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ro-is-struggling · 1 year

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Secret Encounters || Geralt of Rivia x Reader

Requested by anon

Summary: They know it's wrong, but they can't deny the desire and lust that overcomes them every time they are together.

Warnings: SMUT MINORS DNI, porn with a little bit of plot (not really), fingering, penetrative sex, mirror sex, rough sex, size kink, belly bulge, breeding kink, dirty talk, mentions of cheating (reader is engaged), fem reader (she’s a princess)

English is not my first language

Word count: 3900

Notes: I promise I'll stop writing tragic princess x witcher stories after this one. Also, sorry for the shitty summary but it's only smut so it was kinda hard to come up with something lol

Geralt had never been fond of royalty, but the moment his eyes fell on hers he knew she was different. He didn't really understand why, but he felt some type of way whenever she was near. Her perfume was intoxicating, a sweet scent that lingered on his clothes and skin and accompanied him wherever he went. He could not escape her even when he wandered alone through the forest in search of the beast he had been hired to kill... not even when he was lying in his bed at night, surrounded by the darkness of the room as he tried to rest. Her scent enveloped him at all times, awakening something deep inside him. It drove him crazy, crazy enough to act on his desires.

He knew it was wrong, it was inappropriate to take advantage of the king's hospitality like that. And she knew it was wrong too, she was a princess soon to be married, a woman of high value who had no business with a witcher like Geralt. And yet, neither seemed to be able to stay away from the other. It was as if there was some kind of energy force pulling them together, the very will of destiny imposing itself over their own. When Geralt showed up at her chambers she knew she should have turned him away. No matter how much she had been longing for him to take her in his arms and make her his, the right thing to do was to reject him and move on with her life. In fact, she had opened the door with the intention of doing exactly that, but when her eyes met the imposing figure of the witcher, towering over her as his amber eyes admired her face, she could not resist the temptation. She gave in to her desires, crashing her lips against his in a desperate kiss as she slowly pulled him into her room.

The feel of his touch lingered on her body for days, her skin permanently marked by the roughness of his caresses and the warm wetness of his mouth. The sound of his grunts of pleasure as he buried himself in her echoed in her mind at all times. He was all she could think about. She knew it was wrong, but she needed to feel his hands on her body again, exploring every inch of her skin as he showed her pleasure like no other man could.

Despite their desperation, they were able to keep their hands off each other for a while. Though all their self-control disappeared by the time of Geralt's last day in the castle. After slaying the beast —and collecting his reward— the witcher was ready to leave when the king made him an offer he couldn't resist. There would be a feast in celebration of the fall of the creature that had terrorized the town and Geralt, as their savior, was the guest of honor. He would normally have declined the offer, although the promise of free food and alcohol sounded enticing, he hated the idea of being stuck with a bunch of drunken noblemen. However, this time it gave him the perfect excuse to stay there a while longer and say goodbye to the princess the right way —the way he knew they had both been fantasizing about since their last encounter.

The party quickly turned into a game of cat and mouse, defiant yellow eyes meeting hers in the crowd, admiring her lips as she laughed and the way her body moved as she danced. She was doing it on purpose, accepting the proposals of all the knights who bowed in front of her to provoke him. She wanted to spark a reaction in him, see how far she could push him, how far she could push the boundaries of their secret relationship. The thought of being caught filled her body with adrenaline, her heart pounding so hard against her chest that he could almost hear it over the noise of the party.

She waited for the right moment and took advantage of the first distraction to escape to her bedroom. Her eyes met Geralt's before disappearing behind the side door of the great hall, her desire-laden expression a silent plea for him to follow her. She sat in front of the large mirror in her room waiting for him, removing the jewelry from her hair and combing her hair without any haste. And just as she expected, only a few minutes after her arrival, she felt the sound of the door's wood creaking as it opened. She saw Geralt lock the door behind him in the reflection of the mirror and she had to hold back the smile that wanted to form on her lips —a failed attempt to save some of her decency and not look so desperate.

"You're not supposed to be here." She said as if his presence didn't make her heart race. "It's wrong."

"That's not what you said the other night." Geralt's deep voice was music to her ears, his slightly mocking tone awakening that tingle under her skin. He walked up to her, holding her gaze in the mirror as if challenging her. He stood tall at her back, close enough that she could feel the heat emanating from his body, but not close enough to feel the brush of his hands on her skin.

"The other night was a mistake." She affirmed, setting the comb aside. It was true, their furtive encounter, though pleasurable, had been a mistake. But they both knew well that neither really cared. The desire they felt, the tension in the air, it was all too much, it clouded their thinking leaving them at the mercy of their most primitive feelings.

Geralt reached out his hands to her, brushing her hair aside so he could caress her skin. He noticed how she stifled a sigh through the reflection of the mirror, his warm touch awakening that flame within her. His fingers moved gently across her shoulders, up her neck until they reached her cheeks. She closed her eyes and leaned into his hand, losing herself in the moment. It felt just as she remembered it, warm and hard, yet strangely soft and comforting at the same time. It was as if his hands had never left her skin, as if his caresses were permanently carved into her body.

"Do you wish for me to leave?" he said, his voice barely a raspy whisper. He knew the answer to her question, he could read it on her face, smell it in the air, feel it in the vein in her neck that throbbed rapidly beneath his fingers. But still, he needed to be sure he was right, hear from her lips the plea for his caresses. He needed to know that she was as desperate as he was.

She didn't give him a verbal response, just rose from her seat and pressed her lips to his. Geralt's hands closed around her waist, pulling her body against his as he quickly took control of the kiss. She didn't bother fighting for dominance, acknowledging her subordination to him almost immediately. She didn't need to win, she just needed to feel his hands on her skin again, gripping and caressing every inch of her body in a rush of pleasure until the early morning sun forced them apart.

There was nothing tender and soft about the way Geralt's lips attacked hers, only lust and desperation, but she loved every part of it. She loved the way his tongue invaded her mouth and how his teeth nibbled at her lips before moving his wet kisses down her neck, sucking and biting at the skin without fear of leaving marks. He knew he could do whatever he wanted with her as she was completely at his mercy, surrendered to the pleasure only he could give her. She didn't care if she had to spend the next week finding creative ways to hide the evidence of their furtive encounter, she just needed to feel him. She wanted him to mark her, to declare ownership over her body. She knew she belonged to him, always would, even if she never saw him again after tonight.

Clothes soon became a problem, a barrier that kept them apart, so desperate hands worked carelessly to fix it. Her dress was the first to go, the expensive fabric pooling around her feet leaving her naked body completely exposed to Geralt's hungry gaze. She should have been embarrassed, but nothing but lust and anticipation pumped through her veins. He was looking at her as if she were the most beautiful and sensual woman he had ever seen, as if she were a goddess he had the privilege of pleasing. Never before had anyone looked at her in that way, so intense, so filled with adoration. She loved it, it made her feel special, powerful.

Geralt didn't waste a second, calloused fingers caressing every inch of exposed skin. It awakened a fire inside her, a tingling that spread throughout her body, concentrating on her core. His teeth nibbled at the sensitive skin of her neck, sinking his canines into her as his hands moved down to her breasts, earning a couple of sighs from the princess as he showed attention to her nipples erect with anticipation. He smiled against her neck, proud of himself as the scent of her arousal lingered in the air. It was an intoxicating scent, the sweet forbidden fruit begging him to take it.

When his fingers slipped between her wet folds, she let out a moan of pleasure as her grip on the witcher's shoulders tightened. It was as beautiful as he remembered, a harmonious melody traveling through him and going straight to his cock. It was the sound of temptation, of lust, urging him to carry on, to forget all rules of morality and decorum and take what was his.

“P-please, Geralt.” She pleaded against his lips. Her breathing was rapid and she looked up at him through half-closed eyelids. He slipped two of his fingers inside her with ease, pushing them as deep as he could and moving them until he made her moan. She looked so beautiful like this, her eyes closed in pleasure and her parted lips releasing those beautiful desperate sighs, completely at his mercy.It was an image that would stay in Geralt's mind for quite some time.

"I know, I know," he soothed her, his free hand coming up to caress her cheek. "I have to get you ready for me."

"I-I need to feel you, p-please." She whimpered in a pathetic, desperate attempt to get him to do what she wanted. She needed to feel all of him, his hot skin pressed against hers, his fingernails sinking into the skin of her hips as he buried his cock deep inside her, his ragged breaths in the hollow of her neck. She needed him as much as she needed the air she breathed and could wait no longer.

Thankfully he took pity on her, removing his hands from her body to unbutton his pants. She suppressed the whimper that wanted to escape her throat as she felt empty without his fingers inside her, knowing the sensation would not last for long. Geralt instructed her to turn over and her body obeyed him before she could process his words or wonder what he was up to. Her body no longer belonged to her, it belonged to him and always would.

He held her against his chest for a moment, one hand roaming her body while the other held her head steady facing forward. She could feel his hard member pressed against her lower back as his heat enveloped her completely. Their gazes met in the mirror once more and she saw the darkness of desire staining the beautiful yellow orbs. He buried his nose in her hair, inhaling her intoxicating scent before lowering his lips to her ear.

"I want you to look at yourself in the mirror as I fuck you, princess." Geralt whispered in her ear, his voice firm and slightly deeper than normal. His eyes never left hers in the mirror, studying her reaction in the reflection. "I want you to see how beautiful you look with your face scrunched up in pleasure so you'll remember it after I'm gone and your future husband can't make you feel this good."

He gave her no warning before pushing his hard cock into her tight wet hole, and he wasn't gentle either. A quick thrust of his hips and he was balls deep inside her as her velvety walls struggled to take him. Geralt was big, it was almost hard for him to fully fit inside her despite how aroused she was. But it wasn't painful, not in a bad way at least. She loved the way his cock stretched her, almost impaling her on it when it was all the way in. The burning only added to her pleasure, the knot in her belly tightening with the promise of her orgasm.

Geralt set a fast, torturous pace, earning a string of incoherent moans each time he touched that special place deep inside her. She could feel him twitching inside her as her walls closed around him, desperate to hold him in place. It was almost too much and not enough at the same time, a mixture of feelings born of her need for relief. The sound of skin slapping against skin combined with her cries of pleasure and Geralt's grunts filled the room. It was loud and she wouldn't be surprised if she discovered that someone passing through the corridor could hear them, but she didn't care. She felt too good to worry about anything else.

The pleasure she felt was so intense that she had trouble keeping her eyes open, her heavy eyelids closing involuntarily against the force of Geralt's thrusts. But each time she did, he tightened his grip on her jaw, growling in her ear for her to open them. The image reflected in the mirrored surface was too much for her to take. Her small figure wrapped in the strong arms of her lover towering over her and making her feel even smaller and more insignificant. The bulge forming in her lower belly with each thrust showed just how deep inside her Geralt was. His teeth on her neck, nibbling at the sensitive skin without taking his intense gaze away from her eyes in the mirror. And finally, her face, with parted lips letting out a string of melodious moans, and glassy eyes filled with tears that threatened to escape at the sheer intensity of what she was feeling. The expression of pure pleasure on her face was one she had never seen on her before —and she feared that after tonight she would never see it again.

It was all too much for her, and the possessive way Geralt was acting didn't help her in the slightest. He was determined to leave a mark on her, both physically and mentally. He wanted her to see traces of him on her own skin after he was gone, but he also wanted to make sure she remembered him. Make sure she remembered the intensity of the moment and the way he had made her feel. He wanted her to think of him every time her future husband left her unsatisfied, touching herself to relieve the pressure inside her as images of him in this very moment flashed through her mind.

He made sure to let her know his intentions between grunts of pleasure, feeling her walls close around his member with every word that left his lips. She liked it as much as he did and that only egged him on.

"Geralt, please," she begged, not quite sure of what it was she was asking of him. Please stop because the pleasure traveling through my veins is too much to bear? Please keep going and don't stop until I'm passed out from exhaustion and you've ruined me for the rest of the men? She wasn't sure, both options were equally valid.

"I know... just let go," he encouraged her, his warm breath crashing against the skin of her ear as he spoke. "Just let go for me, princess."

Her body took his words as a command and it wasn't long before the knot in her belly snapped, sending wave after wave of pleasure through her insides. Her orgasm hit her like a pile of bricks, leaving her completely stupid. Geralt's name escaped her lips like a prayer as she lost herself in pleasure. All thought left her mind, she could only feel as her lover's thrusts slowed, her body trembling in his arms from overstimulation.

She only had a couple of seconds to recover, whining as she felt empty when Geralt pulled away from her momentarily. Her legs were weak and she struggled to stand, so he took her in his arms and laid her down on the bed carefully. He settled into the space between her legs, taking a moment to admire her and caress her body before continuing. His hands ran over her warm, sweat-covered skin in an almost gentle way, an act that contrasted with the roughness of his behavior so far but was nonetheless welcomed by her.

The tenderness didn't last long, though, because once he slid his cock inside her once more, he returned to the animalistic grunts and punishing rhythm of his thrusts. This time it was more desperate and erratic, letting her know that he was close to his own orgasm. His cock twitched inside her, threatening to paint her velvety walls with his seed. The very idea was enough to have her on the edge again.

"You feel me, princess?" He said, taking one of her hands and bringing it down to her lower belly. He pressed it against her skin, trapping it between his palm and the bulge forming there from his cock. It added a new sensation and she couldn't contain the moan that escaped her throat. "Feel how deep inside of you I am?

"Fuck," she cursed, eyes rolling back as her free hand clutched at Geralt's wrist to make sure he didn't move it off her belly. The pressure felt too good, wave after wave of pleasure coursing through her with a force that left her breathless.

"I'm the only one who gets is deep, f-fuck, the only one who makes you feel this way." He wasn't asking, it was a clear statement, but still she nodded, letting out repeated affirmations between high-pitched moans.

"I belong to you... My body is forever yours, no one will ever make me feel this good." The animalistic growl he let out at those words almost pushed her over the edge, leaving her on the verge of her second orgasm. She knew he was close too, she could feel it in his erratic thrusts and the way his cock twitched inside her. She needed to feel him come undone for her, to paint her walls white as he emptied his seed inside her. She needed him to mark her, to claim her as his own. They both knew a relationship between them was impossible, but she would always be his in secret. Her body would always miss him.

"Please, I need to feel you." She managed to say between moans and ragged breaths. "I need you to fill me up, please." She sounded pathetic at this point, but she didn't care. All she cared about was feeling Geralt's seed trickling down her thighs as she tried to catch her breath.

