitude that is present within DC Comics’ current ethos as a whole.

Now, who is this essay for? Honestly, it’s probably not for Tom Taylor fans. I do not believe I’ll be persuading anyone with my writing, and, to be quite honest, neither would I say I wish to do so. Taylor and Redondo’s run has won numerous awards and has many dedicated fans who adore it for what it is. If that is you, then I’m glad. I wish I could be among your numbers. I wish more than anything that I could love this story. But I do not, and I know many others agree with me, and it is to them, I think, that I’m speaking to. As Taylor’s run is praised to heaven and back, I needed a safe space to voice my thoughts. This essay became this safe space. And to others who also feel unseen by the constant praise this run is getting, I think this could speak to you, as well. To be cliche and cringe, this will hopefully let you know that you are not alone.

Finally, I want to acknowledge some people whose thoughts greatly contributed to the creation of this essay. For around three years now I’ve been having wonderful interactions with other Dick Grayson’s fans, and those discussions were not only incredibly fun and cathartic, but also provided great insight into what needed to be included in this essay. My best friend especially gave me a space to vent when I got frustrated, and my original outline borrowed a lot from the messages I sent her, as well as notes I took for our discussions.

I’ll also be directly quoting four different Dick Grayson fans (identified as Dick Grayson Fans A, B, and C in order to allow them to keep their anonymity). Their analyses were so critical to the formation of my thesis and for a lot of what will be addressed in this essay that I actually feel like they deserve co-credit in this essay. Dick Grayson Fan B especially deserves a shoutout in helping me track down a couple of pages used as supporting evidence, as I knew what pages I was looking for but was having a hard time remembering in which issue they were located. I’m quoting them with permission, and crediting their ideas and contributions whenever relevant.

Now, without any further ado, let’s get started.

#nightwing #dick grayson #anti tom taylor

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cringefailkralie · 1 year ago

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ridiculously long list of things i’ve noticed about thomas grant and adam wadsworth’s portrayals of albus and scorpius

sorry in advance if this is messy, i wrote this at like 4am

albus flinches away when james steps too close to him!!!

when scorpius asks albus whether he prefers albus or al, he doesn’t have to think about his answer. instead he just looks shocked that someone was actually asking that, like nobody’s ever considered his feelings before. makes me feel like he’d been waiting his entire life for someone to actually ask him that.

tom’s albus doesn’t cry during the fight with harry like i’ve seen a lot of the other actors do. he just stares blankly ahead of him and completely shuts down. i’m head over heels in love with this choice because it really hammers home how hard it is for albus to express his feelings or communicate with anyone.

albus’s reaction to the love potion really really makes me believe that ron intended it to be a mean gay joke. even if ron didn’t intend for it to come across that way, that’s definitely what albus takes it as.

scorpius is just staring vacantly at a wall before he spots albus on the train in their 4th year. not sure if this is a specific acting choice or if i’m just reading into it too much?

they hold hands for a second and stand with their faces an inch away from each other as soon as they duck into their train compartment. their body language in private is so different from their body language in public.

albus squeezes his eyes closed when they hug. he really needed that physical affection but he hates anyone but scorpius being near him.

scorpius puts his hand on albus’s chest when the train starts moving. nothing to say about that its just really gay.

my favorite delivery of “oooo a quiz… WIZZO!!!” i fucking love how he does jazz hands when he says it, especially because it’s the second time he does jazz hands in that scene. he’s so me.

albus does so many little hand gestures in this scene, he’s way more comfortable being expressive around scorpius. he almost mirrors scorpius’s stupid little mannerisms.

bonus- not scorbus related but craig is first seen wearing his beanie on the train during the this sequence (where albus and scorpius decide to run away)!! idk if they don’t do this in other productions or if i just hadn’t ever picked up on it before, but it’s a really cute detail. does anyone know if he canonically got it when he became head boy?

when amos first tells them to leave, scorpius grabs onto albus’s sleeve

not even technically them but the ron and harry actors grab onto each other sooooo much (as albus and scorpius)

in love with how long scorpius hold out his “WIIIIIIIZZZOOOO” and how albus tries to match his energy with the “DOUBLE WIZZO”

delphi steals scorp’s little phrases and his awkward way of speaking and his mannerisms to try and appeal to albus because she knows that he reeeeally likes him- and i hate hate HATEEEE how she makes him feel like a freak for being himself when all the while she’s stealing his personality. scorpius plays with the fabric of his sweater and then fidgets with his hands after she tries to make him feel left out in the forbidden forest and i can FEEL what he’s feeling through the screen.

scorpius is JEALOUS jealous of delphi and when he talks to her his voice is quiet and monotone, which is the most un-scorpius thing ever. i love it. you can feel how much he hates her. i hate her too, this delphi is despicable. (very talented actress!!)

when scorpius tears his eyes away from the beautiful sight in front of them to look at albus and say “you’re my best friend” (which is crazy enough on its own) he talks in a really sweet, low voice before returning really quickly to his normal scorp-voice, as if he was afraid to let albus think about what had just happened

albus jumps up and down with excitement when they announce the triwizard tournament. he starts and then has to stop himself from cheering for hogwarts. funny that a guy who was just saying how much he hates hogwarts would do a thing like that.

everyone around scorpius gets startled when he starts cheering for krum because his screaming is so weird lmao

at the end of the scene where albus tells scorpius they’ll be better off without each other, scorpius just slumps over on the steps and stays there for the ENTIRETY of the next scene until he eventually gets wheeled off with the stairs. it looks like he’s fiddling with something? maybe his wand? maybe just his hands?

obviously the staircase ballet is the staircase ballet, but the way they look at each other is just AAAAUUUUGHHHHHHH

at the end of the ballet scorpius steps towards albus first, but albus is the one who reaches his hand out and slinks down onto the steps

obsessed with that gay little purse scorpius carries the time turner in

delphi gets scorpius to let his guard down during their conversation and scorpius starts talking like himself in front of her again!!!

albus does the little puke-gag-joke-thing in the library to try and make scorpius feel better </3

they’re both fidgeting with their hands throughout their whole conversation :(

ALBUS’S LITTLE GIGGLE WHEN SCORPIUS AGREES TO COME WITH HIM TO FIX TIME

this isn’t specific to this production but scorpius’s shoes are one of my favorite details. in the normal world, he wears big clunky shoes to showcase his awkwardness, whereas in the dark dimension he wears running shoes!! evil scorp is athletic!!!

the second “im fighting for albus” that comes out of scorpius’s mouth is said almost entirely to himself

their little hug in the water :,)

i LOVE LOVE LOVE that scorpius tries to hug draco and he pushes him away and throws his jacket at him in such a cold manner. it makes their hug near the end feel so much more important to their relationship. as soon as we meet scorpius he immediately refers to himself as having daddy issues and we don’t see nearly enough of that in this play.

bonus p2- one of my favorite parts of this show is the in trouble again number!!! i love the background gang and all of their little scenes like this. craig being a little gossip monger is funny as shit!!!! it gives him so much personality and makes his death that much sadder :(

the delivery of “scorpius….. he matters to me…. you know that don’t you?” is INSANE. tom grant delivers all of the coming out adjacent lines so perfectly.

i love how scorpius moves his body. he waves his arms around in the air so often.

scorpius tickled albus lmao they’re so weird

when scorpius talks about hating the other world, albus throws in “apart from polly chapman fancying you” quite bitterly and scorpius almost completely cuts him off. he doesn’t acknowledge what he said in any way shape or form and albus seems to notice that he’s not interested in polly.

scorpius rubs his socks on the floor while he talks :3

the choice to have scorpius move from his bed to albus’s bed and pull albus’s blanket into his lap when he tells him that he changed himself back for him is so AAAUGHHH

AND SCORPIUS DOES THE SAME THING THAT HE DID EARLIER AGAIN!!! he gets all quiet and sweet when he’s sort of admitting his feelings to albus and then all of a sudden he stands up and goes back to his normal loud voice

“MALFOY THE UNANXIOUS IS A PRRRRRETTY GOOD LIIIIAAAR”

delphi mocking scorpius and him immediately tensing up oh he hates her ass so much

scorpius reaches out to try and intercept albus handing delphi the time turner and albus giggles at scorpius because he’s happy she’s not extremely pissed at them

scorpius holds onto the railing right up until he gets his hands bound together because he’s afraid of heights. thought it was cute that adam chose to do this even though his fear of heights isn’t mentioned anywhere in this version.

i LOVE the torture scene in this version. albus is stone faced when delphi is threatening to torture him and then he IMMEDIATELY falls to his knees begging and pleading when she turns toward scorpius.

delphi is quite literally outing albus in this scene. the silence after she says that love is his weakness and points to scorpius is SO long and SO loud omg. it’s quite literally ten whole seconds (i counted) of albus and scorpius just looking at each other. it genuinely feels like she just spilled out what he’s been keeping inside of himself for so long, it’s gutwrenching. i guess they did just watch craig die so they do in fact have bigger problems, but you can see albus’s heart stop beating and its so terrible.

i love how albus turns to scorpius when the stationmaster starts unintelligibly talking to them like “hey, you’re doing the talking rn just so you know”

i’m obsessed with how excited scorpius is to tell albus all about the history of the place they’re in. in love with his little gasps at everything he sees and his jump when he says “SQUEAK!”

albus motioning for scorpius to stop when he’s demonstrating how to scream for help lmaoooo

albus pointing with both hands at scorpius while they try to come up with a plan is so cute. albus believes in him so much.

i love how scorpius keeps hugging draco even as he’s talking

their foreheads are literally brushing against each other my god these bitches gay

albus asks “and thats who you want in your palace?” in an almost panicked way like he’s afraid scorpius doesn’t feel the same way about him.

albus holds onto scorpius’s shoulders while rose tries to reassure them that they didn’t just get walked in on lmao

3rd and final instance of scorpius trying to change the subject- asking immediately about quidditch so albus doesn’t get the chance to say anything related to what just happened

scorpius says “come on” like he’s trying to get albus to come cut a rug with him at a middle school dance

obsessed with their little gagging and puking bit and how they made it a callback to what albus does in the library

maybe my favorite hug moment from any scorbus duo. i love how albus initially reacts with shock but then melts into it and closes his eyes, only pulling away to make sure he’s not reading the situation entirely wrong (he’s not)

my favorite ending scene by far. the coming out hits SO hard. the way albus fiddles with his zipper and scrunches up his sleeve in his hand, you can tell how absolutely terrified he is of saying this to his dad. the line delivery is genuinely fantastic. the more he pauses the longer you have to take it all in- and he pauses a LOT.

okie thanks for reading!!!!!

#hpcc #scorbus #the cursed child #scorpius malfoy #albus potter #albus severus potter #harry potter and the cursed child #harry potter #albus x scorpius #cursed child #scorpius hyperion malfoy #craig bowker jr #james sirius potter #lily luna potter #rose granger weasley #yann fredericks #polly chapman #karl jenkins

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pollenallergie · 2 years ago

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🫶🏻🫶🏻

Enough | A Make Up Story | Tom Grant x You | Series Masterlist

Chapter 12: A Bittersweet Feeling Words: 2k

On Friday, you woke up in Tom's arms.

You'd eventually stumbled to bed last night after the storm blew over, and spent another hour taking things soft and slow. Like you had all the time in the world.

Even though you didn't. You could practically hear the clock ticking as you mapped out the rest of your stay. You're expected back at work in three days. Your chest felt heavy. You stared at the ceiling as if it were going to start moving downward and crush you.

And then Tom turns over, slings an arm across your stomach, and buries his face in your neck. You smile and tilt your head toward his, bringing up a hand to stroke his arm gently.

You let him lie there and doze until his alarm goes off. He twists around and smacks the clock with a grumble, then returns to you.

"Was dreaming 'bout you," he mumbles.

"Was it a good dream?"

"The best dream." He nuzzles into you again, and warmth spreads through your whole body.

"Are you gonna tell me about it?" you whisper.

"Nope." Tom nips at your shoulder, kisses your cheek, and rolls out of bed in what seems like one move. You chuckle, roll your eyes affectionately, and sit up.