The witcher groaned, a cocky smile playing on his lips. One of his hands flew to the headboard of the bed, the wood creaking under his strong grip as he adjusted his position. The new angle allowed him to reach even deeper —if that was even possible—, impaling her on his cock as she cried out in pleasure. Her nails dug into his back, leaving traces of red marks on his skin.

"You're desperate for it, aren't you?" he teased her arrogantly. "Don't worry, princess, I'm gonna shoot my seed so deep inside of you that you'll carry it for days. Is that what you want? You want me to mark you as mine? You want to feel me between your legs while you swear loyalty to your husband?"

"Yes! Fuck, Geralt, please... mark me, claim me as yours, please."

The witcher did not expect to find it so erotic to hear her admit her deepest desires, but he did. It awakened something inside him, a primal desire that took over his body. He became an animal, a fierce, possessive wolf that was desperate for some relief. After all, that was exactly what their relationship was, pure animal instinct, pure lust and desperation. An intense attraction they couldn't resist even when they knew how wrong it was.

He came with a loud grunt, emptying his load inside her warm, tight walls. She felt every drop of it, her cunt filled to the brim with his desire for her. The intensity of his orgasm triggered hers, her body trembling under Geralt's weight, her walls tightening around his cock, milking him for everything he had. His name fell from her lips as pleasure consumed her, a prayer begging him to stay with her. He knew it was impossible, but in that moment - mind clouded with pleasure as he felt her crumbling beneath him - he really considered it. He wanted to feel her body against his again, hear the sound of her voice as she moaned his name outside of his memories. He needed her.

But that was just a fantasy, the desire for the impossible. She was a princess who was soon to be married and he was a witcher who had nothing to do with the court and royal affairs. She was not his —even if her body was— and he was not hers. And that was the hard truth. So when he came to his senses he rose from his place on the bed, where he rested with her beside him. The princess watched him as he dressed, trying to ignore the strange feeling of emptiness that came over her at the thought that once he crossed the threshold of the door she would never see him again.

"Will I ever see you again?" She asked in a whisper, as if afraid of being heard. Geralt admired her naked figure on the bed as he contemplated his answer, liking the way the dim candlelight illuminated her skin covered in a thin layer of sweat. As wrong as it was, he would really like to see her again, but the truth was he didn't know if it would happen. The future was uncertain, especially in his line of work, so to give her a straight answer would be to lie to her.

"Only time will tell."

#geralt of rivia x reader #geralt of rivia x fem reader #geralt of rivia smut #geralt x reader #the witcher x reader #geralt x reader smut #the witcher #geralt of rivia #the witcher netflix #geralt of rivia imagine #henry cavill

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icyg4l · 2 months

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PAC: Your Future Partner's Love Language

Hello beautiful people, tonight marks the third post of the week regarding love! (meaning I kept my promise, yay!) I have a sale going on tomorrow, so be sure to tune into that. If you would look to book a reading, please read my guidelines and then dm me! If you have any inquiries, also dm me! Without further ado, please select your pile!

Top Left-to-Bottom Right: (1-4)

Pile 1: I feel like you’re the independent woman trope, Pile One. This person will be attracted to you because you have your own. But that doesn't mean that they won’t be giving. This isn’t a stingy lover at all. I get Cancer/Capricorn/Aquarius energy from this person. I see this person will be big on gift giving. They will also shower you with compliments. They don’t expect this in return, to be honest. They’re also really big on paying the tab every time at restaurants. I feel like this person is calm and collected. This person wants to follow in their family’s footsteps. They’re big on marriage and doing things the proper way. They would like to show you off, this is part of their love language as well. And lastly, this person really likes to see people stand on business. Part of their love language is helping you plan and put things into action. They’re going to be your number one fan. Expect roses and romance with this person, Pile One.

Cards Used: The Hierophant, The Hermit, 4 of Discs, Queen of Swords

extras: tacos. party pooper. mellow. skilla baby. carrie underwood. bartleby.

Pile 2: So when I was shuffling for this pile, I heard the term ‘yapper’. This person really likes to talk, even if it’s about nothing. I thought of this guy who I sit next to in my English class, and he says whatever comes to mind. I feel like this person just really wants a listening ear since they didn’t get that when they were younger. They could have been the type of kid to have “talks too much” on their report card. They have big Taurus, Gemini, Cancer, Virgo energy. This person just wants to be heard and valued for once, they feel taken for granted. This person has the tendency to go down memory lane as well. They also have a thing for tickling. They honestly seem like a big kid. They are really big on humor. Their sense of humor can be deadpan or they could say a lot of one-liner punchlines. Be prepared to laugh a lot. I think this person values one-on-one time a lot as well, Pile Two.

Cards Used: Judgment, Ace of Swords, Death (RX), Eight of Discs (RX), 7 of Discs (RX)

extras: bright teeth. nice style. black beanies. toby from this is us. “kiss the ring.” wrestlers.

Pile 3: Oh man, the chemistry is hot here. This person really likes PDA. They enjoy physical touch. They want you to find any reason to touch them & they want to do the same for you. This person wants everyone to know that y’all are together. They could be a little clingy, let them know if that’s too much for you. I get the feeling that this could be their first real relationship so please be gentle with them. I feel like this person is like a big teddy bear. They really enjoy hugs, sharing drinks with you, cuddling, hand-holding and sloppy kisses. It all makes their world go round. You guys will be engaging in a lot of sexual activity together so please protect yourselves! Overall, this person is not shy. This person is quite the flirt, very physical. They give big Leo, LIbra, Aries energy. You guys are going to be like that one couple in high school that got detention for kissing by the lockers. People might be uncomfortable by your dynamic because you’re so physical with one another, but fuck it!

Cards Used: Knight of Wands, The Chariot, Princess of Cups, The Lovers, Ace of Cups.

extras: sweet face. wink. “hold me.” soft hands. racy. lord farquaad. monochromatic. skin-to-skin.

Pile 4: Can we say dramaaaa? I feel like your person is really dramatic. They’re the epitome of go big, go home. They give off Pisces, Leo, Sagittarius energy. They’re the epitome of male R&B singers in the early 2000s. This person has the best intentions but it can be overwhelming for you at times. Know that this person is doing their best. This is a part of who they are, there’s no faking this personality. I think this person would literally do anything for you. If you were to ask for a cookie from the store, they would bring you the cookie, a sandwich, a drink, chips and flowers just to make your day. This person is really good at planning parties and spending money. If you were to have a birthday coming up, they would have a surprise party planned with all of your favorite people there and thoughtful gifts. This person wants to give you the world, honestly. Don’t feel embarrassed by the things that this person does because you deserve it. They do it out of purity, but you can tell them to tone it down if it’s really getting to you.

Cards Used: The Emperor, The Fool, Justice, 7 of Cups, Ace of Discs, Princess of Cups

extras: my way by usher. “It’s camp.” new edition. clown colors. teezo touchdown. rich uncle vibes.

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scuderiahoney · 2 months

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Oscar Piastri x reader // in motion part 3

hockey au part 3: a walk in near the park, a surprising team photo, and the semester comes to a close. 6.2k words

warnings: mentions of sports injury, mentions of bullying, alcohol, academic stress, final exams

Oscar has spent a lot of his life on the move. He moved to the US from Australia for high school at a pretty young age, just to try and play hockey. Looking back, it sounds crazy. What’s even crazier is that it actually worked. He’d play for club teams and in leagues and travel absolutely anywhere if it gave him time on the ice. And then he ended up on a college team and stayed put for two years, and honestly, it felt strange.

Over that time, he got good at putting things in boxes. Keeping life organized. Not so much in a sense of clutter and things having a place- his room is a mess, there’s laundry to be done, and his hockey locker is a disaster- but more so in his head. His friendships and relationships get categorized, information filed away, grouped together. Not by importance or value, but by… context. Hockey friends in one box. Family in another. People like coaches and managers and executives in a third. Moving somewhere new always shakes the boxes up.

By late November, though, Oscar’s feeling a little bit more comfortable in his own skin. He’s found his place in the team, he has weekly lunches with teammates, and he’s even made some friends outside of hockey. His old coach, Mark, says that’s a big piece of it. That it’s good to have something other than sport, just in case it all falls apart, or it doesn’t work out. People to fall back on who aren’t just there for hockey.

Oscar wants to say that his teammates would still be friends with him even if he stopped playing, for some reason, but the truth is that he’s been burned by other overly ambitious hockey kids way too often to truly believe it. That’s half the reason he’s on the Timberwolves now, why he left his old school and team behind. Things feel better here. Lando has an old friend who used to play hockey who still hangs around the house sometimes- Max, the other Max. (Oscar doesn’t call him that to his face.) So maybe Lando at least wouldn’t ditch him if he quit.

And then there’s you, too. Oscar’s not quite sure when you went from being an enigma he struggled to place into one of his carefully organized boxes in his head to, well, this.

You’re sitting across from him at the dining table in his house, one finger tracing the words in the textbook in front of you. You have a TimTam in your other hand-you seem to have developed a fondness for them, the same way that Oscar seems to have developed a fondness for you. The late afternoon sun is shining into the room through the sliding glass door and onto you. Oscar shakes his head to try to clear it.

As he does, you groan and drop your face into the textbook with a solid thud- he winces. “I hate physics.”

He holds back a laugh, because he knows you genuinely are frustrated. “Does slamming your face on the words help?”

You shrug. “Maybe, if I just sit here like this, the knowledge will seep into my brain.”

He hums. “Pretty sure that’s not how it works.”

“Right, because you know everything,” you mumble. “Genius man.”

He rolls his eyes and pushes away from the table. “Come on. Time for a break.”

“I don’t need a break, I need to learn…” you sigh and turn your head, pressing your cheek to the book and looking at him with one eye. “What are we studying again?”

Oscar fixes you with a disapproving look and heads towards the front door. He knows you’ll follow. By the time he makes it to the entryway, you’re hot on his heels, watching curiously as he pulls his shoes on.

“Where are you going?” You ask.

“We’re going on a walk,” he says. “Brain break.”

You shrug and nod, reaching for your own shoes as he pulls on a jacket. He tries not to laugh as you struggle to pull them on without untying them. You’re always stubborn like that, it seems. It’s almost painfully endearing. You stand up straight once you have the shoes on and look at him expectantly.

“Where’s your jacket?” He asks.

You shrug and shove your hands into the pockets of your hoodie. Or is it Charles’ hoodie? Oscar swears he’d seen him wearing it just yesterday.

“I didn’t wear one,” you say. Oscar raises his brows, and you roll your eyes. “There’s not even snow on the ground, Piastri.”

“It’s almost December, Bunny” he says flatly, and reaches for another one of his jackets hanging on the hook near the door.

He hands it to you, and stands there, waiting, until you grumble and pull it on. You wear the other guys’ clothing all the time, but he swears you look almost flustered at the offer. Huh. He’s trying desperately to pretend he’s not flustered over it, honestly. Something about you in his clothing makes him blush. He’d felt the same way about the hoodie you’d borrowed at the party.

“You’re just Australian,” you say, nudging your foot against his as if to usher him out the door. “You’re a baby about the cold.”

He doesn’t have much of a comeback to that, so he steps outside, and you follow right along with him. He walks down the steps and takes off down the sidewalk, hands shoved in his jacket pockets. You might be right- he’s a bit of a baby when it comes to cold temperatures- but his breath curls into mist in front of his face and yours does the same, so it really is chilly. The sun paints everything golden- the windows on the buildings, the dead leaves that still cling to a couple trees. Your elbow bumps against his as the two of you walk. He tries to ignore the spark that shoots up his spine at the feeling. You're chatting away about something, someone in one of your classes who’s been annoying you lately. He's found he likes to listen to you talk.

When he turns to take the path through the park next to the athletics building, you stop in your tracks. He turns back, figuring you’ve seen something, but you’re just staring into the park, and at the large building behind it. He frowns.

“Everything alright?” He asks, quietly.

You nod. “I just. D’you think maybe we could walk to that cafe near here? I could really go for a chai latte.”

He nods- a drink does sound good. “Yeah, sure. D’you wanna walk through the park on the way? Won’t be much of a detour.”

The park is nice. It’s one of Oscar’s favorite places on campus. There’s grass and trees and a path that winds around the university’s baseball and soccer fields. But you’re staring at it with a much different feeling, if the look on your face tells him anything.

You shake your head. “No, let’s just…”

You don’t finish your sentence. Instead, you take off down the sidewalk, heading away from the park. He’s left to follow in your footsteps, suddenly feeling like he really knows nothing about you at all.

…..

When Oscar thinks of home, now, he thinks of this. Not Australia, or the house, or even his family, really. He thinks of a jersey, a stick in his hand, and the scrape of his skates against the ice. Hockey, for all its cheering fans and yelling opponents and background music, is a strangely quiet sport. Maybe he’s just gotten good at blocking out the noise.

They’re warming up on the ice. He has warm up traditions, now, something he hasn’t had with teammates in years- he and Lando slap each other on the shoulders, and he and George always skate a lap together. It’s not anything huge or elaborate, but it means he’s part of the team, and that’s enough.

Max skates up to him, just at the end of warmup. He nudges his shoulder against Oscar’s through the padding. “Good?”

Oscar had a rough week in practice. It was the kind that would’ve had him benched for a month on his last team. Seb’s been nothing but supportive- constructive criticism was offered, sure, but he’s still on the ice today, so he figures that’s a good sign. He nods and turns to Max. His eyes flicker up into the stands. He shouldn’t know this, but he does- your seat is above Max’s head from this angle, up in the second section, front row. You’re wearing a jersey, probably Lando’s number if he had to guess, and sharing popcorn with Alex’s girlfriend, Lily. He smiles.

“Yeah. Good.” He nods.

Max nods in return, then skates away. Oscar follows.

When he scores later, and ties the game one to one, he looks to the same spot in the stands. Lando hits him on the back, hard, a bit too enthusiastic. You’re standing in front of your seat, arms around Lily, yelling, and he grins. He can’t help it. The smile doesn’t drop from his face for the rest of the game. The rink, the ice, and his teammates may feel like home, but the way you cheer for him feels awfully close to it, too.

At the party afterwards, you pour two shots of tequila and hand one to him. He takes it with a smile, grimaces at the taste, and laughs when you cough. He pats you on the back sympathetically, and when you take his hand two seconds later and drag him towards the beer pong table, he follows happily.

…..

December creeps up on Oscar, and with it, so does final exam week. Suddenly, it’s just… there, bearing down on him. He’s not exactly nervous about most of his exams- he’s prepared well, and though he’d never say it out loud, he’s pretty good at testing. But no matter how well he studies or how much he’s paid attention in class, exams still aren’t exactly fun.

He sees you a lot in the week leading up to it. You’re often in the kitchen, eating snacks with Max, or in the living room, quizzing Charles on vocab, or in Lando’s room taking a nap between classes. You’re stressed. He can tell. He does his best to help in any way he can- when he goes to the store, he picks up your favorite snacks and leaves them on the counter. He helps you study for the physics exam. When he finds you asleep on the couch in his living room on Saturday night, he carefully lays a blanket over you and turns off the lamp. He hopes some of it helps, just a little bit.

The next afternoon, Oscar stands in the lobby of the athletic training building. He and Max had headed over for the afternoon to do a workout together, more to get their minds off exams than anything else. Now he’s in the lobby, waiting for his team captain, and he’s staring. Laser focused. He's making a whole lot of connections all at once. The wheels are turning in his brain, and he’s sure if anyone’s watching him, he looks crazy. He jumps when someone slaps a hand against his shoulder. It’s Max.

“Hey,” his team captain says, shaking him slightly. “You look lost.”

Oscar frowns and turns back to the photo in front of him. Women’s Soccer, a team photo, from what would’ve been his freshman year at his previous school. He’d been looking at the photos while he waited- the lobby is lined with them, and some of them are actually pretty funny. Some of the faces in this one are familiar, people he’s seen in the gym off and on. One, however, had caught his eye.

“Is that who I think it is?” He asks, pointing at the left side of the picture in the third row.

When he turns back to Max, his face has changed. The teasing look is gone, replaced by something solemn and hard set. Max nods and tugs at his shoulder.

“Wait,” Oscar says, trying to stay planted while Max tries to drag him away. “But she-“

Max crosses his arms over his chest and studies Oscar, brows furrowed. “I know. It’s not my story to tell, yeah?”

Oscar nods dumbly. Max nods in response. Then he nods his head towards the door, as if he’s directing Oscar to follow him. He does, because he’s not sure what else to do, and he’s not going to get any more information from the photo. He knows what he saw, anyways. You, standing there with the whole team, in uniform, your name listed below the photo with the rest of your teammates.

If there’s one thing the Timberwolves do better than hockey, it’s soccer. The women’s team has been national champions multiple times. A spot on that team isn’t something someone gives up willingly. But you’re not on the team, not anymore. When Lando asked if you wanted to go to the gym with them, you’d replied that you “wouldn’t be caught dead at the athletic training building.” And you’d avoided the athletic park like the plague.

Max turns to him as they walk out of the building, and the confusion must still be evident on his face, because Max swears under his breath in some other language. Oscar’s too lost in thought to even wonder what language it is, exactly.

“Look, just-“ Max pinches the bridge of his nose. “Trust me, she’ll talk about it when she wants to.”

“Okay,” Oscar nods. “But, like, is she… okay?”

Max gives him a sad smile. “Yeah.”

Oscar hears the silent part in his head. She is now.

They walk home together in near silence. Oscar doesn’t know what to say. He’s sure Max doesn’t, either. When they get to the house, Alex is coming down the front steps, the door still open behind him. Oscar sees your boots in the entryway, your coat hanging on the hook. Alex ruffles his hair as he walks past, and Oscar ducks before he turns to Max.

“Don’t tell her?” He asks, and Max looks sheepish, like that was the exact thing he was about to do. “I mean. If you think she needs to know I saw it, then… sure. But I don’t want her to feel pressured to talk to me about it.”

Max wrinkles his nose and nods. “Okay. For now.”

Oscar nods. They’re in agreement, then. He walks in through the front door and he can hear you and Lando in the kitchen, singing along to whatever song is playing from the speaker. It’s family dinner night. Oscar tries to put the thoughts of you in a soccer team portrait out of his head.

He sits next to you at dinner as you pick at your food. It’s one of your favorite meals, but your appetite seems low. It has him feeling concerned. Max, on your other side, nudges you. Oscar watches the two of you have a quiet conversation and wishes he knew what you were feeling. You finally take a couple bites, and he tries not to show how relieved he is about it.

One by one, everyone wanders off to study and get ready for the week ahead. You stay sitting at the table, though. Oscar clears some plates and comes back to find you, a couple TimTams in hand. You take them with a soft smile.

“You alright?” He asks, quietly.

You nod. “Stressed.”

Oscar nods. “Anything I can do to help?”

You twist your mouth. “Probably not. I should really just go home.”

You don’t make any moves to get up. He sighs and sits down next to you. You drum your fingers on the worn wooden tabletop and set the cookies down next to your plate. You’re chewing on your lower lip, and you close your eyes and let out a breath through your nose.

“It’s like… my brain just won’t stop going,” you say. “Like everything I’ve read is just tumbling around in there and I don’t know how to make it stop.”

“Objects in motion tend to stay in motion,” Oscar says, and you groan.

“Do not use physics metaphors on me right now,” you say, and when he starts laughing, you dissolve into giggles, too. “Gross.”

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, smiling sheepishly when you turn to look at him. “Why don’t I make some tea, and we can put it in travel mugs, and I’ll walk you home?”

A soft smile slips across your face. “That sounds really nice.”

He makes the tea exactly how both of you like it, pours it into the mugs, and ushers you towards the front door. You stop in the living room to say goodbye to Lando, who ruffles your hair, and Max, who holds onto your arm and says something to you, so quietly that you’re the only one who’ll hear it. Then Oscar heads outside, and you follow. It’s slightly dark, and chilly, but you’ve brought a jacket this time. You wrap both hands around the mug as you walk, a habit of yours that Oscar finds awfully endearing. The streetlights glow bright above your heads.

The walk is mostly silent. He reaches the entrance to the park, and on reflex again, he slows and turns to head down the path. You stop in your tracks and let out a pained little noise. Oscar’s stomach rolls. In the distance, the soccer field is lit up bright with floodlights. Something must’ve happened, to keep you from playing. You’d been good enough to be on the team. Something had changed. He turns and takes a step to continue down the sidewalk, but you stay planted there, staring. He pauses, holding his breath. It’s just the two of you, under the streetlamps, feet on the sidewalk.

“I used to play soccer,” you say, quietly, and his pulse jumps.

She’ll tell you when she’s ready. He hadn’t expected it to be so soon. He bites his lip and shoves his hands in his hoodie pocket. You’re still staring out over the park, so he turns to stare, too. He feels you lean your shoulder against his, like you’re looking for support, and he leans into it, just to show he’s there.

“I got signed to play as a senior in high school,” you explain. “And, not to brag, but I was really good. Went through summer training camp and made friends with my teammates and got here and… then I fell just the right way at practice, or the wrong way, I guess,” you say, grimacing. “Fucked up my knee. I had to have surgery, twice, and even then, they pretty much told me I was done. That it would never heal right.”

Oscar’s heart sinks. His chest feels tight. He thinks of you, on the couch in the living room when he woke up feeling off and asked you to go on a run, how you’d said you’d messed up your knee. He thinks of Max and the concerned way he always watches you climb the stairs in the stands at the rink. He thinks of you, younger, like the picture in the athletics building, on the field, in pain. He feels sick to his stomach.

“And my teammates… they didn’t know how to act, I think. They didn’t know how to help, so they just didn’t try. So, suddenly I was no longer a soccer player, and I was alone, and…” you sigh. Oscar turns to face you, and he thinks there are tears in your eyes. “And then I met Lando, and the rest of the team, and the rest is history. But… there are some things that still get to me. The field… it holds a lot of bad memories, you know? And when I’m stressed like this it all comes flooding back.”

He nods. You’re not looking at him, even as he watches a tear roll down your cheek. He wants to reach out and wipe it away, but he wonders if that would be a step too far. He pulls his hands from his pockets. You swipe a hand against your cheeks and clear the tears, and then let your own hands hang at your sides. He takes a steadying breath, steels himself, and links his fingers with yours- casually, lightly, gently holding on. You squeeze his hand in reply- a thank you, he thinks. He does the same in return.

“Did Max tell you why I left my old school?” He asks, quietly.

“No,” you answer, voice low and tentative. “Max doesn’t tell people stuff like that.”

He shrugs, though he supposes that makes sense- he’d refused to tell Oscar what had happened to you. Max seems loyal like that. Oscar rolls a pebble beneath his shoe and listens to your breathing to remind himself you’re still there. He wants you to know this. Wants to share. Wants you to know he understands, at least a little bit.

“I got scouted by them my senior year,” he starts, closing his eyes. Like this, he’s almost right back in it. “And I was really excited. And then I got there and… the guys on the team were awful. I didn’t get any playing time, and they’d all been friends since they were kids, and I felt like such an outsider.” He kicks the pebble down the path lightly. “By the time my sophomore year rolled around, I hated it. I hated hockey. I’d spent my whole life doing nothing but that but I dreaded every practice. I was…”

He huffs. Squeezes his eyes shut tighter. He can feel the hits from his own teammates at practice. Can feel that same empty, lonely feeling sitting at the end of the bench. He can taste the blood in his mouth when he tried to stand up for himself and the team captain shoved him and the coach did nothing.

“It was fucked,” he says. He hates the way his voice wobbles. “So I quit. I walked out. I was done with hockey. I couldn’t even go near the rink for months.”

“But you’re here now,” you say, quietly.

He nods sharply. “I had this old coach- his name’s Mark. Showed up on his doorstep and told him the whole thing. He and Seb used to be teammates. So he got me a tryout. I refused, at first. And then Seb sent Max to come talk to me.”

He remembers that, clear as day, too. Max, bright and smiling, at his dorm room door. He knew who Max was, he had looked up to him for years. Max had walked in, planted himself on the floor in the room, and hadn’t left until Oscar changed his mind.

“I spent the summer training back home. Found my love for it again,” he explains. “But it wasn’t easy. I think I’m still working on it, sometimes.”

You hum next to him. You squeeze his hand again. His breath hitches. Your skin is warm against his. It makes his chest ache. He hadn’t known who he was without his sport. He thinks maybe you know that feeling better than anyone else.

“I’m sorry you got hurt,” he says into the night air. “And I know you must’ve heard it a billion times, and that I don’t really understand what it’s like to have it taken away like that. But…”

“But you get it,” you say, voice rough around the edges. “The lonely feeling.”

He nods and swallows against the lump in his throat. “And thank you. For making things less lonely here.”

“I’m sorry if I was too much,” you answer.

He just shakes his head. “I’m sorry I was so… stuck.”

You’re quiet for a few moments, before you squeeze his hand again. “Come on, let’s go on a walk.”

You knit your fingers with his, properly, and Oscar expects you to start down the sidewalk again. You don’t. Instead, your feet carry you down the path through the park. He understands now, that this place must hold awful memories. Reminders of what was supposed to be, what was taken away. You’re trusting him with this. It sits heavy on his shoulders.

He doesn’t push, doesn’t ask more questions. When you walk past the soccer field, he turns to sneak a glance at your face. There’s sadness in your eyes, but a smile on your lips. There’s a strength, there, too, that he finds starkly beautiful. You hold onto him tightly, and together, you make it through the park, all the way to your apartment.

He leaves you at the door with a quiet goodnight and a promise to see each other the next day for the regular study session. The exam is on Tuesday, so it’ll be his last excuse to spend time with you like that. He walks home in silence, through the park, and tries not to stare at the soccer goal. That night, he dreams of soccer fields and hockey rinks and you.

…..

When Oscar gets home just before your normal study time the next day, there’s music pouring out of the front door before he even opens it. It’s louder once he does. The house seems mostly empty, but someone is either having a very good or very bad day. He wavers in the doorway, wondering if he should call you. He’s still there when you walk in behind him, bumping into his shoulder. He turns to look at you, eyes wide. Yours are even wider.

“I don’t think we can study here,” he says, frowning.

You shake your head. “We can go to my place.”

So he packs up his things into his backpack, avoiding whatever is going on in Charles’ room that has him causing permanent damage to his eardrums. Then the two of you take off down the street, towards your apartment. He slows only slightly at the turn for the park, waiting to see what you’ll do. You turn down the path through the park and loop your arm in his. He looks away in the hopes that you don’t see the smile that creeps across his face.

Your apartment is, honestly, exactly how he’d always pictured it. It’s soft and cozy and colorful. There’s a well loved, overstuffed couch in the living room, a little table in the kitchen, and so much stuff on the walls. Music posters, photos blown up big, and… collages. Some in frames, some tacked up with tape, scattered across the place. Perfect mixtures of magazine cutouts and pieces of paper and he swears he even spots a dried flower on one.

“Wow,” he says, studying the one that hangs over the couch. “These are so cool.”

You’re in the kitchen, grabbing a snack, and you turn over your shoulder. “Oh. Thanks. I made a lot of them when I was injured. I had nothing better to do, yknow?”

He sees a chunk of an x-ray in the corner of the piece, and his heart twists. You walk up next to him, shoulder to shoulder. When he looks at you, you’re smiling softly. He likes that look on your face. He wants to keep it there, and suddenly he dreads studying physics because he knows how stressed you’re going to be.

“We’ll have to make some sometime,” you say, nudging your elbow against his. “There’s a billion hockey magazines in a closet at your house.”

“I don’t have an artistic bone in my body,” he says.

You laugh. “That’s the fun of collages. You don’t have to.”

He settles in on one end of the couch, and you settle into the other. The soft light of the lamp in the living room makes it feel warm, the same way your hand in his had felt the day before. He tries so, so hard to focus on physics. It’s just… he’s in your apartment, and you’re there, knees curled to your chest, brow furrowed in concentration, and… something about this feels so soft.

He clears his throat, opens his textbook, and flips to the review questions. “Alright. Ready?”

The two of you study for hours. Oscar doesn’t know when it happens, but at some point you move closer, so you can look off the same textbook. Physics terms and formulas and theories rattle around in his brain, all wrapped up with thoughts of you. The sun goes down, and the windows to the outside grow dark. He doesn’t want to leave. He wants to stay right here.

“My brain is full,” you mumble, between a yawn.

You drop your head against his shoulder, and his heart pounds in his chest. He shouldn’t be feeling like this, he knows it. You’re just tired, that’s all.

He nods in agreement. “Mine too. I can go home. We should get a good night’s sleep.”

You nod against his shoulder and then make no move to pull away. “In a minute,” you say. “Your arm is comfy.”