"You don't have to get up with me." He bends to pull on his pants. "You're not on a Shirley Schedule."

"If I get April's done while you're working, that's more time to spend with you."

"You're almost done?" he asks, turning around with a shocked look.

"I mean, it's a little place," you yawn. "Only so much she could fit in there."

"I didn't mean to make you do all that on your own," he says, sitting on the edge of the bed next to you. "I really thought we'd be doing it together… but between trying to get caught up on my regular work, and the rain last night…" He winces.

"It's alright, Tom. I've enjoyed it." You pick a stray hair off his shirt. "Not nearly as much as my evenings with you, but I've enjoyed it."

He cups your cheeks and comes in for a kiss. You wrap your arms around him and wish you could keep him here forever. Just like this.

Tom rests his forehead against yours. "I wish I didn't have to go." Before you can whisper that it's alright, he continues. "I wish you didn't have to go either."

Why does it feel like you just got stabbed in the heart?

Tom kisses your forehead and stands to continue getting dressed as if nothing had happened.

"You want me to make you breakfast?" you ask from the bed, trying your damnedest to make it come out in more than a whisper.

"Cereal's fine, love."

He's never called you that before.

Tom ate standing over the sink while you slowly dressed, came back for a peck, and left for work.

You gathered April's bedding and the clothes from her hamper - which you'd been too embarrassed to deal with yesterday - and hauled them to the laundry room in the main building. Thankfully, no one else was there this early.

While you waited for the laundry to finish, you wondered what your life would be like if you didn't go home. What if Tom really did want you to stay? Would you always feel this way about each other? Would it always be this easy? Not trying desperately to be seen, or begging to be loved? What if you found a job down here that you didn't hate? Or even if you did hate it, would coming home to him make it seem worth it? Would you still be this happy together a decade from now?

Or would he tire of you in a week or two, like she did? What if Ruth came back? He seemed adamant about being done with her… but if anyone asked, you felt that way about Jade, too.

Why were you never enough for her? Do you even have a right to be heartbroken over her, since she was never really yours? You can see why she'd want someone other than you, but how could Ruth leave someone as sweet as Tom? Was he obsessing over these kind of things when you were apart as well? Why did it feel like everything was okay when he was around? Why did he want you around? Why was it so easy for him to ask you to stay? Why was it so hard for her?

No matter what, your thoughts always came back to Jade.

You'd spent five years holding onto a life you didn't like while you waited for her. The same job. The same tiny bedroom. The same flatmate you think you might hate. And for what? A few crumbs of affection. A few weeks with her that could make you forget how awful everything else in your life was for a little while.

Did you really think leaving her would be this easy? That you could just say "goodbye" and you'd be over her?

What were you supposed to do now? Wait for her to cast Ruth aside and come back to you? What if she didn't? What if it was truly over, and you were never going to see her again? What if Ruth really could give her what you couldn't? You didn't even know what it was she wanted. Only that you couldn't provide it.

As the pressure in your chest approached unbearable, a neon pink blur flashed in front of your face and jolted you out of your thoughts. You jumped in surprise, and then turned your head to watch it… bounce. It's a little bouncy ball, the kind you used to get out of gumball machines as a kid.

Squeaking sneakers and a strange clacking follow, and a kid skids to a stop in front of you.

"Have you seen a--"

You point to the direction the ball went, and the young girl runs to find it. She comes back a second later, ball in hand, and you finally get a good look at her.

She's young; maybe eleven or twelve. A cute kid with long, braided hair with beads at the bottom. That explains the clacking.

"Sorry. Didn't know anyone was in here."

"It's alright. Most exciting thing that's happened since I got here," you smile.

"I'm Kippa. Who are you?"

You introduce yourself and tell her that you're just visiting.

"I live here with my grandparents. It's boring in winter."

"So I've heard."

She stands there awkwardly, sizing you up.

"I like your hair," you compliment, to break the silence.

"Thanks! My friend Jade did it."

That's Jade; making friends everywhere she goes.

"Your friend Jade did a very good job. Not very stealthy, though," you teasingly gesture to the beads.

"Gran says it's like putting a bell on a goat," she rolls her eyes.

You laugh.

The dryer finally buzzes, and you get up.

"I better go," Kippa says hurriedly, as if she thought she might be roped into helping a stranger with their laundry.

"It was nice to meet you. Happy bouncing!" She smiles and disappears, and you empty the dryer feeling oddly peaceful.

You returned to April's house and got back to packing.

Your mind drifted to Tom.

He was hiding it well, but he was probably just as lost as you were. You were so grateful for him. You don't know what kind of mess you'd be in if he hadn't come into your life that awful Friday night.

Tom was wonderful. He was sweet, and kind, and funny. He cared for people, and it was genuine. On Friday night, when you saw Jade with Ruth, you didn't think you'd ever be okay again. But then you nearly ran over Tom, and everything changed. He brought you into his life when he didn't have to, and turned what could've been an awful week of moping into something amazing.

But what if he only wanted you there because you muted the Ruth in his brain, like he did the Jade in yours? Even if he did want you for real, how could you really start something this soon? You'd both just had your hearts broken by people you'd loved for years. People that you'd built your lives around. Hoped for futures with.

You adored him. He was one of the best people you'd ever met. He didn't deserve to have his heart broken. He deserved to be loved, and held, and cared for. He deserved to be happy. Tom Grant deserved the world.

But you couldn't give it to him.

Not when you're still haunted by thoughts of her.

After a while, it began to feel like you were packing your feelings away just like April's treasures.

You were taping up the box of bedding when you heard Tom calling your name from the front door.

"Hey," you greeted, emerging from the back with what you hoped was an unbothered expression.

"Ready for a lunch break?"

"Sure," you smile. Tom reaches for your hand, and you walk together across the yard. You stand side by side at the counter and silently prepare a sandwiches. You're going to miss this.

He comes alive once he starts eating.

"Talked to April this morning."

"Yeah?" You feel your spirits rise.

"Yeah. They're releasing her next week. Physical therapist is coming to her, so she can recuperate at her granddaughter's house."

"That's wonderful! It's gotta be a lot easier on her, being somewhere comfortable instead of the hospital."

Tom nods.

"You wanna go out tonight?" he asks suddenly.

"Out?"

"There's a pub just outside of town I think you'll like. Might be fun to get outta here for a bit."

"Sure," you smile. You don't care where you are, as long as you're with him.

"I'll try to get off a bit early today, help you with the packing. Then we can shower and head out around dark."

"Sounds good."

You finished packing in that gray area between late afternoon and early evening. You walked through April's small house, making sure you hadn't missed anything. But the pictures from the walls were stacked in the living room. The bed was stripped and the sheets were washed, folded, and packed. The closets and cabinets were empty. April's entire life had been carefully packed, meticulously labeled, and stacked in the kitchen in just a few days. Is this what a person's life comes down to? A lifetime of memories packed in cardboard?

You eyed a box with a star on each corner. It contained April's freshly laundered bedding, and clothes that would be easy for a person with a broken hip to get in and out of. You wish you'd known her well enough to have packed her favorite books or trinkets in the box as well, but you figured she'd appreciate the gesture anyway.

You were sitting on her front porch when Tom came to find you.

"Sorry, lots of leaks last night with the rain." He rubs the back of his neck like he's embarrassed. "Shall we?"

"It's done."

"What?"

"The packing. It's done."

Tom walks by you and into the house, returning a moment later. "You really did it."

"Yup." It's a bittersweet feeling. You've done something to help out a friend. It was relaxing work. But that was your last reason to stay. Why hadn't you taken longer?

Tom drops into the chair next to you. "I'm really sorry you had to do all that on your own. That's not at all what I meant to happen."

"It's fine, Tom," you assure him. "It was for April. I didn't mind a bit."

"You know this was her idea?"

"It was?"

"I volunteered to pack for her the second she said that she didn't want strangers touching her things. Then she asked me about you. Told her we were going to pick up your car after we left, because that's why you were still with me. Told her I was gonna miss you. So she invented a reason for you to stay."

A tear slides down your cheek.

"Maybe she just didn't want you to be lonely, with her away."

"Are you ever going to fucking accept that I like having you here?"

"Probably not," you laugh, swiping at your leaking eyes.

"C'mon, you stubborn woman, let's go get ready. Can't let your entire vacation pass you by without having at least a little fun."

#oh 🥹🥹#oh this is so sweet #oh my god #please don’t goooo tom has feelings for youuuuuu #this could be loveeeeeee don’t goooooo #don’t leave that poor man lonely #he’s so sweet #i love him #my sweet boy #tom grant is enough #tom grant x reader #fic recs #fic rec #wheels <3 #moots my beloved <3