Butterflies- actual, real life butterflies, he swears it- swirl in his stomach. It doesn’t mean anything. He’s seen you fall asleep on Charles’ shoulder during movie nights, watched you curl up on Max’s bed and take a nap while everyone around you talked. He’s just another friend, another shoulder to lean on. This doesn’t mean anything, and besides, it shouldn’t mean anything, so why is his stomach swirling with butterflies, and why does his face feel hot?

When you finally pull away and help him pack up his things, he hopes you can’t tell how he’s feeling. You walk him to the door and wait for him to put on his shoes and jacket. It’s just so you can lock it behind him, he knows. But then you reach up and smooth the hair from his forehead and laugh, and his chest aches fiercely, and god, he could kiss you- not even really kiss you, just on the forehead or the cheek would do. He says goodnight instead and steps out into the hallway, then makes his feet carry him down the stairs and out to the sidewalk.

He walks past the soccer field and finds himself hoping that maybe you felt it too.

He gets up early the next morning and finds Max in the kitchen with coffee ready to go. He grabs two travel mugs- his, and yours. Max raises an eyebrow as he spreads cream cheese on a bagel. Oscar does the same in response.

“You were out late last night,” Max says, eyeing him.

He doesn’t bother asking how Max knows when he got back. He feels like it’s written plainly all over his face. He can feel the weight of you against his shoulder. Can feel your hand brushing his hair from his face. Can feel how much he wants to lean in. Max must see it.

“I was studying,” he says, carefully.

“With Bunny,” Max suggests, and Oscar nods. “But not here.”

“No, we got here and Charles was blasting music,” Oscar explains. “So we went to her place.”

“He failed an exam,” Max says, face scrunched up. “Well. He assumes he did. You know Charles.”

Oscar nods. Max is staring at him as he pours hot coffee into mugs. He’s not sure what the team captain is looking for, but he hopes he doesn’t find it.

“She told you,” he says, quietly, and Oscar looks up from the mugs, nearly spilling coffee all over.

He clears his throat. “Yeah.”

Max nods and finally turns back to his bagel. “Good.”

That’s that, then. He puts the lids on the coffee, and Max sends him out the door with two bagels- one for him, one for you. He almost feels like he’s passed some sort of test when Max gives him a sharp nod as he turns to leave, but he’s not sure which test it would even be.

He finds you in the lobby before the exam, hands off the coffee and the bagel and tells you he knows you’re going to do well. You smile brightly at him, and he swears it lights up the whole building.

“We’ve got this,” you say, nudging him with your elbow. “And if we don’t, we’ll retake it together.”

He nods in agreement. The two of you sit on a bench and eat your bagels and drink your coffee. Oscar wishes he could attribute the warmth in his belly to the drink, but he’s pretty sure it has more to do with the way you smile up at him and the weight of your shoulder against his. Either way, it sends him into the exam with a good feeling, and that’s really all he can ask for.

…..

Oscar finds himself feeling sad when the holiday break rolls around this year. It’s a weird feeling. For years, he’s looked forward to December for this reason. The exams are over, he gets time off from school, a chance to go home or have his family visit, and a break from everything. He realizes, as he’s staring up at the ceiling, listening to Lando lugging a suitcase around, that he’s going to miss his friends when they leave for the break. It’s been two years since the last time he called his teammates friends.

He drags himself out of bed and into the hallway, because if Lando’s leaving, he wants to say goodbye. And sure enough, there he is, wearing a hoodie and sweatpants and taking an enormous suitcase down the stairs one step at a time. Oscar spots you on the ground floor, watching in amusement, and he waves at you.

“Morning, Oscar,” you call out. “Ready for the break?”

He scrubs a hand through his hair and shrugs. “Yeah.”

You raise your brows. “That was convincing,” you say, sarcasm dripping from your lips.

He bites back a laugh, not wanting to give you the satisfaction of having called him out. “It’ll be nice to see my family. Just weird to have everyone gone, yknow?”

Lando, who’s made it down three stairs, turns to look at him. “Aw, he’s gonna miss us!” He coos, and Oscar feels his face go red.

Before he can jump to his own defense or try to come up with something to tease Lando about, you speak up from the bottom of the steps.

“Yeah, and we’re gonna miss him, Lando,” you say, shaking your head. “Jesus. Oscar, would you just shove him and the giant suitcase down the steps?”

Oscar’s trying not to dwell on you saying you’ll miss him, too. It shouldn’t affect him nearly as much as it does right now. It makes his stomach twist. He keeps the smile plastered on his face and forces a laugh, and Lando glares at him as menacingly as Lando can glare at anyone. He brushes off the feeling and grabs the side handle of Lando’s suitcase, then helps him lug it down the stairs. Lando shoots him a smile to replace the glare as they get it to the bottom floor. Then he pats him on the shoulder and ruffles his hair. Oscar winces.

“Bye, Piastri,” he says, grinning. “Have a good break.”

He pulls the giant suitcase towards the front door. You stay standing there, even as Lando steps outside and sighs at the sight of the front steps. Oscar steps off the staircase and lands near you, arms swinging at his sides.

“You’re staying here all break, right?” You ask.

He nods. “My family will be here Monday, though.”

“Nice,” you say, smiling wide. “Well. I bought more TimTams and Vegemite, so they should feel right at home.”

Warmth bubbles up in Oscar’s chest. “Thanks.”

You nod. The two of you stand there for a few seconds, and he wonders if you’re holding your breath, too. You shift back and forth on your feet, and then before he knows it, you’re against his chest, arms around him. He barely has time to hug you back before you pull away, and that’s the only bad part about it. He would hold you forever, if he could, he thinks. And honestly, that’s terrifying.

You pull away, and he hopes you don’t notice how red his cheeks are. “Bye, Oscar,” you say, almost shyly.

“Bye, Bunny,” he says back.

Lando calls your name from the front door, and you scurry off. He sighs. He swears he can still smell your shampoo, and then hates himself for knowing what your shampoo even smells like. He shoves his hands in the pockets of his sweatshirt and turns back towards the stairs, ready to head back to his room, crawl back into bed, and go back to sleep. He jumps in shock when he finds Alex and George standing at the top of the stairs, leaning on the railing.

“That was interesting, wasn’t it, Alex,” George says.

“Quite interesting, I’d say,” Alex nods, scratching his chin thoughtfully.

Oscar rolls his eyes and takes the stairs two at a time. “You guys are creepy.”

They both just laugh as Oscar pushes past them and into his room. He shuts the door behind him, flops down onto the bed face first, and closes his eyes. Outside, he hears Logan’s car start up- the guy really needs to get the thing fixed, it’s loud as hell, but at least it still runs. He closes his eyes and reminds himself that it’ll only be a few weeks until you’re back in town. Then he wonders when having you around became so important to him. He rolls over, buries his face in the pillow, and goes to sleep.

notes: a lil osc pov!! thank you for reading! check out the winter break blurb, or find part 4 here!

tags: to be added or removed just let me know!! crossed out names were unable to be tagged- if it’s yours, shoot me a message!

main taglist: @4-mula1 @celestialams @struggling-with-delia @lovekt @i-wish-this-was-me @forzalando @iloveyou3000morgan @callsign-scully @arian-directioner @racingheartsposts @sakuramxchii @mynamejeff5

series taglist: @sourskywalker @ivyvlair @gwginnyweasley @annispamz @bearlul @aresriiots @ggaslyp1 @verstoppenheimer @black-fireproofs @smilinlemon @arieslost @floralkoi @vicurious28 @likedbygaslyy @rorabelle15 @bwormie @treatallwithkindness @fandomnerd11 @adhxmoony @sakuramxchii @insunia @mindflay3r @talking-raw @coolmathgames2 @assholeinatrenchcoat @saachiep81 @venusacrossthestars @v1naco @anthonylockwoodandco111 @whalebursoot-main @ellen3101 @k-pevensie28 @ninifee1802 @avg-golden-retriever @pleasecallmeunhinged @andruuu28 @aceofswordsandarrows @dreamsarebig @secretunnels @ginsengi @yayahnaise @f1petra @lovecarsgoingvroom

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milkb0nny · 8 months

Note

Hii 👋🏼 Can you do an Ivar x floki daughter? They were raised together and she was his only friend when he was younger because she wasn't scared and he'll always protect her.

Older she become a healer of the village, and one day floki want her to marry ubble/hwitserk and Ivar become very very jaloux..👀

You can make fluff/smut/ angst as you want!

thank u 🤍☺️

Sorry for my English it’s not my first language

Jealous Games

Ivar the Boneless x fem!reader

Summary: One day, your father enters your room, unveiling that your parents want you to marry Ubbe. Though, the past years you grew feeling for another man: Ivar. You never told anyone about your true feelings for the man but now that Ubbe is supposed to be your husband, you feel utterly broken down. Refusing the offer, you leave the scene, only to discover a life changing secret...

Note: Thank you SO much for this request. It was a lot of fun writing it. I enjoyed writing this particular request more than I should've. 🤍 I hope you'll like it!

Warnings: slight angst (nothing graphic), forced possible marriage, mentions of anger issues, detailed kissing scene

Genres: slight angst, fluff

word count: 2.445

Ivar's childhood was shrouded in a tapestry of dark grays and blacks, a period marked by relentless bullying, discrimination, and a stark absence of love. love. Amid this harsh environment, Aslaug, his devoted mother, stood as one of the few adults who genuinely embraced him. Yet, even her unwavering love couldn't quell the relentless growth of his simmering anger. But, within these somber times, there existed a glimmer of hope - a hope that emerged when you entered his life.

Ivar adored Floki, viewing him as his own father and protector. Whenever the cruelty of both children and adults bore down upon him, Floki served as a steadfast anchor, and so did you. Your friendship started with a shy hesitation.

Helga and Floki, your parents, had taught you to always accept others, no matter how they looked like. You watched your father engage with Ivar, teaching him the art of weaponry and regaling him with Nordic sagas. You had shared them whenever you wanted company and as a result, the two of you became friends.

As the years passed, your bond with Ivar deepened. He shielded you from any unwelcome advances, such as nasty men, while you provided solace during his most challenging moments. Together, you embarked on hunting expeditions, sharing meals at Ivar's dwelling with his family.

Fortunately, his mother held you in high regard. She possessed a strict demeanor when it came to the women who orbited around her beloved sons, yet she understood your unshakable bond with Ivar. With open arms, she welcomed you whenever you graced her home with your cherished friend.

Of course you faced discriminating comments and remarks from time to time because of Ivar, though you stayed by Ivar’s side. You were the only woman who glimpsed Ivar's vulnerabilities, the only girl who had witnessed his anguished tears and experienced the gentleness that lay beneath his hard exterior during your shared childhood.

You knew him, cherished him, and secretly, perhaps even loved him. Yet, you concealed your affections, carrying them within your heart, as your father saw you both as siblings. Sure, you grew up together and were basically one person, but you could also love him, right?

You kept your adoration hidden and you honestly were fine with it because you remained close to Ivar but you always faced struggles when a woman tried to seduce him. You were a strong and loving woman, supporting a man whom few understood or respected.

In recent years, you had devoted your time to the study of science and honed your skills as a healer. Your knowledge extended to various herbs and methods to mend any kind of injury. Ivar sought your counsel frequently, valuing the conversations you shared.

The atmosphere between you was one of relaxation, love, and kindness, something that Ivar rarely encountered in his tumultuous life. He harbored deep emotions for you, but fear held him back. Rejection had been his constant companion throughout life, even from his own father, Ragnar Lothbrok. This fear of rejection crippled him, making him hesitant to express his emotions to you.

One day, your father entered your room with an unusual expression. You initially assumed he was about to share one of Floki's eccentric ideas, as was his habit. Therefore a bright smile creeped over your lovely face, greeting your father. However, what he proposed was far from comforting; it shattered your heart in a matter of seconds.

“I've been thinking about arranging a marriage between you and Ubbe,” he said, his words falling like lead..

You raised your eyebrows, believing that he joked at first but his serious expression remained - he meant it.

“Uh, father. I don’t know if I-,” you began, only to be interrupted by his eager explanation.

“I thought you’d remain close to Ivar and find a man who truly treats you right. I know Ubbe is a good man who will respect you,” he continued.

You pondered his words briefly, acknowledging that Ubbe was a compassionate and respectful man who held women in high regard. During your childhood, you had formed a fondness for him, but it was far from romantic.

No, you truly despised the idea.

“Father, I don't wish to marry," you protested vehemently, rejecting Floki's wishes, which he met with displeasure. You couldn't fathom joining hands with a man you didn't love, especially if it were your true love's brother. The thought left you with an overwhelming sense of unease.

“Child, you've reached a point in your life where you need a man to protect you. You're all on your own, and we're concerned," he voiced his genuine worries. While you understood his concerns, this request felt like an intrusion on your own autonomy, a call you couldn't embrace. You preferred making your parents proud and being a memorable member of Kattegat, but this wasn’t your true faith.

You were bound to none other than Ivar the Boneless, a man whose depths you knew better than your own skills as a healer. As you sat there, Floki's hand swept across his weary face, his gaze avoiding yours as he delivered the unimaginable truth.

“Ubbe has asked for your hand in marriage, and we've already agreed with Aslaug. The decision has been made, my dear," he disclosed, a heavy burden of heartache settling upon you. Tears welled in your eyes, and your cheeks flushed with the ache of this revelation.

“No, Father,” you protested, your voice quivering from the shock of their decision, made without your consent.

“We only want you to be happy," Floki tried to bridge the emotional chasm, but his words fell on deaf ears. You were consumed by fury, your emotions tearing at you, digging a chasm within your heart.

“I’m not!” You cried out, finally allowing your pent-up emotions to pour forth. "I'm not happy, Father. You have a woman you love, and Mother loves you too. Why can't I?” You shouted while tears ran down your soft skin, falling onto the ground. You sobbed uncontrollably.

“No, don’t think that,” Floki tried to console you, his heart aching as he witnessed your distress. After all, you were his beloved daughter, a sweet and loving child he cherished. Right now, you feared the fatherly connection was breaking apart.

“I’m not marrying Ubbe! I’d rather die,” you declared, your voice barely a whisper but loud enough for your father to comprehend. With those words hanging heavily in the air, you rose and fled the room, leaving your father behind. As you left the building you came across Ubbe, who of course knew about the idea before you did, though you rage signalized that you weren’t enlightened.

Floki followed closely, calling your name, but your steps quickened with each utterance. Ultimately, you ran away, seeking refuge in the familiar embrace of the Kattegat forest, a place you knew intimately. You spent a lot of time in the forests and fields to collect herbs and plants, sometimes even staying overnight in summer. With your father, mother, Ubbe, and the impending marriage fading into the background, you retreated into the solitude of the woods. Little did you know your secret significant other just found out about the marriage through Sigurd.

“You’re telling me, y/n is going to marry my brother?” The crackling fire of the fireplace represented Ivar’s slight rage as he received the information.

Sigurd understood that you were Ivar's soft spot, and while he relished the opportunity to tease his brother, he also conveyed the truth. Aslaug had kept this secret from Ivar, knowing precisely what she was doing.

“Yes. Ubbe is the eldest among us brothers, so it only makes sense for him to claim one of the town's most important women, Ivar,” Sigurd explained while deftly carving a sculpture from wood.

Ivar despised the idea entirely, his lips chewed raw as he gazed out the window. It was not Ubbe's right to simply take any woman, especially not you. He believed Ubbe was not meant for your delicate being, no matter how loving, respectful, and kind he might be. At least in the eyes of the Ragnarsson, Ubbe would never be worthy.

As the evening progressed, Ubbe and Floki entered the brothers' home. Ivar remained silent, seething with anger and disappointment. However, he was not Ubbe's primary concern.

“Ubbe, she ran way. I cannot force her,” Floki implored Ubbe to reconsider.

“Floki, it’s not your fault. I love her though, and you know it. I’d treat her with everything she desires and I’ll love the children she will bear,” Ubbe explained, greeting Sigurd and Ivar with a small nod.

“You don't love her if you'll force her to marry you," Ivar's words were cold and stern, his anger barely contained.

“Excuse me?” Ubbe was taken aback by the accusation.

Finally, Ivar’s jealousy piqued and he looked up to his brother, “You heard me. She doesn’t love you. She never will!” His words struck like a shock.

Sigurd, joining the conversation, couldn't resist a taunt, “Oh, are your little feelings hurt because she won’t hop in bed with you? Poor Ivar.”

Oh, how much Ivar hated these people, these cruel brothers who always take his hope away. They rob him of his freedom, his excitement and love. They always seemed to achieve everything, while Ivar was left with nothing but solitude and heartache. As the tension simmered within the dimly lit room, Ivar's words hung heavy in the air, causing a palpable rift between the brothers.

“Ivar, you have no right to dictate her heart. She's a woman with her own choices," Ubbe retorted, his voice carrying an air of defiance.

Ivar scoffed as a response to this unsolicited statement. It wasn’t Ivar who was trying to force himself upon you, it was Ubbe. All his life Ivar did nothing to pressure you or force you to do something. You had been safe around him, no burdens dragging you down when you had spent time together.

Sigurd, needing to provoke Ivar further, leaned in with a sly smile, "Is that so, Ivar? Or are you just afraid she might choose someone else over you?"

The youngest among them decided to not react to the jokes Sigurd made as he intentionally tried to fuel Ivar’s anger. While Ivar was torn between his immense longing for you and the realization that he might never be able to offer you the love and protection you deserved, Ivar couldn't help but feel that marrying Ubbe was wrong. The young Ragnarsson decided to leave the situation, searching for you.

They didn’t, but Ivar did.

Meanwhile, you had found safety in the forest, away from the prying eyes and expectations of your family and the town of Kattegat. There, you wandered aimlessly. As you reached a small, shallow river, you placed yourself on a rock. The silence and peace gave you enough room to reflect on the horrible decision of your parents.

You couldn’t deny your love for Ivar anymore. Whenever you thought about becoming Ubbe’s wife, Ivar’s face popped up on your mind. He was the fragile yet strong man you truly desired with your whole heart.

Tears still covered your face, seeking their way down into the cold water of the river.

It was in this melancholic moment that you spotted a familiar face among the shadows. Ivar’s presence unveiled itself on the other side of the river. His intense blue eyes, filled with a mixture of longing and despair, locked onto yours.

“Y/n,” he called your name out, his voice heavy with emotion.

You blinked a few times and a broken, yet warm smile rushed over your lips. You stood up, jumping over the small width of the river, getting closer to Ivar.

“Ivar…,” you whispered, seating you down next to him.

Even though you appreciated his company, your heart couldn’t bear to look into his loyal eyes. Alone the fact others think you and Ubbe would be a suitable couple made you feel dirty.

Ivar’s eyes remained locked on you, his voice filling the silence between you, “You… you don’t want to marry my brother, right?”

You frantically shook your head as an answer.

Ivar came a little closer, his eyes never leaving yours.

"I can't stand the thought of you being with him," he confessed, his vulnerability laid bare. Jealousy or not, his emotions were genuine and Ivar thrived for your love. Yet, he never told you.

“Ivar,” you whispered, contemplating whether you should reveal your intimate feelings. “Ubbe isn’t the man I want to call husband. Of course he’s intelligent and a wonderful fighter, though…”

Ivar’s soothing voice interjected, “I want you to stay by my side.”

Finally, a massive amount of weight released the both of you, and you widened your eyes in surprise. His confession lightened a fire inside you that you had guessed was already banished. A smile lingered on your lips while you replayed his words again and again in your mind. He asked you to remain his, not to become Ubbe’s woman or anyone else’s.

His eyes expressed his fear of rejection, since you two had shared a unique relationship he couldn’t put together. Your beautiful smile warmed his mind though, letting his hope grow little by little.

Your heart quickened in response to the significant magnetic pull between you. Softly, you said the words you had longed to say the past years.

“Ivar, I love you.”

Without a further word, Ivar reached out, his hand gently cupping your cheek. His touch was both tender and possessive, as if he wanted to memorize every inch of your face. He never held you like this - a whole new level of trust and intimacy unveiled itself. His passion and your admiration mixed together.

Slowly, he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a soft, tentative kiss. You didn’t know how a kiss normally feels like, but you knew his kiss was the right thing. His lips were warm and inviting, and his breath mingled with yours, creating an intimate connection that defied the existence of everything but your shared love for one another.

It was a kiss filled with unspoken promises - the weight of unexpressed emotions that were kept hidden for many years. It was a kiss that spoke of a love that had always been there, just waiting to be acknowledged, waiting to bloom, waiting to emerge.

When he gently pulled away, your hearts were racing, and a breathless silence hung between you.

Ivar's eyes stared into yours, filled with a raw intensity that left no room for doubt. He loved you too.

“No one will take your hand, except for me, Ástvinur.”

#vikings ivar #ivar ragnarsson #i'm crying #ivar the boneless #vikings x you #vikings x reader #vikings #ivar lothbrok #ivar x reader

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talisidekick · 2 years

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To my trans friends, associates, and strangers:

Ever seen those posts online telling you that you're beautiful, and handsome, and awesome, and that not passing doesn't make you less human, less your gender? I've made a couple myself because it's true, but do you know why it's true?

For a while it flew over my head, but the reason is probably something many have not yet fully considered: that cisgender women, and men struggle to pass too.

In this world of idolized muscled and square-shouldered hunks, and hour-glass thin beauties, where do most cisgender men and women fall naturally? Outside of idolization. They too worry about their figure, their weight, their height, if they're too masculine, too feminine, or not enough. They too feel their nose is to big or too wide, jaw to wide or narrow, hips too wide or narrow, lips too big or thin, too much hair or not enough. When they look at those idolized metrics of beauty and masculinity, they too feel the pressure to reach for an extremely high bar, and they too feel the shame, depression, and distress when they can't reach it. When they don't pass for market defined pretty, beautiful, handsome, or hot.

We're not that different. We share the same problems. We are human.

So it is okay not to pass, it's okay to feel like you miss the mark. It is okay to fall short, because cis people aren't hitting that incredibly high bar half the time anyways either.

Beauty is an industry that preys on vanity, and sets goals deliberately to make you feel lesser to sell you products to 'get you there'. Make-up, protien-shakes, suppliment pills, face-creams, gimmicky exercise tools, etc. It is designed to make you feel ugly so it can sell you fake, marketable, packageable beauty. It lessens the value of your being purposefully to sell you product to feel what it defines as "normal". It should not define what makes a human being a man or a woman. The fact that it does and tries to, is a problem both Cisgender and Transgender people face equally.

#trans #transgender #lgbtqia2s+#lgbt+#lgbtq+#trans positivity #mtf #ftm #nonbinary #enby #transfem #transmasc #transneutral #lgbt

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eretzyisrael · 7 days

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by POTKIN AZARMEHR

‘Pro-Palestine’ protests have become a near-weekly occurrence across Britain. Since Hamas’s 7 October massacre, regular marches have been drawing in a growing number of young people, marked by passionate advocacy and fervent slogans. Yet despite their zeal, many of these protesters lack a fundamental understanding of the conflict they are so vociferously decrying.

In the past six months, I have attended many of these marches. Having engaged with numerous protesters, I have noticed a startling disconnect between their strong opinions on the Gaza conflict and their shaky grasp of basic facts about it. Among the most perplexing are the LGBT and feminist groups (the ‘Queers for Palestine’ types) who flirt with justifying Hamas’s atrocities. This is a bewildering alliance, given that Hamas’s Islamist ideology is clearly antithetical to the rights and values these groups claim to champion. Its reactionary agenda is profoundly hostile to women’s rights and LGBT individuals.

Protesters seem eager to make excuses for Hamas, but are conspicuously uninformed about exactly what or who this terrorist group represents. On 18 May, during a protest at Piccadilly Circus in London, I spoke to demonstrators who firmly believed that Hamas represents all Palestinians. When I questioned a well-educated participant about the last Palestinian election, she was unaware that none had occurred since 2006, when Hamas gained power in Gaza.

It wasn’t just young people who were uninformed. An older woman with an American accent, seemingly a veteran protester, admitted she knew that Hamas was linked to the Muslim Brotherhood, but had no deeper knowledge of its ideology or history. Others, such as members of revolutionary socialist groups, displayed similar gaps in understanding, unaware of critical events like the 1979 Iranian Revolution.

That revolution gave birth to the Islamic Republic of Iran, a theocratic regime that brutally oppresses its own citizens. It also sponsors Islamist groups like Hamas. I left Iran for the UK not long after that regime began and have spent years resisting its religious extremism and ruthless political intolerance. Protesters were not only unaware of these facts about the Iranian regime, but also ill-informed about the struggle against it, such as the ‘Woman, Life, Freedom’ protests against the government that began in 2022.

One particularly telling conversation involved a man advocating for a ‘Global Intifada’ to replace capitalism with socialism. When asked about successful socialist models, he was unfamiliar with the Israeli kibbutzim, one of history’s few successful egalitarian experiments. His ignorance of these communal settlements in Israel, built by socialist Jewish immigrants, was all too typical.

Perhaps the most telling moment was captured by commentator Konstantin Kisin earlier this year, when he encountered a young man holding a ‘Socialist Intifada’ placard. The protester admitted he had no idea what this meant and that he had taken the sign simply because it was handed to him.

Reflecting on past movements, such as the American anti-Vietnam War protests of the 1960s and the British Anti-Apartheid Movement of the 1980s, one can’t help but note a stark contrast. Protesters then were generally well-informed about their causes. Today’s pro-Palestine protests, however, seem to be driven more by unthinking fervour than by an understanding of the issues at hand.

Throughout all these protests, I am yet to encounter a single participant who condemns Hamas or carries a placard denouncing its terrorism. This not only undermines the protesters’ cause, but also risks aligning them with groups whose values fundamentally oppose the very rights and freedoms they claim to support. It appears that today’s young protesters are high on ideology, but woefully thin on facts.

Potkin Azarmehr is an Iranian activist and journalist who left Iran for the UK after the revolution of 1979.

#pro palestine protests #ignorance #london

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diejager · 9 months

Note

Hello, may please ask for nsfw headcanons for the Oni please?

NSFW headcanons

Pairing: The Oni | Kazan Yamaska x fem!reader

Cw: NSFW, breeding kink, biting, marking, aftercare, possessive behaviour, size kink, tradition, scent/musk kink, worshiping, tell me if I missed any. Wc: 1.1k

Kazan is a proud man, honouring his family name to the point of committing blasphemy. He cherished the things that belonged to him, taking care of his kanabo with the careful swipe of his towel and as much love as he has for you, his little human. His big hands came to hold you before him, a supporting gesture while you stared up at him in the mirror, his piercing, red eyes meeting yours.

Under the protective shield of his armour, those ritualistic shoulder guards with curved Oni horns, chest armour, sleeves and thigh protections secured by thick ropes rounding the mass of his body; and the bloodied cloth of his shirt, shin guard, skirt and pants held with strong string sewing them together to become a piece; Kazan was a soft lover, caring and soft-spoken with his feelings for you. Under that scary Oni mask, Kazan is scarily human, even with the added height and broad shoulders.

Size played a lot to his kinks, his body looming over your smaller one, his hands holding your curved hips as he bullied his cock into you, watching the skin of your navel bulge with his enormous size. You cried when he pressed a palm over the bulge, pushing it as he plotted through your wet and tight cunt, milking and clamping his thick shaft. Kazan enjoyed watching you take him by yourself, using his chest as support as you sink onto him, mewling and whining about how big he was and how your cunny was too small when you’d taken him over and over before, getting all his length in you. You shook and trembled, legs weak and useless, depending on Kazan to move you up and down, his big hands holding your hips.

However gentle he tried to be, his strength and pleasure always got the better of his self-control, leaving bruises on your hips and waist, purples and blues the size of his fingers on your arms and thighs. Leaving marks on your soft, pliant flesh was a guilty pleasure of his, he liked sinking his jagged teeth into your shoulders and thighs. The sensuality of seeing the swollen bites on your skin and the sensitive news to it when he pressed a kiss on it. The ferality he felt surging in his body when red rolled down your thighs and shoulders, a single drop that painted your skin in a beautiful shade of crimson.

He’d be ploughing you with his veiny cock while he leaves traces of his presence on your being, a show of possession on you that he revelled in with pride and sheer, unbridled joy. He was bound to be possessive of what he loved, he held great value and high respect for anything that deserved it, and you were at the top of his list. Forgoing his need to value and respect, being a killer naturally made him more possessive, the need to own and show the others he owned you. Perhaps it made you feel like an object, an item of his obsession, but you’ve never voiced your concerns and fears so he kept going on. If he can show to the others - either killer or survivor - that you were his, he could live happily.

Kazan, as the Oni, had a potency to his being. He had a name, had a reputation, had skill and had needs. He knew, like him, a lot of killers had forsaken their humanity - their souls - to their monsters. Most killers had better noses, their enhanced sense made sniffing out survivors easier and, in his case, helped let the others know you were his. The smell of his mark on you would cling onto you like a cloud of musk, the scent of his cum inside of you screaming about your branding. He would cum in you, spurting rope after rope of potent cum, staining your slick walls.