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mama-qwerty · 25 days ago

Text

It's Mother's Day in the US, so here's a reblog of Maddie's first.

~~~

Maddie's First Mother's Day

~Monday – Six Days Before Mother’s Day

Sheriff Tom Wachowski leaned against the counter as he sipped his coffee. Maddie had gone to the clinic early today, and it was his turn to tend to their three boys. A red echidna, blue hedgehog, and golden fox sat at the kitchen island, each working through today’s breakfast.

Knuckles the echidna carefully worked a spoon into a grapefruit half, being wary to not get sprayed with juice. Again. He seemed to have an easier time now that he wore finger-less sports gloves instead of his over-sized boxing mitts. They allowed him much more dexterity for day-to-day life.

Sonic the hedgehog scooped Froot Loops into his mouth, in between yawns. The boy slept deep, but his unique metabolism meant he burned a lot of calories even while asleep. He was always tired in the mornings until he shoveled in enough food to equalize the calories he had burned the night before.

Tails the fox munched on a bowl of dry mini-wheats, taking a gulp of milk every now and then to wash them down. He focused on a small box on the counter, tweaking and tightening various cogs and screws inside with his screwdriver. The kid was always tinkering with something.

The morning was quiet, save for the sounds of three tired boys eating. Maddie usually had morning duty, and started the day with smiles, head kisses, and gentle conversation to ease the boys into full wakefulness. Tom, on the other hand, wasn’t exactly a morning person, so this slow-moving silence suited him just fine.

Stifling a yawn, he glanced at the calendar next to the archway to the living room. His wife had dutifully crossed off all previous days, with the exception of the last two. This past weekend had been crazy with yard work and multiple trips to the hardware store—the beautiful spring weather had been the perfect time to tend to some much-needed household repairs and cleanup—and the new month had started yesterday. Time to flip the page.

“Tails, no tinkering at breakfast,” Tom said as he moved to change the calendar. The little fox flicked his ears backward at the reminder, tucking the small box and screwdriver into the small bag slung across him.

“Sorry, Mr. To—uh, Dad.”

The Sheriff smiled. It had taken some time for Tails to accept this as his home, and he and his wife as his parental figures. Given the kit’s history of isolation and rejection, not only by his actual parents but also his village, it was understandable. He still slipped back into the names he called them from the beginning, on occasion. But all in all, he had acclimated to home and family life fairly well.

Tom pinned the old month’s page up, and did a quick scan of the days to come. One particular entry caught his eye, and smiled.

“Well, look at at that,” he said, perking the ears of his three boys.

“What?” Sonic asked, spooning another bite of Froot Loops into his mouth. “Look at what?”

“Mother’s Day is coming up,” Tom said, turning to refill his coffee. “This will be Maddie’s first one since you guys came crashing into our lives.”

Sonic nearly choked on his cereal. “Mother’s Day? When?”

“This coming Sunday,” Tom said, taking a careful sip from his cup. “If you want to do something, you’d better start thinking.”

“What is Mother’s Day?” Knuckles asked, eyebrow cocked.

“It’s a day when families honor the mother, or mother figure, in them,” Tails said, fiddling with a dial on his Miles Electric pad. He always carried it with him to research things he didn’t understand. “Women tend to carry the emotional and mental loads in families—like remembering all the little day-to-day stuff, being supportive and caring, stuff like that—and sometimes everything they do can get overlooked.”

Tom nodded. “Right, moms can get taken for granted simply because they’re so on top of things. A lot of things. So once a year there’s a day to remind everyone to thank them and celebrate how special they are.”

Knuckles lowered his head, brow furrowed. “Hmm.”

Keep reading on ao3

#my writing #maddie wachowski #mother's day #sonic fanfiction #sonic the hedgehog #knuckles the echidna #tails the fox

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hisfavegirl · 22 days ago

Text

The Edge of Wrong - Tom Glynn - Carney x StepDaugther!Reader.

Summary : If someone told you five years ago that your mother end up marrying to him, you would’ve laughed. Or screamed. Or both. Tom Glynn - Carney was the definition of nightmare: moody, arrogant, sharp-jawed and sharper-tongued. He was the guy who walked like the world owed him something and looked like he’d already taken it. You met once—at his wedding to your mom. But one night everything changes and now you're his. His secret, his lover, his love, not just his stepdaughter.

Warning : Smut +21, Unprotected Sexs, P in V, Age Gap, Forbidden Relationship, Corruption, Rough Sexs, Tits Playing, Fingering, Oral (F and M Receiving), Dom!Tom, Daddy Kink, Overstimulating, Praise Kink, Degradation, Use Of Pet Names, Creampie, Spanking, Breeding Kink.

Tom Glynn - Carney Masterlist.

Aegon II Targaryen Masterlist.

House Of The Dragon Masterlist.

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

The soft buzz of the laptop and the sound of TV filled the room, but all you could focus on was Tom — the way his hands felt on your body, the way his breath hitched whenever you so much as shifted beside him.

A mischievous glint sparked in your eyes as you slowly, deliberately shifted your position. With a teasing little wiggle, you slid around until you were straddling him, knees pressing into the cushions on either side of his hips. Your hands settled lightly on his shoulders, thumbs stroking the tension in the strong muscles there, and you watched the way his jaw tightened, how his blue eyes darkened instantly with the force of what he was holding back.

Tom’s hands snapped to your waist, fingers digging into the soft curve of it, holding you firmly in place.

“Baby…” he warned in a low, strained voice. “You need to behave.”

You only smiled sweetly at him, the picture of innocence, as you leaned in closer, your nose brushing along the sensitive skin of his neck before you nuzzled there — breathing him in, letting your lips ghost feather-light kisses along his pulse.

Tom tipped his head to the side automatically, granting you access without even realizing it. A shudder rippled through his body as you pressed a slow, lingering kiss right at the spot where his heartbeat thundered against your mouth. His hands flexed on your waist again, but this time it wasn’t just to hold you still — it was to ground himself, to stop himself from losing it completely.

You couldn’t help it — you began to grind down slowly against him, just the barest movement, enough to make you both feel it. His cock, already hard as stone, strained against his sweats, pressing right into your core with a desperate kind of need that made you whimper softly into his neck.

Tom groaned, a low, guttural sound that vibrated through your entire body. His hands clamped down on your waist, stopping your hips mid-roll.

“Stop,” he rasped, voice raw with the effort it took. “Behave, or I swear, baby… you’re not getting what you want.”

You whimpered, resting your forehead against his shoulder, frustration and need pooling low in your belly. Every fiber of you craved him — the way he touched you, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing that ever mattered. You pressed the softest, most apologetic kisses into his skin, your lips tracing over the edge of his jaw.

“But...” you breathed out, your voice trembling slightly with want, “I can feel you… you want it too…”

He sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, his hands moving up and down your sides in a soothing, restraining motion. His fingers traced the curve of your waist like he was memorizing it, like it was the only thing anchoring him to control.

“Of course I want it,” he muttered roughly against your ear, his lips brushing your skin and sending shivers racing down your spine. “I always want you. But not here. Not with your mom just a room away.”

You whimpered again, hips shifting unconsciously against him, desperate for friction, for more — but he held you firm, refusing to give in.

You lifted your head to look at him, bottom lip caught between your teeth, eyes wide and pleading. “Please…”

He cursed under his breath, closing his eyes for a moment like he was praying for strength. When he opened them again, the blue was nearly swallowed whole by black, his pupils blown wide with need. His thumb brushed along your lower lip, pulling it free from your teeth, tracing the softness there.

“You’re killing me, angel,” he whispered. You leaned into his touch, heart hammering, your body aching for him.

“Then do something about it,” you whispered back, your voice trembling with vulnerability and trust, a silent plea he could never ignore.

For a moment, he just looked at you — really looked at you — like you were something precious, something he didn’t quite deserve but would fight like hell to keep. His hands moved up to your face, cradling it gently as if you were something breakable. His thumbs brushed your cheeks, the touch so soft it made tears sting at the back of your eyes.

“You have no idea,” he murmured, “how much I love you.”

The sincerity in his voice broke you a little. You nodded, unable to find your voice, and leaned into his kiss when he finally closed the distance between you.

It wasn’t rough or hurried. It was slow. Deep. Reverent. His mouth molded to yours like it was home. His hands tangled in your hair, holding you close, and your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling yourself impossibly tighter against him.

The need between you simmered just under the surface, every kiss, every caress feeding the fire — but neither of you crossed the line. Not yet. You trusted him to take care of you, and he trusted you to wait for him.

You could feel his heartbeat pounding against your chest as he whispered against your lips, “Just wait ’til I get you alone.”

You smiled, your body melting against him, knowing the wait would be worth it — because when Tom loved you, he loved you completely and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

The clock on the wall ticked louder than usual as the minutes dragged on. You barely registered your mom fussing when she noticed the time, scrambling to the front door from upstairs.

“Honey, I’m gonna be gone for a while,” Your mom said quickly, stuffing her phone and wallet into her purse. “Gotta check the office and hangout with the girls tonight.”

Tom nodded distractedly, still half-focused on you — more on you than anything else, really — while you stayed curled perfectly beside him, still absorbed in your phone, oblivious to the growing tension stretching between your bodies.

“Okay, love. Take your time,” Tom said easily, before giving your mom a kiss.

You barely hummed in acknowledgment, not even glancing up, your thumb lazily scrolling, the soft glow of the screen lighting up your pretty, completely unbothered face.

But Tom’s attention was nowhere else.

His eyes tracked every little movement you made — the absent-minded way you swung your feet, the soft curve of your mouth, the way your hair fell around your face like a halo.

And when the front door finally clicked shut behind her, when the distant sound of her car engine roared to life and slowly, slowly faded into silence, Tom’s demeanor shifted.

You didn’t see it — didn’t see the way his blue eyes darkened into something deeper, more dangerous. Something that had been brewing for the past hour, simmering beneath his skin as he held himself back while your mom was still there.

But now?

Now it was just you and him.

Without warning, strong hands gripped your hips dragging you to his lap and then he squeezed your ass hard, dragging you down flush against him.

You gasped, the sound coming out almost like a whimper, your phone slipping from your hand onto the couch beside you.

You finally looked at him — Wide eyes meeting his.

Tom’s gaze was molten, heavy-lidded, and filled with so much raw hunger it made your breath catch.

“Finally,” he growled, voice low and rough as his fingers dug deeper into the soft flesh of your ass, possessive and greedy.

You blinked up at him, confused and dazed, your lips parting slightly. “Tom…?”

He smirked slowly, predatorily, tugging you even closer until you could feel every hard inch of him pressing up against the thin barrier of your clothes.

“You really think you can sit there,” he murmured, thumb stroking the dip of your waist almost soothingly — almost — “being so goddamn sweet, so goddamn innocent… teasing me… and not pay for it?”

Your cheeks flushed instantly, heart thudding wildly in your chest.

“I wasn’t—” you started to protest, but he cut you off with a firm squeeze, making you gasp again, your body instinctively arching into him.

“Yes, you were,” he said, tone leaving no room for argument. His hands started to roam — slow, deliberate, claiming every inch of you. “You don’t even realize what you do to me, do you, baby?”

You shook your head weakly, dizzy from the intensity of his stare, the feel of him beneath you, surrounding you. He chuckled darkly, low and dangerous, one hand sliding up your spine to tangle gently but firmly into your hair.

“Good,” he whispered. “Because if you did… you’d know just how close I am to losing every bit of control I have left.”

You whimpered at the confession, the need in your belly coiling tighter and tighter. Tom leaned in, his lips brushing your ear, his voice a silken, sinful promise.

“Now,” he whispered, “you’re gonna sit here, like a good girl, and let me enjoy you.”

You shivered, instinctively nodding, the heat of his body burning through your clothes, his grip never faltering.

“That’s it,” he praised softly, nipping lightly at your earlobe. “That’s my good girl.”

His praise made your whole body shudder with want, need flooding you so fast it left you dizzy. Tom’s hands kept moving — slow, teasing passes down your back, your sides, your thighs — like he was memorizing you all over again.

He shifted you slightly, settling you even deeper into his lap so he could feel everything, and you could feel just how badly he wanted you.

“You drive me crazy,” he murmured against your skin, kissing along your jaw, his lips warm and sure. “Sitting on my lap suddenly like you’re not the most tempting thing I’ve ever seen. While your mom literally just a room away from us…”

You whimpered again, involuntarily grinding your hips against him, needing more. His hands tightened instantly, holding you in place.

“Nuh-uh, baby,” he chided softly, dominance curling into every syllable. “You move when I say you can move.”

You bit your lip, wide-eyed, every muscle in your body trembling with the effort to obey. Tom smiled at the sight, dark and wicked and so proud.

“Such a good girl,” he murmured again, rewarding you with a slow, deep kiss — one hand tilting your chin up, the other anchored firmly at your waist.

The kiss was devastating — a slow claiming, a pouring out of everything he’d been holding back: the hunger, the need, the pure worship he felt when he touched you. His tongue slid against yours in a slow, sensual dance that had your toes curling, your body melting into him.

He only pulled back when you were gasping, your hands clutching at his shirt desperately. He rested his forehead against yours, both of you breathing hard.

“This is mine,” he said, squeezing your waist possessively.

“And you’re gonna let me remind you just how much… when I’m ready.”

You nodded, barely able to speak, completely at his mercy. And Tom — your Tom — just smiled that dark, satisfied smile, his hands already starting to roam again, slow and sure.

A startled yelp tore from your throat when Tom, without a single warning, shifted his grip under your thighs and stood up — lifting you clean off his lap like you weighed nothing at all.

Your hands flew around his neck instinctively, clinging tightly, your wide eyes locking onto his smirking face.

“Tom!” you squeaked, half laughing, half breathless.

He only chuckled — a dark, warm sound that rumbled from his chest as he carried you effortlessly down the hall, ignoring your playful squirming.

“You’ve been testing me all day, baby,” he said, voice low with wicked amusement. “Now you’re gonna see what happens when you push too far.”

You barely had a second to process his words before Tom kicked your bedroom door open with a solid thud, stepping inside with purpose.

The door swung shut behind him — and then you gasped again when he tossed you onto the bed. You bounced slightly on the soft mattress, a whine slipping from your lips as you scrambled onto your elbows to look at him.

Your breath caught immediately.

Tom’s hands were already tugging his black shirt up and over his head, revealing the strong planes of his chest, the tattoos that always made your stomach flip, the slight flex of muscles under his skin. His hair was a little messy from your earlier touches, his jaw clenched with restraint.

You swallowed thickly, heart hammering against your ribs.

He didn’t say a word — just tossed the shirt aside carelessly and stalked towards the bedside drawer. You watched him with wide eyes, your heart pounding louder in your ears with each step he took.

And then you saw it.

The metal catching the light as he pulled out your favorite pair of handcuffs — the ones lined with plush velvet, the ones he only ever used when you were being especially difficult.

Which, today, you had been.

Your breath hitched. Your thighs pressed together instinctively.

Tom smirked, the kind of dark, knowing smirk that told you he was absolutely aware of what you were thinking — of how badly you wanted this, how much you craved the way he tamed you when you got bratty.

“You know what these mean, don’t you, baby?” he asked, voice dripping with dominance as he twirled the cuffs lazily around one finger.

You nodded quickly, wide-eyed, heat flooding your cheeks.

Tom chuckled darkly, stalking closer to the bed, every movement slow and deliberate — like a predator savoring the moment before pouncing.

“Use your words,” he commanded softly, the low rasp of his voice sending shivers down your spine.

“Y-yes,” you whispered, voice trembling slightly. “I know.”

“And you still decided to be a little tease, didn’t you?” he asked, tilting his head, his tone almost mockingly sweet.

You bit your lip, nodding again.

He climbed onto the bed with you in one fluid motion, his body caging yours in without even touching you yet. His eyes were dark, burning with the need he had been holding back, with the absolute power he had over you in this moment.

“You wanted this,” he murmured, lowering himself until his nose brushed yours. “You wanted me to lose control.”

You whimpered softly, nodding again, unable to tear your gaze away from his. Tom smiled — slow, dangerous, and so devastatingly handsome that it made your chest ache.

“Good,” he whispered against your lips. “Because now you’re mine to tame.”

With that, he slid his hands up your arms — slow, teasing — and gently, but firmly, clasped one cuff around your wrist.

The cold metal kissed your skin, sending a jolt of electricity straight to your core.

You watched, breathless, as Tom expertly guided your other wrist up, locking it into place as well, leaving your hands pinned delicately together above your head.

He tested the cuffs lightly, making sure you were secure but still comfortable — a familiar, tender habit that made your heart clench with love even in the midst of your dizzying need.

You shifted under him, testing the restraint, and Tom’s eyes darkened further, his hand pressing against your hip to keep you still.

“None of that,” he murmured, his voice pure molten dominance. You stilled immediately, your breathing shallow, your body humming with anticipation.

Tom sat back slightly, admiring the sight of you laid out beneath him — wrists bound, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling rapidly, blue eyes glazed with trust and submission.

“You have no idea how beautiful you are like this,” he said, voice raw with emotion.

You whimpered again, feeling your heart squeeze painfully at the sincerity laced in his words — at the way he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered in the world.

He leaned down slowly, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then finally your mouth — a soft, lingering kiss full of promises.

His lips left yours only to trail slowly down your throat, lingering over the sensitive spots he knew drove you crazy, nipping and kissing as he went.

“You’re gonna lay here,” he murmured against your skin, his voice vibrating through you, “and you’re gonna take every damn thing I give you.”

You whimpered again, nodding frantically, your body straining towards him, desperate for more. Tom chuckled — low and dark and so full of satisfaction it made you ache.

“Good girl,” he praised, dragging his mouth slowly, torturously, back up to claim your lips again.

The moment Tom pulled away from your kiss, you chased his mouth instinctively, a small needy whimper escaping you as your wrists strained slightly against the cuffs.

Tom only chuckled — low and rough, the sound vibrating through his chest as he dipped his head, letting his forehead press lightly to yours.

“Easy, baby,” he murmured, smirking. “We’re just getting started.”

His fingertips — calloused and warm — traced an agonizingly slow path down the side of your neck, over your collarbone, across the faint curve of your chest. His touch was featherlight, barely there, teasing you, setting every nerve ending alight.

You whimpered again, your body desperate for more, straining up toward his hand.

Tom watched you with burning eyes, soaking in your every reaction — the way you gasped for breath, the way your hips shifted restlessly against the bed, the way you looked up at him with wide, pleading eyes.

“You look so pretty begging for me,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.

And then — without warning — he gripped the front of your shirt, twisted the fabric in his fists, and ripped it open with one violent tug.

You yelped in shock, your heart leaping into your throat, the sudden tear of fabric loud and shocking in the heavy air of the room.

Buttons flew across the bed and the floor — but Tom wasn’t paying them any attention. Because his gaze was now glued to you. The soft gasp that left him was almost a growl.

The force of the motion had sent a gentle bounce through your breasts, your soft breast on full display for him, vulnerable and exposed.

“Fuck,” he breathed, almost reverently. “No bra?”

Tom’s hands — large and sure — immediately came up to cup you, squeezing almost possessively. You arched instinctively into his palms, a loud gasp ripping from you, your back bowing so beautifully it stole the air from his lungs.

A raw, low moan escaped him — so deep and desperate it made your whole body clench with need.

“You planned this,” he accused, voice rough as gravel, his thumbs brushing over your sensitive peaks with slow, delicious cruelty.

You whimpered, your cheeks flushing deeper, caught somewhere between shameless and utterly undone.

“Answer me,” he demanded, giving your breasts another firm squeeze that had you crying out softly.

“Y-yes,” you confessed in a breathy whisper. Tom chuckled darkly, satisfied, his grip tightening just enough to make you keen.

“My dirty little slut,” he said roughly, pride and lust thick in his voice.

Your body writhed under his touch, your hips grinding into the air without thinking, desperate for friction, for relief, for him.

And then — without even realizing it — you cried out for him in the only way you knew would get you what you wanted.

“Daddy… please,” you whimpered, voice cracked and desperate. His fingers dug just a little deeper into your soft flesh, his eyes darkening until there was almost no blue left, only pure, molten desire.

A slow, wicked smirk curved across his mouth.

“There she is,” he murmured, sounding almost proud. “My good girl, remembering who she belongs to.”

You nodded frantically, moaning softly, feeling your body tremble with anticipation. Tom leaned in, his lips ghosting over the shell of your ear, his breath hot and shivery against your skin.

“You’re mine, baby,” he whispered, his voice a velvet promise. “Mine to tease. Mine to touch. Mine to fuck. Mine to ruin.”

You whimpered again, your body on fire, your soul burning with the overwhelming intensity of how much you needed him.

Tom pulled back just enough to admire you — the way your ruined shirt hung off your shoulders, the way your flushed skin glowed in the dim light, the way you were practically vibrating with need, bound and helpless for him.

He brushed his nose along your jawline, his touch infuriatingly soft compared to the sharp dominance in his posture.

“You’re gonna lay there,” he said slowly, each word dripping with authority, “and you’re gonna take everything I give you, understood princess?.”

“Yes, Daddy,” you breathed, your whole being surrendering to him in that moment.

Tom smiled — a dark, devastatingly beautiful smile.

“And you’re gonna say thank you,” he added, his voice a rumble that vibrated through your bones. You moaned, writhing beneath him, your wrists straining uselessly against the cuffs.

“Thank you, Daddy,” you whimpered, desperate to please him, desperate for more.

Tom’s low growl of satisfaction filled the room — and then he was kissing you again, rough and deep and consuming, one hand tangled in your hair, the other still possessively kneading your breast.

The moment you felt Tom’s warm breath ghosting over your breasts, you arched your body instinctively, chasing the heat of him with a desperate whine.

But he didn’t give in.

Instead, Tom hovered there, his mouth maddeningly close to your nipple — so close that you could feel the soft exhale of his breath, but not the blissful contact you craved.

You whimpered, the sound breaking in your throat as you tugged helplessly against the fuzzy cuffs binding your wrists above your head.

“Please..,” you whined again, your voice sweet and cracking under the weight of your need. He only chuckled, dark and low, sending another wicked shiver down your spine.

“Begging already, baby?” he teased, voice rich with amusement and control. You nodded frantically, your hips shifting restlessly against the bed, your whole body a live wire of sensation.

“Please, Daddy,” you breathed, your voice trembling. “Please touch me… I need you.” Tom tilted his head, his blue eyes practically black with dominance and lust.

“Need me that bad, huh?” he murmured, almost to himself.

His hand snaked down to your waist, squeezing the soft curve there with a bruising possessiveness that made you gasp.

“Then behave,” he commanded in a low growl, his fingers tightening for emphasis.

You whimpered again, nodding quickly, your chest heaving with every ragged breath. As he smirked — slow and devastating — before finally, finally lowering his mouth.

The moment his lips wrapped around your nipple, you cried out, your back arching so sharply it lifted your entire body off the bed.

His mouth was relentless — hot and wet and hungry — as he sucked and licked and nipped, driving you absolutely wild.

You strained against your cuffs, desperate to touch him, to anchor yourself somehow against the overwhelming pleasure crashing through your body.

But Tom didn’t stop to give you a break.

He moved to your other breast with agonizing slowness, kissing a heated trail across your skin before taking your other nipple into his mouth with the same intense, greedy devotion.

You moaned loudly, the sound raw and desperate, filling the room.

“You’re so fucking sensitive for me, baby,” Tom growled between kisses, the vibrations making you writhe beneath him.

“Please,” you begged again, your voice breaking, tears of frustration and pleasure prickling at the corners of your eyes.

Tom chuckled, deep and satisfied, clearly reveling in how undone you were for him.

“Such a good little slut for Daddy,” he praised, alternating between slow, luxurious sucks and sharp little flicks of his tongue that had you gasping and moaning and clenching your thighs together.

You could barely think, barely breathe.

Every touch, every kiss, every growled word from him only pushed you deeper under, drowning in the overwhelming need only he could satisfy.

Tom pulled back just slightly, his lips swollen and glistening from the attention he had lavished on you, a cocky, possessive smirk playing on his mouth as he looked down at you.

You were a mess — panting, flushed, trembling, desperate — and he looked so proud of the state he had reduced you to.

“You gonna be good for me now, princess?” he asked, dragging the tip of his nose along your jawline, the motion tender yet commanding all at once.

“Yes, Daddy,” you sobbed, your whole body aching for him.

“Good girl,” he praised, the two simple words sinking into your skin like a brand.

Then, without any more warning, he was lowering himself again, his mouth reclaiming you, devouring your breasts alternately with a slow, ravenous hunger that had you spiraling higher and higher.

Your body was already a trembling mess beneath him — wrists straining against the cuffs, hips grinding helplessly against the mattress, your skin slick with heat and need.

And then — with no warning at all — you felt the slow, deliberate press of Tom’s fingers slipping between your thighs, parting you with a devastating tenderness that made your whole body seize in anticipation.

You gasped sharply, arching into his touch as his fingertips slid through your wetness.

“Goddamn,” Tom breathed against your breast, his voice ragged with raw hunger. “So fucking wet for me already.”

You whimpered, your whole body clenching when you felt two of his fingers slowly, purposefully thrust inside you, stretching you, filling you.

The intrusion was smooth but commanding, no hesitation, just pure, overwhelming possession.