He left it inside of you, dripping from your cunt and leaving the musk of his cum and your shared sex as a show of ownership. He spent time pumping you with his loads, he won’t stop until he’s overstimulated, because he can’t stop coming at the thought of breeding you. Building a family was a cultural tradition in his time, and to raise his descendants into honourable people, it was a dream of his, wishful thinking. He knew that within the Entity’s realm, all time stopped, he never aged, he never changed and he would never become a father, but the temptation of knocking you up was simply too much for him not to fuck his cum deeper.

Even while he bullied his load deeper and deeper, cock still as hard and leaky as when he first started, he’d kiss your lips so gently, muffling your mewls and cries. His hands cradled your face, placing sweet, worshipping kisses all over your face, hips rutting into you with your legs swinging over his shoulders. He rolled his hips steadily, making sure that you wouldn’t end up overstimulated like he was, all as he worshipped you. You were like a goddess to him, his little goddess that he could claim with his scent and mark. He kissed the ground you walked on, he kissed your hands when you held it towards him, and he would do anything you would want, all you have to do is ask.

After everything, the hours-long marathon in bed, he would take care of you. He’s amazing at aftercare. He would do every whim of yours, if you wanted a cup of water, he’d have it in seconds, if you wanted to shower, he’d bathe you; if you wanted to sleep; he’d cuddle you from the back. His attention was spent on you and you alone after every session, he cleaned you, he fed you, he watched your back when you slept. He spooned you, his bigger body shadowing you in a comfortable and safe embrace, an arm under your head and another over your waist.

If you didn’t want to sleep, wanting to feel pretty and clean as his, Kazan’s little goddess bride, he would dress you up prettily. Kazan was also a man who saw the beauty in tradition, painting you in the colours of his country, the powerful red and its innocent white. He painted your face in those shades with soft pink and yellow on your eyes, tried your hair in high loops and used beads to decorate your locks. Dressed in the beautiful robes that told stories and legends of his empire, you looked like those elegant geishas he remembered seeing years ago. You would dance and sing, he’d twirl you around him and make the ends of your sleeves flutter.

Kazan, for all his worth and pain, finally had something good in his life, something he could be proud of loving. Perhaps The Entity wasn’t as cold and unfeeling as She portrayed herself.

#x reader #dbd x reader #the oni x reader #kazan yamaoka #the oni dbd #dead by daylight #dbd smut #dbd imagines #dbd fanfic #dbd killer #dbd survivor #the Oni x reader smut #The oni smut #dbd x female reader #fem! reader #dbd x reader smut #dead by daylight smut #dead by daylight x reader #dead by daylight survivor

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comradekatara · 1 month

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sokka, katara, and the paradox of “the gifted child”

something i’ve noticed is a tendency to (mis)characterize sokka as someone who is dismissed due to being a nonbender, when that’s only partially true. sokka is certainly dismissed by some for not being a bender (namely, by benders), but i think there’s a key difference between being dismissed and not being valued in one specific way. katara was valued by her tribe for being a waterbender for the very crucial reason that she was the last one left. had she been a dime a dozen in her tribe, which would have been the case were it not for the systemic extermination of her people, she would not be valued as highly for possessing this skill. that said, while sokka clearly does hold some resentment over his lack of bending ability, calling himself “the guy in the group who’s regular,” i think it’s folly to assume that this means that sokka was dismissed and discarded as “average” while katara was put on a pedestal for being special. because while katara obviously was considered special, sokka is also clearly considered special by his family, merely in different ways. and if anything, sokka embodies the archetypal struggle of the so-called "gifted child” far more than katara does.

while sokka clearly believes himself to be disposable and intrinsically worthless, i don’t think that he was actively neglected by his family. even if katara was clearly marked by her bending as embodying the last hope of their tribe, that doesn’t mean that she was seen as more gifted than he was or was designated as her family’s obvious favorite. for example, the way hakoda talks about sokka (saying he trusted him with leading and protecting the tribe when he was thirteen, calling him a genius, and other such insanely high praises to heap on a child) shows that he clearly views his son as particularly exceptional and has never been shy about showing that. sokka is distinctly insecure around his father for assumptions he makes regarding hakoda's faith in his abilities and his insecurities when it comes to his perceived failure in not measuring up as a man, but from the second we meet hakoda, it's evident that these insecurities are entirely internal and completely unfounded, at least in terms of his father's perception of him. hakoda is nothing but incredibly proud of sokka, constantly emphasizing just how capable and brilliant he believes him to be. whether or not sokka is capable of internalizing it is another story, but it's clear that hakoda is not stingy in his praise and affection, not even a little bit.

moreover, while katara is clearly kanna’s favorite on an emotional level, she nonetheless affords sokka far more respect. she admonishes katara and tells her to do her chores, and notably, she also impresses the importance of “listening to her brother,” and backs up sokka’s decision to banish aang from the village. you can claim that sexism plays a factor in how sokka views his own supposed position of authority, but kanna is a woman who traveled the entire globe as a teenager because she wanted to escape patriarchal impositions dictating her life. she’s simply far too smart to treat sokka as any sort of authority within their village if she did not fully entrust him with that responsibility. she treats sokka almost like a peer, as if she is legitimately co-running the village with a fifteen year old boy.

katara is only a couple years younger than sokka at most, but her dynamic with kanna is very different. on one hand, kanna clearly sees more of herself in katara, can identify with her sense of adventure and rebellious spirit, but on the other hand, it means that she views katara as a child to be taken care of, who needs to be reminded to do her chores and bailed out when she gets herself into trouble. sokka doesn't want to be viewed as a child, and so he does everything in his power to position himself as kanna's equal rather than her grandson. he takes his duties and responsibilities very seriously, and is obedient to a fault whenever he is submitting to any authority he actually respects, especially his father and grandmother. to be honest, a lot of what katara considers coddling is probably just sokka never being bossed around by their grandmother because she never actually has to tell him to do his chores. because despite katara's claim that he simply faffs about "playing soldier," sokka's problem is actually that he takes himself too seriously for her liking. and with the exception of kanna saying "be nice to your sister," which is the kind of teasing a parent says to their child, she clearly respects sokka's position in the village. when katara tries to run away with aang, kanna takes sokka's side and forbids her from acting impulsively, but when sokka is the one who packs supplies and plans to save aang, kanna gives them both her blessing.

katara is the only person who takes umbrage with the notion of sokka running the village and telling her what to do all day. and those frustrations have likely accumulated up from a lifetime of being told to “do as her brother says” and “why can’t she be smarter and more responsible and levelheaded blah blah blah.” she clearly thinks that she’s punching up when she yells at or mocks him, which may seem crazy to anyone who understands that sokka’s entire identity and existence revolves around being katara’s protector, but katara doesn’t actually know this. in her mind sokka is merely the perfect child who has always represented this impossible standard of “genius.” and what's more, he's absolutely insufferable about it.

and to be clear, this isn’t to say that katara herself isn’t highly intelligent, capable, competent, and skilled. she’s not only an incredibly talented waterbender, but also clever, quick, witty, creative, resourceful, practical, mature, and thoughtful in other ways. at one point, toph calls her a genius (“a stinky, sweaty genius”). and she is, indeed, an extremely powerful and innovative waterbender, both due to her hard work, but also because she is genuinely brilliant. that said, she’s smart in the realistic way that a kid is smart; she works hard to be good at what she cares about (and she has an existentially devastating reason to care about being a good waterbender, mind you), and she’s also good at thinking on the fly when she needs to. however, unlike sokka, or even toph, her intellect may be impressive, but it isn’t astonishing. sokka’s mind functions completely anomalously. i wouldn't say he's unrealistically intelligent, because i do know some people in real life who are similarly adept at processing all kinds of different information with the ability to deftly apply it near-immediately, but it is certainly abnormal, both for real world standards and within his universe.

i normally bristle at this term and its applications (for multiple reasons), but since it is explicitly stated multiple times across the show, it is important to acknowledge that sokka is referred to as a genius multiple times, including by his father. katara is referred to as being a genius by toph for using her own sweat to waterbend (which, as hama points out an episode later, isn't even that clever because you can literally bend water from the air around you); conversely, sokka is referred to as a genius for helping to invent hot air balloons and for figuring out multiple escape routes from the world's most secure prison in less than a day. we don't know the exact timeframe under which katara trained with pakku and earned the title of master, but she clearly worked incredibly hard to earn that title, not only as a master, but as the greatest waterbender in the entire world. i assume it was any time between a few weeks and a little over a month in which zhao would organize a fleet to arrive at the north pole, which is, of course, extremely impressive in itself and a testament to her passion and determination. however, on the other hand, piandao claims that sokka has basically mastered the sword and is ready to make his own within less than a day. it's important to remember that katara is also brilliant in her own way, and possesses great skills that sokka lacks: not only bending, but also midwifery, and an ability to locate her own emotions and allow herself to be vulnerable with others, two skills which should never be looked down upon for their association with womanhood and femininity, and are also particularly impressive considering just how young katara is. she is brilliant in her own right, and in any other family, katara would easily have been "the smart one." and yet, sokka is simply in a league of his own.

so, yeah, he can stand to get thrown around and yelled at; everyone her entire childhood just kept on impressing how special and perfect and brilliant he is, he can handle it. she has no idea that he is depressed, depersonalizes, loathes himself, and thinks he’ll never be good enough, because he never actually communicates any of that to her. the closest he ever comes is admitting that he’s jealous due to not having bending abilities, and even that shocks katara, even though it’s such a small and obvious admission in the scheme of things. she has no idea what’s going on with him psychologically, how he views himself in relation to others, and specifically in relation to her, so she kind of just assumes he’s entitled because surely he must know how special he is and thus feels owed accolades by the world at every turn. he deserves to be humbled, and she is in fact righteous for humbling him.

when she makes fun of him for being stupid or miserable or paranoid or cynical, she thinks she’s owning him the way a righteous underdog fights against an oppressor. it's similar to how zuko wants to "put azula in her place." in katara and zuko's minds, they are both the valiant underdog siblings who had to fight and struggle against the siblings for whom everything came so easily. and in katara’s mind especially, she is always punching up, and she always has a moral justification in lashing out at anyone she pleases. so she couldn’t fathom that the reason sokka puts up with her antagonism without complaint isn’t because he’s so above her that he can simply ignore her taunts and gibes without a care (if that were the case, he wouldn't bother to taunt and gibe in return), but rather that he feels so detached from his own personhood that he would never think to actually explain his feelings to the person whom he has defined himself through since childhood. and if he did ever, somehow, communicate that to her, she’d have to reevaluate their whole entire lives and dynamic. but he never will communicate that to her, so she’ll never actually have to do that.

moreover, even though katara often does tease sokka and cast doubt upon his competence and abilities in low-stakes situations constantly, whenever they are actually facing a real problem that requires an immediate solution, katara seems to forget that sokka is supposedly an unhelpful, lazy, immature idiot because she immediately turns to him to fix all their issues. and then once that issue is resolved, katara goes back to finding his existence bothersome. sokka, on the other hand, falls into this role of problem solver instinctually, with the one exception that when they actually name him as the idea guy, he jokingly complains that it’s a lot of pressure to be one who is always expected to come up with solutions. and while he is joking during that conversation in “the drill,” he’s being honest to an extent, because his perfectionism and fear of failure is truly dire.

when katara is faced with failure, whether as the consequences for her own actions or otherwise, she simply gets back up and tries again. she can’t be knocked down, she can’t be deterred from achieving her goals. she has a very healthy approach to making mistakes, and while she doesn’t always learn from them in the longterm, she does always try her best to fix them and amend the situation as immediately as possible. katara is someone who is incredibly resilient and is constantly demonstrating the sheer magnitude of her inner strength, especially in particularly difficult moments. she has the ability to fail as many times as it takes without letting that failure affect her own self-esteem or desire to keep striving for what she believes in.

sokka, on the other hand, is very physically resilient (he gets beat up a lot), but his emotional resilience is actually quite pathetic. he has no tools for coping with failure. from even the slightest mistake, like not actually being able to open the doors at the fire temple with his makeshift explosives, to a catastrophic one, like his failed invasion, sokka immediately retreats inward. in “the boiling rock,” sokka demonstrates how his first ever real failure that rests squarely on his own shoulders is so devastating to him that he becomes totally irrational and suicidal in an attempt to “rectify” the situation. he does not know how to cope with failure, because he expects himself to be perfect at all times. and it’s not because sokka is overly proud, but rather that his guilt complex is so profound that he blames himself for every single thing that goes awry at all times, even when it isn’t actually his fault whatsoever. so that guilt and shame is magnified a thousand fold when sokka is actually culpable for those losses.

one of many ways in which it is evident that sokka is the older sibling is that he clearly lives with the mentality that if katara messes up or gets herself in danger due to her own impulsive inclinations, it’s always actually sokka’s fault for not being a better, more attentive brother. when she sets off the booby trap in the banned ship, sokka banishes aang from the village so as to protect katara from herself. when katara experiences the consequences of heedlessly blowing up a factory, sokka gets mad at her for her recklessness, but also immediately finds a way to help her fix this situation, because that’s his job, and in fact, his primary purpose on this earth. this is a dynamic sokka has probably internalized even before he was assigned the role of her sworn protector, because that’s just how being the eldest is.

sokka’s tendency to take responsibility for everyone else’s mistakes and his desire to shoulder everyone else’s pain at all times, coupled with his implicit belief that he, uniquely, cannot afford to mess up ever (if other people make mistakes it’s fine and he can help them fix it, but if he makes mistakes he no longer has a purpose on this planet, goodbye cruel world), definitely indicates that he was held to an incredibly high standard all his life. he expects himself to be able to handle a lot of responsibility with perfect ease because he always has. he isn’t used to making mistakes of any kind. if he puts his mind into learning a new skill, he always masters it within a couple of days, whatever that skill happens to be. unlike katara, sokka is used to things coming easily to him, and what he isn’t used to is failure.

katara and sokka are both exceptional, of course, but in very different ways, and for very different reasons. katara grew up with a lot of external pressure to excel as a waterbender, because she needs to embody her cultural legacy and prove that her mother’s sacrifice was not in vain. it’s an unfathomable burden to place on a child, and the rate at which she improves her waterbending once she is actually given the resources to hone her skills is a testament to her perseverance and untiring dedication. katara becomes the greatest waterbender in the world not because she is a natural prodigy (which is something she bristles at when aang does display prodigious skill), but because she is incredibly determined and no one can outmatch the strength of her heart and unshakable commitment when she is pursuing a goal. as pakku even says, raw talent isn’t everything, and katara’s abilities prove that despite not being “naturally gifted,” hard work and determination is far more important when it comes to excelling in any given domain.