Your head spun. Your hips jerked up to meet his hand. Your moan tore free from your throat without permission.

Tom groaned against your skin, his lips never leaving your breast even as his fingers began to move — slow at first, almost teasing, pumping into you with a rhythm that immediately sent shockwaves through your body.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmured, his voice vibrating through your chest. “Take it. Take Daddy’s fingers.”

You cried out, squeezing around him instinctively, the tight pull of your body making him hiss in pleasure.

“You feel that?” he growled low in your ear, thrusting his fingers in deep before pulling back and doing it again, harder this time.

You nodded frantically, helpless under the onslaught of sensation.

“Say it,” he commanded, squeezing your waist roughly in his free hand to keep you pinned. “Tell me how good Daddy makes you feel.”

Your body was on fire, your mind barely able to form words, but you obeyed — you always obeyed when he used that voice.

“So good, Daddy,” you moaned, tugging at the cuffs, desperate to touch him, to anchor yourself against the way he was tearing you apart and putting you back together all at once. “Feels so good…”

Tom rewarded you with a deep groan, the sound so primal it made your stomach tighten deliciously.

“Good girl,” he praised, thrusting his fingers harder now, faster, rougher — the wet, obscene sounds of your body welcoming him filling the room, making you both lose yourselves even deeper.

You cried out again, clenching helplessly around him, your walls fluttering, your legs trembling.

Tom lifted his head from your chest just long enough to look down at you — your flushed face, your glassy eyes, the way you bit your lip trying to hold yourself together.

“You gonna come on Daddy’s fingers, pretty girl?” he taunted, his mouth curving into a dark, wicked smile. “Gonna fall apart just because I’m touching you?”

You whimpered a broken “yes,” your body already tipping over the edge, your muscles quivering, the tight heat inside you coiling impossibly tight.

“You’re so desperate for me,” he groaned, curling his fingers inside you in a way that made your vision white out for a second. “So perfect… made for me.”

Every thrust was perfectly timed, perfectly deep, hitting every sensitive spot inside you with brutal precision. You couldn’t help it — you were calling for him, crying out, your voice nothing but his name and his title over and over.

“Daddy… Daddy, please…” you sobbed, your whole body shuddering.

The way you said it — so breathless, so broken, so his — had Tom groaning deep in his chest, his forehead dropping to yours.

“You’re mine,” he whispered fiercely, his thrusts never faltering. “Only mine.”

You nodded frantically, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming intensity of it all — the pleasure, the emotion, the power he had over you.

Tom kissed you then — hard, claiming, utterly dominant — swallowing your desperate cries as he worked you closer and closer to the edge.

The moment you spread your legs wider for him, offering yourself without hesitation, Tom let out a low, primal groan against your skin — a sound that made you shudder and whimper.

“That’s it, baby,” he rasped, voice thick with dark praise. “Show me who you belong to.” His fingers, already deep inside you, took full advantage of the new access.

You gasped sharply when he curled them expertly, hitting that devastating spot that made your vision swim and your back arch clean off the bed.

Your cry filled the room, raw and breathless, while Tom finally lifted his mouth from your breast, leaving a trail of hot kisses up your collarbone, then along your throat.

His teeth grazed your pulse, slow and deliberate, while his fingers kept thrusting into you with a rough, unrelenting pace that had your body trembling violently.

You could feel yourself getting closer with every ruthless stroke, your body tightening, your heart hammering against your ribs like a caged bird.

“Fuck,” Tom groaned against your neck when he felt you clench hard around his fingers, your walls fluttering desperately.

“You’re so fucking tight for me, princess,” he growled, his voice vibrating through your skin.

Then, without warning, his thumb pressed down against your swollen clit, rubbing slow, punishing circles that had your hips jerking helplessly, your whole body crying out for release.

You moaned loudly, your voice breaking into little sobs of pleasure, the sensation almost too much.

Tom chuckled darkly at the sound, the deep, satisfied rumble sending another wave of heat pooling low in your stomach.

“Listen to you,” he taunted, his voice dripping with dominance, with rough, degrading praise. “Making a mess all over my hand like a desperate little slut.”

You whimpered, your wrists tugging uselessly against the cuffs as your body writhed beneath him.

“Can’t even think, can you?” he murmured, nipping lightly at your throat. “All it takes is Daddy’s fingers and you’re already falling apart.”

You sobbed, nodding frantically, needing more, needing him to push you over the edge. Tom’s fingers moved faster now, rougher, his thumb never letting up its ruthless assault on your clit.

“Pathetic little thing,” he growled against your ear, the words sending you spinning deeper into that space only he could drag you into. “Crying for me… begging for your stepfather to fuck you… so fucking needy.”

You whimpered, tears of overwhelming pleasure slipping from your eyes as your body tightened impossibly around him, the tension coiling harder and harder inside you.

“Such a good little slut,” Tom murmured, his breath hot against your cheek. “Made to be used. Made to be broken for me.”

The words shattered something inside you — made your heart and body give up any last shred of resistance. You moaned his name, your voice breaking, your whole body locking up as you teetered right on the brink.

Tom felt it — he knew you were close — and his voice dropped even lower, rough and commanding.

“Come for me, baby,” he ordered, thrusting his fingers deep one last time. “Let go. Show Daddy how good he makes you feel.”

You broke apart in his arms, shattering into a thousand pieces, your body clenching around his fingers in wave after wave of overwhelming pleasure.

Your cries were raw, broken, your hips jerking uncontrollably as Tom held you down, working you through every second of your release.

“That’s it,” he praised darkly, kissing the tears from your cheeks. “That’s my good girl.”

You sobbed softly, your whole body trembling, completely wrecked — completely his — and Tom gathered you into his arms, kissing your forehead tenderly even as his fingers slipped free from your still-twitching body.

You whined helplessly when Tom, still towering over you, brought his soaked fingers to his mouth — his dark, hungry eyes locked on yours.

Slowly, deliberately, he slid his fingers between his lips, sucking them clean with a low, guttural groan that made your entire body shudder.

“Sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted,” he muttered under his breath, voice rough, wrecked with need.

Your chest heaved with shallow breaths, the sight of him undoing you all over again, making your legs tremble in their restraints.

But you barely had time to recover before Tom’s hands big, warm, and unrelenting grabbed your thighs and parted them wider, baring you completely to him.

You gasped, trying to squirm, but he just growled lowly, the sound vibrating against your skin as he settled himself between your legs, his face so close you could feel the heat of his breath.

Tom’s hands gripped your thighs possessively, pinning you down like you might dare to escape him — like you even could if you tried.

“Look at you,” he murmured darkly, his thumb brushing dangerously close to your cunt but never quite touching. “So pretty… so perfect… so ready for me.”

You moaned brokenly, tugging weakly at the cuffs around your wrists, desperate for something — anything — but all you could do was lie there and take it.

Tom gave you one last wicked smirk before leaning in, his tongue darting out and licking a slow, deliberate stripe up your soaked folds.

You cried out, your back arching sharply off the bed as your body jolted in pure, blinding pleasure.

Tom groaned against you — a deep, desperate sound — as if he couldn’t get enough, as if he needed you just as badly as you needed him.

“Fuck, baby…” he growled, his breath hot against your cunt. “Tastes even better straight from the source.”

His mouth sealed over you, his tongue licked, sucked with a ruthless hunger that had your head spinning, your vision blurring at the edges.

You sobbed, your hips trying to buck against him, but Tom was relentless — his hand clamped down hard on your thighs, forcing you to stay open, to take everything he gave you.

Every lick of his tongue and thrust of his fingers was rough, determined, perfect — pushing you higher and higher until you thought you might break apart from the intensity alone.

He moaned against you, the vibrations sending new shockwaves of pleasure straight through your core.

And then — as if he knew exactly how to destroy you — his nose brushed up against your swollen clit with every movement, sending electric jolts racing up your spine.

You cried out again, louder this time, the sound echoing off the walls.

You were completely gone — lost to the feel of his mouth, his tongue, his nose grinding against your most sensitive spot while he groaned and devoured you like a starving man.

“That’s it,” Tom murmured roughly between licks, his voice dark and approving. “Give it to me, baby. Let me have it all.”

You whimpered, your body thrashing against his hold, desperate for more, desperate for everything.

“You gonna come again for me, pretty girl?” he taunted, pulling back just enough to blow a hot breath against your soaked folds, making you whine pitifully. “Gonna soak my face like the needy little thing you are?”

You could barely form words — just nodded frantically, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes from the sheer overwhelming pleasure.

Tom chuckled darkly, the sound sending another shiver down your spine.

“Good girl,” he growled, and then he was on you again — sucking, licking, thrusting his tongue into you so ruthlessly that your world tilted on its axis.

You screamed his name, your whole body locking up as the orgasm crashed into you, tearing you apart at the seams.

Tom didn’t stop — he kept working you through it, dragging every last wave of pleasure from your writhing, sobbing body until you finally sagged against the bed, completely, utterly spent. Only then did he pull away, his face glistening with your release, his eyes dark and wild and so proud.

He climbed up your body, releasing your wrists from the cuffs with a soft clink, and gathered you in his arms, cradling you against his chest like you were something precious — because to him, you were.

“You’re mine,” he whispered against your hair, voice wrecked with emotion. “Always mine.”

And you clung to him, your heart still racing, knowing without a doubt that there was nowhere in the world you were safer — or more utterly his — than right there, in Tom’s arms.

You whimpered quietly against Tom’s chest, your body still trembling, your heart racing with the aftershocks of what he’d just done to you.

But even in your dazed state, you couldn’t ignore the hard, heavy pressure of his cock pressed insistently against your stomach — burning hot even through his sweats.

He held you tightly, possessively, his big hands rubbing slow circles along your back as if trying to soothe you.

You felt his heart pounding just as fiercely against your ear, betraying just how much he needed you too, even if he was trying to keep you calm, keep you waiting.

“Behave, angel,” he murmured lowly against your hair, his voice rough with warning, dominance lacing every syllable.

But something in you — that stubborn, bratty part he loved just as much as he loved punishing — refused to listen. You knew the truth. He needed you just as desperately as you needed him. Maybe even more.

Slowly, deliberately, your fingers brushed over the mattress until you found the handcuffs he had discarded earlier.

You grabbed them with trembling hands and, before Tom could react, you slipped them over one of his wrists and clicked them closed with a soft metallic snick. Tom chuckled darkly against you — a low, dangerous sound that sent a fresh shiver racing down your spine.

“Oh, so that’s how you wanna play, huh?” he rumbled, his free hand sliding down to grip your ass possessively, squeezing hard enough to make you gasp.

You didn’t answer — just met his heated gaze with a coy little smile as you slowly moved back, straddling his lap again. His eyes burned into you, the hunger and amusement clear in the way he let you do it, for now.

Your hands trembled slightly — from excitement, from nerves — as you moved to the waist band of his sweats, working it open with slow, teasing movements. Tom’s jaw tensed, his free hand tightening on your hip as he watched you.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, baby,” he warned, voice a low growl vibrating straight into your bones.

“Don’t forget who’s in charge.” You bit your lip, looking up at him through your lashes — all innocent, all temptation — and slowly tugged the material down.

He hissed through his teeth when you peeled his sweats down just enough, freeing his thick, heavy cock from its confines.

It sprang free, flushed and hard, the tip glistening slightly, and the sight made your mouth water, your thighs clench around him.

Tom groaned, his head tipping back slightly, his muscles taut with restraint.

“Fuck, baby,” he muttered, his handcuffed wrist straining slightly as if he needed to touch you, to grab you, but couldn’t.

You leaned in, brushing the tip of your nose teasingly along his jaw before whispering against his ear, “Thought you said I should behave?”

Tom’s low, wrecked laugh made your heart stutter in your chest. He turned his head, fixing you with a look so intense it stole the breath right out of your lungs.

“Oh, you’re gonna regret this, princess,” he promised darkly.

“You think you’re in control just ‘cause I’m letting you have a little fun?” He shifted his hips up just slightly, letting his cock press harder against your stomach, making you gasp at the sheer heat of him.

“You forget who owns you,” he growled, his eyes darkening to something almost feral. “Whose good little girl you are.” You whimpered, your body arching instinctively toward him, the sound making his lips curl into a slow, wicked smirk.

“That’s right,” he murmured approvingly, his free hand trailing up your body, slow and possessive.

“You don’t make the rules here, baby.” He gave your hip a sharp squeeze, making you cry out softly. “But i will let you pretend for a minute, but you know who you belong to.”

You nodded frantically, your breathing shallow, desperate for him to touch you properly — to claim you the way you craved.

The heavy sound of Tom’s breathing filled the room, thick and uneven, matching the rapid pounding of your heart.

Your hand, so small against him, wrapped gently around the base of his cock, feeling the heat, the way he pulsed eagerly in your grip.

You glanced up at him through your lashes — the way he was watching you, dark and wild-eyed, made your stomach flip with anticipation.

You pressed a soft, teasing kiss right against the flushed, sensitive tip, tasting the faint salt of him. Tom groaned deep in his throat, his free hand moving to your hair — not tugging, not forcing, just weaving his fingers through it, stroking you softly, almost reverently.

The tender gesture made you whimper softly, a noise that only made him grip your hair a little tighter.

“Fuck, baby…” he murmured, his voice thick, strained, wrecked already just from your mouth on him. “You’re gonna ruin me…”

Encouraged by the way he shuddered under your touch, you slowly opened your mouth and let your lips part over the very tip of him, your tongue flicking out, tasting him again before sliding down a little deeper.

Tom’s whole body tensed. His hand tightened slightly in your hair, not to hurt, but to anchor himself — to feel you, to remind himself not to lose control too fast. You could feel how hard he was struggling not to take over completely.

“That’s it, good girl,” he rasped, the praise so rough it made your core clench with need. “Nice and slow, just like that…”

You kept your pace deliberate — slow, worshipful, feeling every vein, every throb of him against your tongue. Every time you hollowed your cheeks just a little, Tom groaned, his hips shifting unconsciously, needing more of you.

When he thrust up just slightly without meaning to, the sudden movement made you gag softly around him, and the desperate, broken sound that tore from his throat made your entire body flush with heat.

“Fuck, baby, sorry —” Tom breathed out, his free hand stroking your hair quickly in apology even as his hips rolled up again, chasing your mouth.

You looked up at him again — and the sight was almost too much to bear. His head was tilted back against the pillow, his chest heaving, the muscles of his stomach flexing with every shallow breath.

His lashes fluttered against his flushed cheeks, his free wrist straining against the handcuffs like he physically couldn’t stop himself from wanting to touch you, to grab you, to take control.

The sight made your thighs squeeze together involuntarily. You whimpered around him, the vibration making him curse and buck his hips again.

“You’re fucking killing me, angel,” he growled, voice ragged, pleasure-strained. His hand tightened in your hair again, this time guiding you slowly, not rough but insistent.

“Deeper, baby. You can take it. I know you can,” he encouraged, his voice dropping into a low, commanding tone that had you obeying without a second thought.

You eased down further, taking him deeper into your mouth, feeling his cock twitch against your tongue, hearing the raw, helpless groan he let out when you did.

Your hands slid up, bracing on his thighs as you let him guide you, let him set the rhythm — slow at first, but each glide of your mouth over him making him more desperate, more wild.

“You were made for this, weren’t you, sweet girl?” Tom murmured thickly, his hand fisting in your hair possessively. “Made for me. Only me.” The praise, the possessiveness in his voice, made your entire body ache for him.

You whined softly in response, and Tom’s hips jerked again, deeper this time, but you welcomed it — craved it — taking every inch he gave you until you were lightheaded from the lack of air and the overwhelming closeness of him.

“You feel so good, fuck,” he growled, his voice barely more than a wrecked whisper. “If you keep being this good for me, I’m not gonna last, baby.”

You whimpered again around him, hollowing your cheeks more, and Tom cursed, squeezing his eyes shut as he fought for control.

But even handcuffed, even half undone, Tom was still Tom — still dominant, still in charge. With a soft growl, he tugged you up suddenly by your hair, pulling you off him with a wet pop. You gasped for air, dazed and desperate, staring up at him.

Tom looked absolutely wrecked — his chest heaving, his skin flushed and damp with sweat, his cock throbbing with need between you.

But his eyes — those fierce, dark blue eyes — were laser-focused on you, gleaming with satisfaction and raw, unfiltered possession.

He leaned in, his hand still tangled in your hair, and kissed you hard — deep, messy, claiming — tasting himself on your tongue, tasting you, tasting everything he owned.

“You think you’re in charge ‘cause you had me cuffed?” he growled against your lips, biting your bottom lip lightly and making you moan.

“You’re mine, princess. Always mine. Remember that.”And the way he said it — low, rough, reverent — made you feel like you never wanted to belong to anyone else.

Your breathing came out in ragged, shaky little gasps as you looked up at Tom, your eyes still glassy with need, your body trembling with anticipation.

“Uncuff me,” he said lowly, voice heavy with authority, and you didn’t hesitate — your hands moving automatically, obeying him without a second thought.

The second the cuffs clicked open, Tom moved like lightning — flipping you onto your belly with a sharp tug that knocked the breath out of you in a surprised yelp.

Before you could even react, you felt the solid weight of his hand pressing between your shoulder blades, pinning you hard against the mattress. Your heart thudded wildly, a moan slipping from your lips at the rough control he exerted over you without even trying.

“Stay,” he commanded softly, the rumble of his voice sending shivers down your spine.

You whimpered in response, hips twitching instinctively up toward him, needing more — needing anything he would give you.

You heard him chuckle darkly, the sound low and full of something almost feral, before you felt his hand slide up to the back of your neck. He squeezed — not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to make your head spin deliciously, the weight of his dominance grounding you completely.

Your cheek pressed into the sheets as you moaned from the contact, from the feeling of being so thoroughly, completely his.

“You like that, don’t you?” Tom murmured against your skin, his lips brushing your ear, his breath hot and teasing. “God, you’re such a good little thing for me.”

He kissed your cheek softly — a stark contrast to the rough dominance of his grip — before tightening his hand around your neck just a little more, enough to make you moan louder, your thighs clenching with desperation.

You could feel the heavy, insistent press of his cock against your bare, dripping folds — the contrast of the soft, sensitive head dragging along your soaked heat making your body jolt and whimper under him.

Tom groaned low in his throat as he rubbed himself against you slowly, teasing you mercilessly, sliding between your folds but never pressing inside, never giving you what you were aching for.

You tried to push your hips back into him, desperate for friction, for more — but Tom’s hand tightened against the back of your neck again, a silent warning to behave.

Your stomach twisted with desperate need as you moaned helplessly into the mattress.

“Patience, baby,” he rasped against your ear, his voice dripping with thick amusement and dark promise. “You don’t get to call the shots. Not after the way you teased me earlier.”

You whined, the sound high and needy, your body burning under his slow, tormenting touch.

Every drag of his cock along your folds left you more wrecked, more desperate — your body arching, back bowing, trying so hard to behave but so hungry for him that tears pricked your eyes from the overwhelming need.

And Tom knew it — loved it — feeding off the way you trembled under his control.

“Good girl,” he whispered, his free hand moving to gather your wrists behind your back, pinning them there firmly. You gasped, your body shuddering with raw anticipation.

You barely had time to register the cool brush of metal before you heard the familiar click — the cuffs snapping back around your wrists, binding you again. You whimpered at the feeling, the loss of even the small amount of control you’d had.

Now you were completely vulnerable, completely at his mercy — your face pressed into the sheets, your ass arched up toward him, your hands helpless behind your back. Tom leaned down, his body blanketing yours, his lips brushing over the shell of your ear.

“You look so fucking good like this,” he whispered, his voice low and reverent. “So ready for me. So desperate.” You moaned, arching your back more, silently begging for him.

But Tom didn’t thrust into you.

Not yet.

Instead, he continued the slow, torturous dragging of his cock against your folds, feeling how soaked and swollen you were for him, how your body trembled under his teasing touch.

He growled low in his throat, clearly struggling to keep himself from taking you — but he was determined to make you wait, to make you feel it.

“Tell me what you want, baby,” Tom murmured against your ear, his voice thick with dominance and hunger.

“Use your words.” You whimpered, struggling to form words through the haze of need clouding your brain.

“Please…” you gasped out, your voice barely a whisper.

“Please, Tom… need you… need you so bad…” He chuckled darkly, dragging his cock along you again, the head catching slightly against your entrance but still not pushing in.

“That’s not good enough,” he said roughly, squeezing the back of your neck again. “You know what to call me.”

Your entire body flushed, your toes curling against the mattress as you realized what he wanted. You moaned, desperate and wrecked, before finally whispering the name he demanded:

“Please, Daddy…”

The second the word left your lips, Tom growled — a low, feral sound of pure satisfaction — and finally, finally thrust his hips forward just enough to breach you, making you cry out in relief.

The room seemed to shrink around you, every sound fading except for the ragged breathing you both shared and the low creak of the bed.

You could feel every heartbeat thudding through your body — heavy, desperate — as you waited, trembling under Tom’s full, burning gaze.

He stayed still for a second longer, savoring the control, savoring the way your body shivered beneath him, so needy and willing.

Then with a low, guttural groan, he thrust into you — hard. The sudden, powerful push made you cry out, pleasure and shock mixing into a raw, breathless sound that echoed off the walls.

Tom growled as he sank fully into you, feeling how tight, how perfectly you wrapped around him — as if your body was made for him.

“Fuck, baby…” he groaned, his voice shaking from the effort it took not to lose himself completely. “You feel so goddamn good.”

Your wrists twisted slightly in the cuffs behind your back, but he gripped them tighter, using the leverage to pull you back against every sharp, deep thrust of his hips.

He set a brutal, rough pace immediately — no teasing now, no holding back — just pure, raw possession. The force of each thrust made your ass jiggle against him, each bounce sending shockwaves of pleasure through you both.

Tom’s eyes darkened, blown wide with lust as he watched himself disappear inside you again and again, the sight sending another growl rumbling through his chest.

“Look at that,” he rasped, voice thick with awe and hunger. “Taking me so good… like you were made for me.”

You could only moan in response, the words slipping from your lips incoherent, your mind blank with overwhelming sensation.

Your body arched under him involuntarily, desperate to take more, to meet every hard thrust with your own eager movements, but Tom still had your hands bound, keeping you pinned exactly where he wanted you — utterly helpless to do anything but feel.

Each time he slammed into you, he squeezed the soft curve of your ass, groaning at the way your body responded to him — so perfect, so obedient, so utterly wrecked.

“You like being like this, don’t you?” he murmured harshly, breath hot against your ear as he leaned closer, his body pressing heavier onto yours. “Completely helpless…completely mine.”

You sobbed a broken little “yes,” not even thinking, just feeling, overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of it. Tom chuckled darkly, pride and dominance rolling off him in thick waves.

“Good girl,” he praised, punctuating his words with another hard, deep thrust that made you gasp and arch up into him again.

The bed rocked beneath you both, the headboard knocking faintly against the wall in time with the rough rhythm of his movements. The sounds filling the room — your moans, his deep groans, the slap of skin meeting skin — wove together into something primal and raw, something that made your chest tighten and your whole body heat with need.

And still, Tom didn’t slow down — if anything, he moved harder, faster, the hand at your back flexing and holding you tighter, making you take every ruthless, claiming thrust he gave you.

“You’re mine,” he growled again, the words vibrating through you like a command. “Say it, baby. Say who you belong to.”

You gasped, feeling your climax coil dangerously close, feeling yourself shatter piece by piece under his unrelenting dominance.

“You, Tom !” you cried, voice cracking from the force of it. “I’m yours — always yours!”

He groaned in satisfaction, his hips snapping into you even harder now, chasing both your release and his. The sounds of pleasure, of need, filled the room until it felt like it was too much.

Tom dropped his forehead against your shoulder, his teeth lightly grazing your skin as he drove you both closer and closer to the edge.

You could feel it coming — that burning, consuming wave — and Tom could feel it too, the way your walls fluttered desperately around him, the way your breath hitched and your body trembled under his.

The room was nothing but heat and ragged breaths, the air thick with need as Tom shifted behind you, adjusting the angle — and suddenly, a white-hot bolt of pleasure tore through you when his cock slammed against that devastating spot deep inside.

You screamed out, pleasure tearing from your throat before you could even think to hold it back. Your body jerked forward on the mattress, but Tom caught you easily, strong hands gripping your hips, keeping you right where he wanted you. He groaned, low and guttural, feeling you clamp around him so tightly it made his head spin.

Without a word, he hauled your hips up higher, arching your back into an even sharper angle, exposing you completely to him. The shift made every thrust hit even deeper, even harder, and Tom wasted no time — setting a brutal, relentless pace that had you sobbing in pure pleasure.

Every slap of his hips against you echoed loud and vulgar in the room, each thrust jarring your entire body forward only to be dragged back again by his unyielding hands.

You cried out with every thrust, feeling yourself spiral closer and closer to the edge, and Tom groaned, the sound feral and rough, his fingers digging into your soft flesh possessively.