however, if katara’s motivation to be excellent is externally imposed by the tragic circumstances of her life, sokka’s motivations are, at the very least, internally maintained. as aforementioned, i have no doubt that he received a lot of external validation and praise from the adults in his life as a child with a dazzling, brilliant mind. as has been established, sokka is constantly displaying an ability to synthesize new information at a staggering rate, which likely means that before katara had even discovered her ability to waterbend, sokka was probably being fawned over for the impressive rate at which he was picking up new skills as a baby. since pretty much everything (cerebral, at least) comes easily to sokka, i can only imagine that hakoda, who never hesitates to express to his children how proud he is of them, would constantly affirm sokka’s intellect. and by boasting that sokka takes after himself (hakoda also refers to himself as a genius, completely sincerely), he unwittingly plants the first seeds in fostering sokka’s belief that he must be exactly like his father in every way, and that any deviation from hakoda’s image would prove him unworthy. but he will never be the spitting image of hakoda the way that katara is "the spitting image of kanna" because sokka is already the spitting image of kya, if not – perish the thought – his own person entirely.

unlike katara, who spent her whole childhood trying to waterbend by herself with little success (beyond, of course, isolated instances demonstrating her sheer raw power when her bending was being influenced by her incredibly strong and passionate emotions), sokka always felt like he could handle the amount of responsibility he was given, because everything came easily to him. until the day that his life changed forever, and suddenly the stakes were no longer abstract, but tangible and personally devastating. sokka had never learned that it was okay to fail as a child because he never had a reason to, and then suddenly, he could not afford to fail under any circumstances. failure of any kind went from being a (purely hypothetical) blow to the ego, to being something that could directly endanger the lives of his loved ones. and so sokka decides that the only way to not be culpable for his potential failures is to be a martyr.

of course, there are instances in which sokka is proven to be inept, such as on kyoshi island or with piandao, wherein his humility and open-mindedness are put on display and sokka puts aside his own standards of perfection to learn from a master, but i don't think these instances qualify as failures. for one thing, sokka happens to master the forms he is being taught in less than a day, at an unprecedented rate, and thus these initially humiliating blindspots in his knowledge become victories as sokka absorbs new knowledge. sokka is always eager to learn, and willing to acknowledge his lack of expertise in area, humbling himself to learn from others any chance he gets. no, what i mean by "failure" as it relates to sokka's self-perception and ego is not a lack of knowledge, but an inability to protect another. to sokka, his existence is defined by his ability to provide and protect, and thus, a failure is, specifically, when someone gets hurt under his watch. that is what it means to not be able to afford to fail. he is not overly proud (if anything he is overly insecure), but he also understands that the stakes of failure – real failure – are tangible.

so when it comes to failure that carries grave consequences, he would rather be dead than fallible (or, responsible for not adequately protecting his loved ones), one million times over. and so every time someone makes a sacrifice for him, he feels as if he has failed on a fundamental level, because simply being exceptional is not enough, he must also bear the entire world’s suffering alone – as (in his mind) hakoda instructed him to when he left him behind to protect and provide for the village. otherwise he has failed in his promise to be needed, which is his raison d’être. sokka’s complex is very obviously not informed solely by his upbringing as a “gifted kid,” and in fact largely informed by the dehumanizing logic of war as it necessitates sacrifice, but his inability to accept his own fallibility as a product of his self-dehumanization is, at the very least, compounded by his debilitating perfectionism.

thus, katara and sokka's dynamic within their family isn’t “gifted kid and neglected kid,” but rather “two gifted kids who are gifted in different ways, one of those ways being valued more on a cultural level due to its scarcity as a byproduct of genocide.” while katara was put on a pedestal her entire life due to her ability to waterbend, it doesn’t mean that sokka wasn’t put on a pedestal in other ways. if anything, the reason hakoda entrusted a child with the burdens he did was specifically because he put his son on a pedestal. sokka assumes that hakoda didn't think he was capable enough to join his army, but that couldn't be further from the truth. hakoda trusted his thirteen year old son so much that he genuinely thought it best to leave him alone with this duty to defend his village and protect katara at all costs. he didn't leave a single man behind, not even the other teenage boys, because that's how much faith he had in a child to take his responsibilities seriously and perform them competently. and if that decision gave sokka one million different complexes and fucked him up for life, it wasn’t because he wasn’t valued for his abilities, it’s because he was overvalued and given too much responsibility at too young an age.

both he and katara struggled to live up to the expectations placed on them, forced to fulfill the roles of their parents instead of being allowed to exist as children. but crucially, katara sees the injustice in that, and clings to her childhood even as she strives for greatness, and sokka simply doesn't. he's long accepted that injustice, and in fact feels guilty that he cannot better live up to the impossible portrait of an idolized father, an idealized masculinity, an illusory model of the infallible, unshakeable warrior. despite all his achievements and natural giftedness, he nonetheless feels totally inadequate, deeply flawed, and ontologically worthless. perhaps, in a world beyond the pressures of war and its dehumanizing logic, sokka would have internalized the praise he was constantly receiving his whole life for his gifts. but since he was only ever a prodigy in ways that didn’t matter (within that colonized paradigm), he doesn’t actually care about how clever and brilliant and creative and talented and unique and special he is, because that would first require him to see himself as fully human, and he can’t even do that.

#analysis #sokka #katara #katara&sokka #hakoda #kanna #kya #hakoda&sokka #kanna&sokka #kya&sokka #kanna&katara #whew...! 20+ paragraphs about sokka and katara’s childhood. it’s more likely than u think (highly likely at all times)#see but this is why sokka is so clearly a mirror to azula to me #like not just in terms of crippling perfectionism and devastating fear of failure and being a child prodigy who is put on a pedestal #but simultaneously dehumanized etc etc #but also the fact that like. zuko treats her the same way katara treats sokka #he clearly thinks his immediate hostility and aggression towards her is like. him nobly fighting the battle against his tormentor #when that is literally his little sister and she is struggling so much and desperate for support from LITERALLY ANYONE #katara and zuko are like ‘let’s put azula in her place’ and high five #and that’s just so fucking apt because they truly do believe that it’s their duty to put their perfect prodigy siblings ‘in their place’#but those are truly two of the most miserable people on the planet #so to any outside observers it’s just like………. why are you being mean to them they’re literally suicidal and shaking like a leaf #but also everyone already knows that azula is the prodigious gifted sibling bc zuko says it like one million times #so there’s rly no need to argue that #whereas katara loves calling sokka an idiot so i do believe that some clarification is in order #but like. yeah there’s no way sokka was dismissed or neglected as a child #he’s dismissed and neglected by the world at large #but within his tribe he’s like a mini celebrity . he’s their young sheldon (sorry)#anyway im running out of room to write tags but um. perfectionism is a disease get well soon xoxo bye

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bluebellhairpin · 8 months

Text

Erwin Smith X Wife!Reader

Summary: Wrath, Gluttony, and Lust. Apart they're dangerous, together they're deadly. All together, you've found they have a name - Erwin Smith. (word count; < 8k)

Warnings: Dark content, 18+ MINORS DNI, NSFW. DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT (if you don't like it, don't read it). Cannibalism. Descriptive murder of unnamed characters. Blood and gore. Sexual themes and Smut (Blood kink (menstrual included). Choking. Oral - receiving. Marking. Unprotected sex. Penetrative sex. Mirror kink. Creampie. Cockwarming.) Reader; eats meat (animal and human), drinks wine, has female anatomy, has periods (mentioned), is called 'wife', wears dresses.

Listening to: 'It Will Come Back' by Hozier - "Don't be kind to it, honey don't feed it - it will come back."

Part 2 || AO3 Link || Masterlist || Ko-Fi || Fright Night Bash 2023

"Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same." - Emily Brontë, 'Wuthering Heights'

Erwin had always been perfect.

Picturesque and put-together - it was like a man made just for you walked right from your dreams into reality.

He was charismatic, a gentleman with enough old-fashioned values to be charming. He made you feel like the only person who mattered in the world - something quite foreign to you prior to meeting him - and to him you really were the only person who mattered. Erwin loved you, and there was not a single doubt about it.

You didn’t know he wasn’t perfect - that he wasn’t, in every way, flawlessly carved and molded by gods - until you moved in with him. By then it was too late to back out. By then you didn’t want to - you liked how the ring on your finger looked too much.

Actually, for the first week things went smoothly. Like clockwork. None of it bothered you - too high on finally getting what you wanted to realize how in danger you were. At the time, your rose-colored glasses were blood red. Nothing was a problem until you started wanting to take them off.

Mainly because Erwin wasn’t letting you.

Meals were always cooked by him - which at first you liked, but he wouldn’t let you make anything just to be nice, if you wanted something he always made it. He barely let you put things from the fridge onto the bench.

“All you have to do,” he’d say, pressing himself in between your legs as you sat on the countertop next to the sink, “is sit there and look pretty.” His hands would move up from your knees to your thighs, sinking into the meat of your hips to pull you closer. “You do it so well for me.”

Then he’d kiss you for all your worth, still with his apron on and shirt sleeves rolled up past his elbows, and you’d forget why you wanted to do anything else except watch in the first place.

It was like that for a lot of things. Cooking and washing. Even work or shopping - the only time you went out of the house together was for dates, otherwise outside of your home he was never with you and you were never with him. You’d pout about it, kick up a fuss, and he’d sedate you with a few carefully placed words, hands, kisses, and occasionally his cock.

Each time it worked. Because you let it.

But months went past, and you didn’t want to keep playing the naïve and pliant partner. Because while you were most content being pliant, you weren’t a naïve person.

You wanted to know what was going on.

Erwin had taken an afternoon of work at home. He retreated into his study an hour ago and the house had been quiet since.

But you sat in the living room watching the embers of the morning's fire finally die off, and your mind was anything but quiet. There was something about Erwin, about this house, that didn’t quite feel right. Like something was missing - and it wasn’t a fucking child.

You wanted to know what it was. You needed to know.

You slowly moved from the leather couch, and like a ghost you went and stood in Erwin’s doorway.

He was standing also, near the window at the back of the room, reading over a handful of papers. He didn’t look like he noticed you there, but you knew he knew. Erwin always did.

“Do you need something?” he asked quietly, not looking up. You stood with your arms at your sides, unmoving.

“What do you do without me?” You surprised yourself at how saccharine your voice was. It made Erwin’s head lift, and he looked at you - finally - with a frown as he set the papers down.

“What do you mean?”

“Why don’t you let me do things with you.” you said, “You’re keeping secrets and I don’t like it. I feel like they’re too big for you to keep keeping them hidden.”

“You deserve to not have to worry.” he said, starting to step forward. You knew what he was going to do - he’d done it a hundred times to get you to stop asking questions - but this time you weren’t going to let him. You weren’t playing dumb anymore. You took a step back.

“That answer is so rehearsed, Erwin.” you said, “It’s good to stick to one story, helps avoid suspicion. Normally. But I just want you to be honest with me.”

You watched his storm blue eyes as they tracked your face. Soon he was mere inches away, and his fingers came up to graze your cheek - you would normally lean into it, but not right now. You had a point to prove.

Seeing this, his fingers moved lower, his hand wrapped around your neck - his palm on your throat, and his fingers pressed into the muscle under your jaw. If you closed your eyes it would be all you could feel, but right now it was like he was barely there.

“You want to know?” he asked. Your pulse picked up but you weren’t afraid. It was a show of strength and control, but you weren’t bending, you weren’t breaking. Not yet. “You’ll never see me the same way, I want you to remember me like I am now.”

“I want to know you as you really are.” Erwin’s hand moved from your throat down to your ribcage, resting warm on your side as he leant to press a kiss to the corner of our mouth.

“If you’re so sure,” he said, nose brushing your cheek, “I think then I’ll finally let you see our basement.”

Erwin never let you in the basement.

He said it was either too cold, or too dark for you to be allowed to go in. His precious little wife couldn’t be getting sick or hurt because of something that could be avoided.

In all honesty, you’d never had an interest in the basement anyway - months passed and you’d never once thought to go down there. All that was there was the boiler and a few chest freezers you used to store meat - both things Erwin looked after or did himself.

But now you were at the bottom of the stairs, watching as Erwin pulled on a leather butchers apron, with dust collecting around your feet.

It was cold in the basement. Dark too, even with the single bright white light on.

“I meant to deal with this carcass this afternoon,” he said, watching you watch him. You weren’t sure if to believe your husband's little secret was that he liked butchering animals on the side. As cruel as it sounded, it was still perfectly normal. “It might be nice having some company. They’re not really very conversational.”

That set off a little bell in the back of your head. Like ‘hey, that’s a little weird’ - like ‘hey, that's what you’d hear from someone who worked in a morgue not in a butchers cool room’. But like all the other alarms, bells, and flags, the red danger signs went right over your head.

Erwin approached one of the freezers - you watched as he lifted the door with one arm (and noted how his shirt strained over his shoulders, but you were still making a point, so it was set aside for later). The door propped open, then Erwin leant down and grabbed the carcass inside.

When it slung over his shoulder, you weren’t met with the beheaded shoulders and skinned muscle of a sheep - or even a goat or small deer -instead there was a face. Open eyed and lifeless, with a face drained of color and covered in frostbite.

You watched, with some morbid curiosity - or shock - as your gentle and doting husband effortlessly hung a lifeless human body by his jaw from the butcher's hook on the ceiling of your basement.

It slowly dwelled on you what exactly had been happening these past few weeks. That this had been happening the entire time you’d known Erwin Smith.

It was strange how you didn't notice it before. Watching now though, as he carved through muscle and sinew with a practiced and surgical ease, that he was not just dismantling this man for the sake of being able to hide his remains easier. He really did look like a man working in a slaughterhouse - and how he spoke of this man like he was an animal born and bred to be eaten.

Your thoughts went to the first time he served you venison - you said it tasted strange. He said it was an acquired taste - but you had been raised on fresh deer from your uncle's farm for years. You knew you loved it.

He gave you beef - likewise you asked where he got it from. His excuse at that time was that it was different when it was newly slaughtered. Again, for the same reason, now you knew it was a lie.

You couldn’t look away from how he skinned this man, how he knew which sections to carve away and keep, and which to throw away. He worked at it like a well oiled machine - all the while talking to you as if it was the most normal, casual thing in the whole world.