He watched, mesmerized, as your body responded to him — the way your ass bounced and jiggled with every powerful slam of his hips — and with a low, dark chuckle, he squeezed the flesh roughly before landing a sharp smack against one cheek.

You moaned — a broken, desperate sound — and arched into the sting, the heat of it blooming deliciously under his hand. Tom smirked darkly, pride swelling in his chest at how perfectly you responded to him.

“You love this, don’t you?” he rasped out between heavy breaths, the dominance dripping from every word. “Getting used like my perfect little toy… taking Daddy’s cock like you were made for it.”

Your only answer was a whimper, your brain too fogged with pleasure to form any real words. But that wasn’t enough for Tom.

Not even close.

With one hand still gripping your cuffed wrists, he fisted the other into your hair, yanking your head back just enough to make you gasp.

“Say it,” he growled low against your ear, his voice rough and commanding. “Tell me how much you love being Daddy’s little fucktoy.”

You moaned at the dirty, degrading words, your body clenching around him even tighter — the shame, the pleasure, the overwhelming emotion tangling into something addictive, something you couldn’t escape even if you wanted to.

“I love it,” you gasped, voice breaking as you surrendered fully. “I love being yours, Daddy — love being your dirty little secret…”

Tom groaned in approval, his thrusts somehow growing even rougher, harder, driving you further into the mattress with every brutal snap of his hips.

The sound of your cries, the desperate way you tried to push back into him despite the cuffs binding you — it sent a surge of pure, possessive lust through him.

He pulled your hair a little harder, forcing your head to tilt so he could nip at your exposed throat, his teeth scraping just enough to make you whimper again.

“You’re mine,” he snarled, every word sharp and raw against your skin. “My good little toy… my perfect stepdaughter.”

You could only moan, your body trembling violently now, your climax coiling so tightly inside you it hurt. But Tom wasn’t done yet. He let go of your hair only to grab both of your hips in a bruising grip, holding you still while he hammered into you with ruthless, punishing thrusts.

The headboard slammed against the wall with every brutal movement, the bed groaning under the force of it, but neither of you cared — lost entirely in the overwhelming, primal connection between you.

Your whole body felt like it was burning, spinning out of control, and Tom was right there with you — his breathing ragged, his muscles tight with the effort of holding himself back for just a little longer.

“You gonna cum for me, baby?” he growled, his voice dark and teasing. “Cum all over Daddy’s cock like the good little slut you are?”

You sobbed a broken “yes,” your whole body locking up as you clung to the last thread of your control, knowing it wouldn’t last much longer under his merciless pace.

“Then do it,” Tom commanded roughly, slapping your ass again hard enough to leave a stinging handprint behind. “Be a good girl and cum for me. Now.”

The moment Tom barked that final command, your release hit you like a tidal wave — fierce, uncontrollable, overwhelming. Your whole body locked up under him, a scream tearing from your throat as you shattered, moaning his name brokenly into the mattress.

Your legs trembled violently, your wrists straining against the cuffs in pure, raw pleasure, your entire body bowing under the force of it.

White-hot ecstasy splintered through you, making your vision blur at the edges, your breath coming in desperate, ragged gasps.

Tom groaned low in his throat the second he felt you clamp down on him, your walls milking him, your entire body begging for his release.

He lost whatever little restraint he had left. His hips snapped harder, faster, every brutal thrust now fueled by pure, desperate need as he chased his own high.

He leaned down over your trembling body, his mouth right at your ear, and his voice turned even darker, even filthier.

“Such a perfect little slut… milking Daddy’s cock like you were fucking made for it…” he rasped, his tone dripping dominance and lust. “Taking every inch like the desperate little toy you are. So greedy for me. So fucking good for me…”

You whimpered at his degrading praise, another wave of aftershocks wracking through your body at the pure dominance radiating from him. Your cunt fluttered around him involuntarily, drawing out a deep, broken groan from Tom’s chest.

His pace turned frantic, rough, desperate — every thrust bruising, overwhelming, the headboard slamming violently against the wall as he drove into you without mercy.

You could feel it, how close he was — the way his breathing stuttered, the way his hands gripped your hips so tight they would definitely leave bruises in the morning.

“Fucking mine,” he growled into your skin, voice almost animalistic. “All fucking mine. Gonna fill you up, baby — gonna fucking mark you from the inside out…”

And then, with one final, brutal thrust that had you sobbing in overstimulation, Tom buried himself deep to the hilt inside you.

He stilled, his whole body trembling as he moaned low and rough, and you could feel it — the sudden, hot rush of him spilling deep inside you, coating your already sensitive walls in sticky, burning warmth.

You moaned brokenly at the sensation, your body instinctively arching into him, welcoming the feeling of being full of him, claimed by him.

You barely had the strength to move, completely boneless, utterly spent, and Tom chuckled breathlessly against your skin.

He dropped his forehead to your shoulder, still panting heavily, his body blanketing yours in a heavy, possessive way that made your heart thud wildly.

Slowly, he reached for your cuffed wrists, his touch finally soft again — gentle — as he uncuffed you with careful fingers.

The second your wrists were free, Tom tossed the cuffs aside with a clink “You did so fucking good, baby,” he murmured against your hair, his voice rough but affectionate, almost awed.

A broken whimper spilled from your lips when Tom finally, agonizingly slowly, pulled out of you. You could feel everything — the obscene, sticky warmth of him spilling out of you immediately, the emptiness, the aching need that didn’t even begin to fade.

Tom groaned low in his chest when he caught sight of his release dripping out from your swollen cunt. His hand tightened on your hip possessively, his thumb brushing almost reverently over the sensitive skin, and he cursed under his breath, voice thick and ruined.

“Fuck, baby… look at you…” he rasped, almost in awe. “So fucking perfect. Stuffed full of me…”

Before you could even respond, he surged forward, capturing your mouth in a bruising kiss that stole every ounce of air from your lungs.

You whimpered into him, your hands flying up to clutch at his hair desperately, your nails scraping lightly against his scalp.

Tom’s free hand was everywhere at once — greedy, rough — sliding up your body before finding your breast and squeezing it hard enough to make you cry out against his mouth.

You arched into him instinctively, desperate for every inch of contact, every scrap of dominance he was willing to give you.

He groaned into the kiss when he felt your nipple pebble against his palm, and without missing a beat, he broke the kiss — only long enough to growl against your lips,

“You think I’m fucking done with you, baby?” His voice was rough, teasing, but laced with something dangerous underneath.

You shook your head immediately, your chest heaving with every ragged breath you took. Tom smirked, dark and wolfish, before nipping sharply at your bottom lip and dragging his mouth down, kissing a path across your jaw, down the column of your throat.

You gasped, your head tipping back instinctively to give him more access. Your fingers tangled tighter in his hair, tugging just enough to make him growl against your throat.

Tom bit lightly at your pulse point, making your whole body shudder, before moving lower — lower — until his mouth found your breast again.

Without hesitation, he wrapped his lips around your nipple, sucking it into the heat of his mouth with a hunger that made you cry out, your back arching sharply off the bed.

Your fingers pulled harder at his hair, desperate, wordless in your need, but it only made him chuckle darkly against your skin.

He lavished attention on you, his tongue flicking wickedly over your sensitive bud before he drew deep, slow pulls that had your entire body writhing under him.

His hand slid to your other breast, squeezing and kneading with rough, possessive fingers, sending electric shocks of pleasure through your already oversensitive body.

“Mine,” he murmured against your skin, his breath hot and wrecking. “Every fucking inch of you… you hear me?”

“Y-Yes… Daddy…” you gasped out, barely able to form the words through the haze clouding your brain.

That title — that one word — made Tom groan against you, his hips instinctively grinding against your thigh, letting you feel just how hard he was again for you. He bit down lightly on your nipple in response, sending another sharp bolt of pleasure-pain right through you.

“That’s my good fucking girl…” he praised, his voice low, dark, addictive. “Already so fucked out… and you still want more, don’t you?”

You nodded frantically, whimpering under his touch, craving him with every fiber of your being. Your nails scratched lightly at his scalp in silent begging, and Tom chuckled darkly before pulling back slightly to look down at you.

His blue eyes were nearly black with lust, his hair messy from your fingers, his chest heaving with ragged breaths. He looked like something wild — something untamed — and every inch of him screamed that he was far, far from finished with you tonight.

You whimpered brokenly when you felt the blunt, heavy brush of Tom’s cock against your inner thigh, the heat of him dizzying even before he moved.

Tom groaned low in his chest, the sound sending a shiver down your spine as he deliberately dragged the thick head of his cock through your soaked folds, coating himself in your arousal.

“Fuck, baby,” he rasped, voice raw with need. “You’re so wet for me… always so ready…”

You barely had a second to breathe before he pushed inside in one rough, hard thrust. Your body arched off the mattress with a cry at the sudden, overwhelming fullness, the stretch of him splitting you open so perfectly, so devastatingly right.

Tom groaned loudly at the feeling of you wrapped so tight around him, his fingers bruising your waist as he held you in place, not giving you a second to adjust before he set a brutal, relentless pace.

Each thrust slammed into you with precision, with ownership, dragging helpless cries from your lips as your head tipped backward, your mind going blissfully blank under the intensity of him.

You were utterly cockdrunk — floating somewhere between pain and pleasure, held there only by the bruising grip Tom kept on your body and the low, filthy words falling from his mouth.

“Look at you,” he growled through clenched teeth, his hips snapping into you roughly, “Not a single fucking thought left in that pretty little head, huh?”

You could only moan, nodding weakly, your fingernails scratching down his back in a desperate attempt to ground yourself. But it was useless — you were utterly, hopelessly lost in him.

Tom chuckled darkly, the sound vibrating against your skin as he slammed into you even harder, making you whine his name in broken little sobs.

He shifted slightly, angling his hips until his cock was grinding against that devastatingly perfect spot inside you, again and again, making your vision blur around the edges.

“That’s it, baby,” he coaxed roughly, “Take it. Take all of me… fuckin’ made for it.”

You tilted your head back farther, your throat exposed and vulnerable as you cried out for him. Your hands flailed until they found his shoulders again, clutching him desperately, helplessly, as he pounded into you with a feral kind of desperation.

The room was filled with the obscene sounds of skin slapping against skin, your broken cries, and Tom’s deep, filthy groans.

The smell of sweat, sex, and something deeper — something possessive, eternal — clung heavy in the air around you both.

“You feel that?” Tom growled, tightening his grip on your waist so hard you were sure he was leaving bruises,

“Feel how good you squeeze me, baby? How bad your body needs me?” You could only whimper, barely able to form words anymore.

But it didn’t matter — your body spoke for you, clenching around him with every brutal thrust, desperate to keep him inside you, desperate to pull him deeper, closer.

Tom watched you, drunk on the sight of your body unraveling beneath him, on the feel of you giving in to him so completely, so beautifully. His blue eyes were wild, dark, hungry, like he wanted to carve this moment into his skin forever.

“You’re mine,” he snarled, a dark promise against your throat, “Mine to fuck, mine to ruin, mine to put back together again.”

You sobbed something that might have been ‘yes’, might have been his name — you weren’t even sure anymore — but it didn’t matter.

Tom knew.

He felt it in the way your body bowed and broke for him, in the way your soul clung to his with every desperate sound you made.

And when he slammed hard into you again, tearing a wrecked, helpless scream from your throat, Tom only laughed — low, dangerous, satisfied. Because this was where you belonged: beneath him, undone by him, made whole by him.

Your mind was long gone, blissfully obliterated by the way Tom claimed every part of you — the way his cock speared into you over and over, relentless, merciless.

You whimpered, desperate for more even though you barely had the strength to breathe, your hands flying to your chest without thought, squeezing your own breasts, seeking even more sensation, even more of him. Tom’s groan ripped through the room like thunder at the sight.

“Fuck, look at you,” he growled, voice thick, low, almost inhuman with need, “Touching yourself like a filthy little slut for me.”

He punctuated his words by slamming into you hard enough to knock the air from your lungs. You cried out, your fingers tightening reflexively around your breasts, your back arching as the pleasure wracked through you.

Tom’s eyes darkened further, his jaw clenching as he locked his gaze on the sight of you — completely broken, mindless for him, because of him.

A string of curses slipped from his lips as he shifted slightly, angling just right — and then he saw it.

There, right below your bellybutton, the unmistakable bulge of his cock pressing from inside you. The evidence of how deep he was, how thoroughly he owned you, made something wild and vicious snap inside him.

“Jesus, baby,” he hissed, voice nearly trembling with a sick kind of awe, “Look at that… can feel me… see me inside you.” Your body jerked at the rough, almost reverent tone in his voice, a helpless sob falling from your lips.

You clawed at the sheets, overwhelmed, undone, as Tom’s hips snapped harder, sharper into you, keeping that perfect, brutal pace.

“You’re so fucking small,” he groaned, “Made to take me, stuffed full of me… god, you love it, don’t you?”

You nodded frantically, whimpering incoherently as your thighs shook with the effort to keep yourself grounded against the vicious pleasure.

Tom’s hands tightened possessively on your hips, holding you there, forcing you to feel every devastating inch of him.

“That’s it,” he snarled, “Such a desperate little slut for my cock. Can’t even think straight, can you, baby? All you can do is take it. Take me. Like the good little fucktoy you are.”

Your vision blurred with tears of pleasure, your body shaking under the intensity of him — the roughness, the possession, the love burning underneath every brutal word, every vicious thrust.

You couldn’t speak, couldn’t beg, couldn’t do anything but sob his name over and over, your entire being reduced to nothing but sensation, need, and the overwhelming, all-consuming presence of him.

Tom bent over you then, pressing his chest to your back, caging you in completely as his hips continued to hammered into yours, dragging the mattress with every thrust.

He wrapped a hand around your throat, holding you there, grounding you, his voice a low growl against the shell of your ear.

“You’re mine,” he whispered, voice deadly soft now, reverent and dark and possessive, “Every fucking inch of you. Inside and out.”

You whimpered brokenly, your whole body trembling against him, your mind shattering completely as his cock hit that devastating spot over and over with brutal precision.

The world spun wildly around you — the only thing you could feel, could breathe, could be was him. And through it all, Tom didn’t stop — didn’t let you come down. He drove into you like he was carving himself into your very soul, like he was determined to make you feel him for days, weeks, forever.

The cry that ripped from your throat didn’t sound human — it was broken, desperate, all-consuming as your body convulsed, pleasure crashing over you like a violent tidal wave.

Tom groaned, low and guttural, when he felt you clench around him so tightly he almost lost it right then. Your body was milking him, so desperately needy, so frantically lost in him that he could barely hold himself together.

But Tom wasn’t gentle — not yet. Even as you shattered around him, he didn’t slow. His hips snapped forward with ruthless precision, keeping his brutal, relentless pace as he chased his own release.

“God, look at you,” he growled, voice dark and wrecked as he pinned you harder to the mattress, one hand pressing between your shoulder blades to hold you down, “Fucking wrecked. Crying for it. Milking my cock like a desperate little slut.”

Your moans turned louder, rawer, your body jolting helplessly with every vicious thrust. You didn’t care if the neighbors heard — didn’t care if the whole world heard the obscene sounds Tom was tearing from your throat.

All you could feel was the overwhelming fullness of him, the delicious pain of your overstimulated body, the way he owned you, mind, body, and soul.

He leaned down, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear as he kept pounding into you mercilessly.

“You know what love?” he snarled, “You will be a perfect mother to my child, gonna fill you up and put a baby in you.”

You whimpered brokenly, nodding, incapable of words, your body trembling so violently you felt like you might collapse if not for his strength caging you in.

Tom’s rhythm faltered — just for a second — his own release rushing up fast, overwhelming, inevitable.

He gritted his teeth, groaning through them, before he gripped your hips bruisingly hard and thrust once, twice, then buried himself to the hilt with a sharp growl.

You cried out again when you felt the sudden, hot flood of him spilling deep inside you, your walls fluttering helplessly around him as if trying to pull him deeper.

Tom dropped his forehead to your shoulder, panting against your skin, his arms wrapping tightly around your waist to keep you anchored to him, to keep you his.

“Mine,” he rasped, kissing the curve of your neck almost reverently, “Every fucking part of you… mine.”

You whimpered softly, your body giving one last shudder as he slowly rocked into you, drawing out every ounce of pleasure he could wring from you both.

The brutal dominance in him slowly melted into something softer — still possessive, still powerful — but layered with something deeper. Something sacred.

Tom nuzzled against your skin, his breath warm and heavy, his hands smoothing gently down your sides now, coaxing you back from the edge of oblivion.

The room was thick with heat, the only sound your shattered breathing and the slow, rhythmic thudding of Tom’s heart pressed against your back.

He shifted slightly, the movement causing his still-hard cock to nudge deeper inside you, making you whimper helplessly against him.

Tom chuckled low, dark, utterly possessive, and without pulling out, he simply wrapped his arms tighter around your trembling body, caging you fully against him.

“God, you’re so perfect,” he murmured, voice rough and wrecked, nose buried in your hair. “You’re so fucking good for me… and you don’t even realize how ruined you are.”

You whimpered again when you felt him throb inside you, your body clenching involuntarily around him. His arms tightened just a little more, grounding you, claiming you.

“Still squeezing me,” he breathed into your ear, dragging his mouth along the shell of it, “Still so desperate, even after everything I gave you.”

The praise mixed with the raw degradation sent your head spinning. Your entire body bowed back into him instinctively, arching into his heat, your mind blissfully blank except for the overwhelming feeling of him — everywhere.

Tom’s hand splayed over your lower stomach, right over where the bulge of him had been earlier, and he groaned deep in his chest, completely wrecked by the sight, the feeling, the power of it.

“You were made for me,” he said, voice low and brutal, “This pussy…this body… every fucking inch of you. Mine.”

You mewled softly, your hands gripping at his forearms, not sure if you wanted to pull him closer or push him away — not that either was possible. You were completely at his mercy.

Tom’s hips shifted then — a slow, devastating roll of his pelvis that made your breath hitch and your back arch further against him.

He thrusted lazily now, slow and deep, dragging out every nerve-ending burning high sensation inside you.

You tilted your head back against his shoulder, utterly gone for him, your mouth falling open in a helpless moan as he set a slow, torturous pace.

“That’s it, baby,” he whispered against your throat, lips brushing your sweaty skin. “Take it. Feel how deep you let me ruin you.”

He sucked at the sensitive spot behind your ear, making you cry out softly, clenching down around him again.

“You love it,” he growled, gripping your waist, controlling every tiny movement, “You love being my good girl and my filthy little slut all at once.”

Another slow, dragging thrust made your toes curl. You could feel everything — the slow stretch, the raw friction, the overwhelming fullness — and you whimpered brokenly, letting him move you as he wanted.

Tom nuzzled your hair, pressing soft kisses along your temple, almost reverent as his hips kept that slow, merciless rhythm.

“You don’t have to think anymore,” he whispered, voice molten against your skin, “Just feel. Just belong to me.”

Tears pricked at your eyes from how overwhelming it was — the pleasure, the dominance, the brutal sweetness wrapped into every touch and word. Tom felt the way you shuddered against him and smiled against your skin.

“My perfect girl,” he murmured, holding you closer, locking you down tighter, as he rocked you both into a slow, delicious oblivion — both of you lost, completely and utterly, in the other.

The heavy air between you cracked with need as Tom groaned against your ear, his breath burning hot against your skin.

He could feel you clenching around him again, your body instinctively pulling him deeper, tighter — like you never wanted to let him go.

He muttered a curse under his breath, the sound low and ragged. Without warning, he shifted — pulling out just enough to make you whimper before maneuvering you onto your knees.

You barely had time to process the new position when his hands clamped hard onto your waist, holding you steady.

“You want to have my baby?” he growled, voice thick with possession, “Then take it.”

Before you could even moan an answer, Tom snapped his hips forward, thrusting hard into you, making your entire body jolt forward with a broken cry.

Your arms gave out immediately, face buried into the mattress as Tom’s grip on your waist tightened — anchoring you, controlling you, owning you.

His pace shifted brutally now, every thrust deep and ruthless, hitting that devastating spot inside you with perfect, devastating accuracy.

Your moans grew louder, more desperate, filling the room without shame, without restraint. You were far beyond caring who heard — you existed only for this, for him. Tom chuckled darkly behind you, the sound vibrating through your spine.

“You’re so loud, baby,” he rasped, voice dripping with smug satisfaction, “So needy… so desperate to be fucked dumb on my cock.” His hand slid up from your waist, wrapping around your shoulder in a rough, commanding grip.

You gasped when he yanked you back onto him even harder, his cock driving even deeper, your body slamming back into his.

“Mine,” he growled, punctuating the word with a brutal thrust that made you cry out. “Let's make your mum a grandma, yeah? we will make her carried her own husband baby and call it her grandbaby.”

You could feel tears pricking at the corner of your eyes from how overwhelming it all was — the stretch, the brutal pace, the unbearable, perfect pressure that was building again deep inside you.

Tom didn’t let up, not for a second. He wrapped his arm fully around your torso now, pinning you against his chest while still pounding into you from behind.

Your back arched almost painfully, completely at his mercy as he fucked you through the rising pleasure tearing you apart.

“You can’t even think anymore, can you?” he taunted against your ear, his voice a growl of dominance and dark affection, “All you can think about is how good I fucked you. How you belong to me.”

You sobbed out a broken moan, your body jerking with every relentless thrust, your mind nothing but white-hot pleasure and the sound of his voice. Tom groaned again, deep and guttural, feeling you tighten desperately around him.

“You’re getting close again, aren’t you?” he whispered roughly, his hand sliding up to squeeze your throat lightly — just enough to make your head swim in bliss, “Go ahead, baby. Fall apart for me. Scream for me.”

You shattered in his arms, crying out his name like a prayer, your body shaking violently as you came hard around him, your release ripping through you like a tidal wave.

Tom cursed harshly, hips stuttering as your walls milked him greedily. His grip on your waist bruised tight as he chased his own release, groaning deep against your ear.

A few more brutal, desperate thrusts and he buried himself to the hilt, spilling deep inside you with a broken, wrecked sound of your name.

He stayed inside you, breathing hard, holding you tight against him like he never wanted to let you go. And somehow, neither of you needed words — your bodies spoke for you.

The soft sound of your breathing filled the room, broken only by the slow thud of Tom’s heart against your ear. You were curled into him without hesitation — small, pliant, completely his — and it pulled a low, satisfied chuckle from his throat.

He shifted slightly, brushing his lips tenderly across your bare shoulder, the gesture instinctive, almost reverent.

“Rest, baby,” he whispered into your hair, voice low and rough with leftover desire, but touched with something softer.

Possessiveness. Pride.

You hummed in your sleep, snuggling even closer, making his chest ache in a way he couldn’t explain — a strange, raw mix of dominance and overwhelming protectiveness.

He chuckled again quietly to himself, his arms tightening around you as if the mere thought of letting go was unthinkable.

When he finally felt your body relax completely, truly slipping into deep sleep, he moved carefully. Slowly, reluctantly, he pulled out of you, groaning quietly at the warm, messy slide.

You whimpered softly in your sleep at the sudden loss, your hips instinctively rolling back toward him, seeking him even in dreams. Tom cursed softly under his breath, his chest tightening with something primal.

He didn’t resist; he wrapped you back up in his arms immediately, pressing your smaller frame flush against him, needing to feel your warmth, your weight, your everything.

He stared down at you, a slow, wicked smile curving his lips as he tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

God, you were perfect.

And as he held you, Tom’s mind wandered — not to guilt or doubt like it once might have — but to the night it all began.

The first night he claimed you.

The memory was a vivid, searing brand burned into him — just like you were. You’d been so sweet, so hesitant, his perfect stepdaughter who always looking up at him with those wide, innocent eyes, trembling slightly but trusting him completely.

Your submission hadn’t been forced; it had been given. A gift. One that he hadn’t been gentle with — not in the way you might have expected — but in the way you needed.

That first night, he’d pushed you.

He could still remember how you whimpered when he first pinned your wrists above your head, how your breath caught when he whispered dirty praises and dark promises against your throat.

He remembered the way you melted under his touch, surrendering inch by inch, your body craving him even before you understood it. You hadn’t fought it. You’d thrived under it. Under him.

Tom’s fingers traced lightly down your spine now, mapping the same paths he had that night — still in awe of how perfectly you fit into his arms, his life, his world.

“You were mine from the start, weren’t you, pretty girl?” he murmured quietly against your temple, his voice a dark, adoring growl.

His toy.

His obsession.

His sweetest addiction.

Tom smiled to himself, the possessive heat in his chest only growing. He could still feel the way your body had given in, piece by piece, until you didn’t even know where you ended and he began.

You hadn’t just submitted to him — You belonged to him. Still tangled together, his hand slid down to rest possessively over your hip, fingers splaying wide as if staking his claim all over again.

He didn’t need ropes or cuffs right now. You were already tethered to him — body, mind, and soul. He buried his face into the crook of your neck again, breathing you in deeply.

Tom smiled wickedly against your skin, already planning how he was going to wake you up — how he was going to remind you again and again exactly who you belonged to. But for now, he would let you rest.

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