You thought you were going to be sick, you could even feel it sitting in your throat. All you did was slowly sit down on the stairs behind you, and kept on watching.

Dinner was made equally by the both of you that night.

Although you didn’t once touch the meat - not even to cook it. You knew where it came from - you saw this flesh pulled right away from its bones just hours ago. You remembered what Erwin looked like as he carved up another collection of meat you would’ve been eating from for the next few weeks - how his hair was mused and his pupils were blown wide. And as the body thawed, how he slowly became covered in more and more blood.

That night you could swear his reflection in the dining room mirror had horns.

And you saw how Erwin looked when he collected your plate after you finished, you saw the look in his eyes when he realised what you thought about what he’d done. What you thought about him.

There were no secrets now - and seemingly everything was still going over smoothly. You hadn’t made a fuss, you hadn't run away, you hadn’t called anyone, you barely even mentioned it, but there was just something. A little nagging something. It was telling you that not everything was right between Erwin and you anymore.

Like you weren’t quite sure if you were going to be safe with him or not.

Sat at your vanity, you slowly worked through your nighttime routine as Erwin dressed for bed behind you. You were caught between keeping an eye on Erwin and completely focusing on your task at hand. A question that had been sitting in your stomach since that afternoon bubbled into your throat.

“Who was that man?” you asked quietly.

“You didn’t recognise him?” Erwin replied, surprise in his voice as he turned to you. “I found him hard to forget.” Figures - Erwin did kill him, you’d expect him to remember. However, why you’d know him went right over your head.

“Of course I don’t,” you said, quietly speaking as Erwin’s hands rested on your shoulders, kneading at the tense muscle underneath them. You only just managed to stop yourself from flinching at his sudden touch. “Should I?”

“No,” he said. You saw him smile as he lent to litter a few small, soft - almost shy - kisses along your neck. “I wouldn’t want you worrying about a man who did such a vulgar thing.”

“What do you mean…” Your breath was taken by lips mouthing under your ear before you could finish your sentence. Heartbeat and eyes both fluttering on habitual instinct at the hands that had now wandered to tempt the delicate skin hidden under your shirt.

“Don’t worry.” He said, sounding like a command - having had your curiosity shocked into submission, you folded like you normally would.

After all, with his wandering hands, smooth words, and suckling mouth, who would worry.

Erwin once told you that pleasure was the best distraction from pain. Most of the time he was right. It had worked so far.

But that night after he fucked you long and hard and deep, as he lay dead asleep to the whole world, you lay awake. There was still a dull ache between your legs - still sticky too - and parts of your bare skin stuck to his from sweat left mostly unattended, but those weren’t the thoughts on your mind.

You remembered who the man was.

There was a bar you and Erwin went to only a few days ago - one of those perfect dates procured by a perfect husband. A dimly lit building, with tall tables you had to stand at. You’d dressed per Erwin’s request - a little dress that had you wanting to feel yourself as much as he was feeling you.

However it was gaining more attention than was appreciated.

A man - the man who’d met his demise at the hands of your husband - had indeed been quite vulgar. You weren’t quite sure how you forgot about it - perhaps the shock that there was anyone in your basement freezer had all other thoughts leave your mind.

But at the time it happened, you were sure something downright horrible could’ve happened to you if Erwin wasn’t there. That man was not kind or polite. He was no gentleman. He wasn’t going to treat you right, how you deserved to be treated. He wasn’t Erwin.

Like the knight in shining armor he always had been, Erwin was there - he dismissed the man and worked twice as hard to make sure you both forgot all about him. You certainly forgot, he however clearly did not.

It made you wonder how many other meals Erwin had made of men or women who treated you less than he thought was due.

You felt yourself curl into Erwin’s side. Your leg lifted over his, and even in his sleep his arm held you even tighter. Despite everything, he wasn’t going to hurt you. You felt safe with him. Most of all, you trusted him to keep you feeling safe.

He would do anything to keep you safe.

Erwin was quite understanding about you going completely off red meat.

For a while he really couldn’t blame you. However he was a little concerned. The sudden change in your diet was starting to show - physically and emotionally. His way of trying to get you to eat properly again was taking you out when he went to get groceries.

Normally he liked this time for himself - he found it calming, sorting through fruits and vegetables, picking and choosing the best for both him and you. Having you with him was different - but he found he liked you company just the same. You had a good eye, one he’d have to utilize more.

His main reason was proving to you that there were meats you could eat - look, there was beef and lamb both in the cart. All pre-packaged and perfectly normal meats to cook and serve for dinner - you’d have them tonight, he decided when he saw your eyebrows raise at the sight of them.

What you hadn’t known about his grocery trips, and what he had forgotten to tell you on that morning, was the cashier that always worked registers on the days Erwin was shopping.

She was a little older than you, but only half as pretty (although Erwin was sure that was debatable to some - not to him). She had a habit of attempting to make advances at him - all unfruitful, and all a little embarrassing to watch. Erwin thought nothing of them, perhaps he felt annoyed on occasion, but otherwise paid her no mind no matter how persistent she was.

He half hoped that bringing you along with him would make her cease. She just acted like you weren’t there at all.

However she clearly had caught you completely by surprise.

For a moment, Erwin caught a look on your face. Dark and unlike anything he’d ever seen on your features before. Something about how you held yourself was always so soft - but this was sharper than a razor's edge. He always liked your softness. He liked this too, but again it was different. He may have liked it more.

He didn’t even realize that the cause of the change was because she bothered you more than she bothered him. Not until much later.

You’d learnt two things from being married to Erwin.

One was that you could get away with anything. You could ask Erwin for anything, and it would be yours as soon as humanly possible. You could ask the same from others and they’d listen - not just because of who you married, but also because you just had a face that could get away with it.

The second was exactly the same thing - only it held a brand new meaning after finding out what secrets were held in the basement; you could get away with anything. Even murder.

Erwin was out for dinner - something he hated, but business must do what business does - and so were all your closest neighbors - holidays or dinners, as was the routine come around Friday night. You had the house, the whole neighborhood almost, to yourself.

But after a strategically placed grocery visit two days prior, you were not going to be alone tonight.

You almost laughed at her - the foolish cashier who’d so eagerly agreed to coming over to dine with you tonight - because of her cluelessness. Because she couldn’t see danger when it was standing right in front of her.

Besides from the company, it was a nice night out - hence why you took it outside on the barbeque table. Well, aside from the fact it would be easier to clean up outside than inside.

“What is this?” she asked, carving out a hefty piece of the steak you prepared and eyeing it.

“Wagyu. Japanese.” Your foot swayed carelessly from where your legs crossed, the grass tickled the bottom of your bare foot. “Some of the best you’ll get your hands on.”

“Really?” She said, believing you and putting it in her mouth. Even though she worked in a supermarket, she didn’t know any better - you were betting on it - and she couldn't tell otherwise anyway. “You’re not going to have any?”

“Oh, no.” you said, smiling into your red wine, “When you have it so often you lose your taste for it.”

That was about the most truth you’d said at once the whole night - from the happy greeting to just now. Of course the steak you served wasn’t Wagyu - if it was you’d definitely be eating it. In reality it was one of the last cuts left of the man you’d seen Erwin first butcher.

You really hoped he wouldn’t mind you using it up - after all he would be getting a whole new carcass in return for one steak. In your mind that was a very generous trade.

“It’s actually quite amazing,” she said, leaning back on the bench seat opposite you, “You’re such a good cook.”

“I learnt from the best.” you said, adjusting the knife on your place set and putting your glass down. “Would you like another glass?” You asked, standing to take her empty whiskey tumbler in your hand.

“That would be great.” she said, then turned back to her food. You walked away with a smile - it disappeared as soon as the sliding door shut behind you. You poured another shot into her glass - not wasting another top shelf liquor now she wasn’t around to see the difference - and eyeing her through the glass door with a look that could kill.

Before you went back outside, you took a trip down into the basement. Erwin always kept the kitchen carving knives sharp - but the ones downstairs? You knew they moved through flesh like it was warm butter.

Erwin swore he heard a broken scream as he pulled his car into the driveway.

There was an unfamiliar car in the driveway too, and you were home alone - and it made him very, very worried.

He grabbed his briefcase from the passenger seat, then made his way inside without wasting any time. His bag was dumped carelessly right by the door, and he called your name, multiple times.

At the end of the hallway, beyond the sliding door that led outside, he saw you walking up the deck stairs from the barbeque table. He practically ran to you, but stopped just beyond the kitchen doorway when he really, truly saw you.

You stood just outside, one hand on the glass door frame while the other held a knife - one he knew lived in the basement. Blood ran down your arm onto the silver blade - blood was everywhere. It was all over your face and satin dress, one he loved to see you wear on dates, and now it was ruined.

Well, ruined was a harsh word. If he were being honest, he'd say it had quite improved now. He liked the look of blood on you. From the twitching in his slacks, he really like it.

“You’re home early.” you said. His lips parted, partially in shock at how casual you were acting, and partially because he just couldn’t quite believe the implications of what he was seeing.

“You wanted me gone longer?” he asked, breathless. He watched you shift from one foot to the other - watched the fabric of your dress glide over the flesh of your stomach and the plush of your thighs, watched a drop of blood slide from off your chin down between your breasts. His jaw went slack, chest filled with a longing to follow the red trail with his tongue.

“Actually no,” you said, still playing aloof, gesturing behind you with the knife, “I don’t think I can move her on my own.”

“‘Her’?” Erwin found his voice still came out soft, unbelieving. He felt like he just walked into a dream.

“Your little supermarket girlfriend.” Your lips curled up into a snarl as you spoke - your eyes held the return of that dark look he’d only seen once before. You were angry. You were jealous. He’d never wanted you more.

“She was not my -”

“- It doesn’t matter what she was or wasn’t. Not anymore,” you said, looking at him with enough force to have him rendered mute, “Just help me move her downstairs.”

The knife was thrown carelessly onto the dining table - red droplets scattered on impact - before you turned on your bare heel and walked back in the direction you came from. Only once he watched you walk down the stairs did he manage to move. He was sure this wasn’t really happening - it was far too good to be true - yet if this were a fantasy he wanted to see just how far it went before he woke up.

Erwin’s suit jacket and die was discarded on the wooden decking the moment he saw you with the cashier’s body. You stood over her with her chin in your hand, her head tilted back so you could get a good look at the clean gash that ran from one side of her neck all around to the other.

He watched you in a daze as you stood straight up, her wrist between your bloodied fingers, and waited. You’d never looked more in-control than you had now - for the first time he found himself standing quite dumbstruck, waiting for you to tell him what to do.

“Heart’s slowed.” you said, “Should’ve lost enough blood to be fatal. Freezing her will help.”

“How do you know?”

“Cut both carotids.” you said. You looked up at him though your eyelashes, head low and voice soft. You looked like a devil. “Honey, I’m not stupid.”

Erwin had never been more in love.

There had been a freezer cleared, you knew that already, and despite the fact you would’ve struggled carrying someone your own size inside and downstairs - Erwin did so with little effort.

While he was busy, you couriered the remaining dinner dishes inside to the sink, and swaddled the blanket the cashier was sitting on inside to get washed. The thing was an absolute mess, soaked through in places. It’d probably be easier to get rid of it.

You had just finished outside when Erwin returned to meet you in the kitchen. His whole effort took less than ten minutes.

He had stained his shirt - chest, arms, all down his back - and his hands were slick. There was even a mark of it on his cheek. A mark of her.

You walked over, intent on wiping away the red herring, but found your efforts only made it worse. Your hand was covered in blood too. There was an unusual anger rising inside you. One the rivalled frustration but burned white hot.

But Erwin’s hand slid up from your forearm and gently wrapped around your wrist - he mirrored your position and pressed your palm into his cheek. His other hand pulled your body close to his, and your free arm hung dumbly at your side.

“What are you doing?” you asked - this time you were the one that sounded breathless, although you didn’t completely understand why. Maybe the adrenaline wore off, maybe you were realizing what you had done - but really it was neither of those things.

You saw that look in Erwin’s eye - you knew yours looked exactly the same.

“I’m processing.” he said, eyes fluttering about but never once leaving your face. His cheek was so warm. “Processing how my wife is even more beautiful now than on our wedding day.” You felt your feet shuffle closer as he pushed you back so your waist hit the counter’s edge.

He was hypnotising you, lulling into a cloudy haze with his movements and with his eyes and it lay thick and heavy on your tongue - but its bitter weight had never tasted sweeter than it did now.

“Kiss me,” you whispered.

The kitchen tiles and the marble countertops were not a pleasant place to be intimate. You knew it, and so did Erwin. Hence why he pulled you across the room with hungry, wet kisses onto the dinner table.

Your dress had been pushed up above your hips so fast it almost tore the fabric, and Erwin hadn’t wasted any time honing in on the wet spot on your underwear. One he seemed intent on making as large as possible.

He knelt at the end of the table - the chair had been hastily kicked aside - and had eased you to lie down with your legs thrown over his shoulders. As his teeth and tongue worked at making a wet mess of your inner thighs, his hand wandered up your dress to cup your breast, mindlessly toying with the bud in between two fingers.

The blood from his cheek smeared into the spit on your leg, and as he groped the fat at your chest he could feel the sticky red catch under his fingers.

You couldn’t help the way your eyes fluttered closed at feeling him all over you in such a way - an action that hadn’t gone unnoticed by your husband.

His mouth moved from your thighs to over your clit, hidden under your panties, and he laid a kiss there so gentle that it made your entire body jolt. Then his mouth opened, and he treated your lower lips with the same generosity previously granted the ones above. That was what you had been waiting for, it was what you were most craving, and he was reading you like an open book.

Unlike your dress, Erwin’s urgency to rid his current workspace of fabric was less than enthusiastic - the drag of thin cotton and elastic was slow, achingly so. He was teasing you, and as your frustrations grew so did your longing. He knew it.

The slow drag of his tongue up your slit to your clit almost had your back keening right off the table. It was enough to feel, but it wasn’t right. You needed so much more. Driven by need, both your hands went to his head, gripping to his hair for dear life as you urged his face closer to where you needed it - blindly angling your hips up to meet his waiting mouth.

Eventually, his mouth met the place you needed him most. Bare, open, wet and waiting. His lips went right to your cunt, opening over your core and his tongue dove right in. His nose pressed up to your clit, and you heard him breathe in deep.

The sounds he was making were absolutely sinful.

Erwin barely pulled away to speak, mouth still connected to your cunt with the slick he was conjuring - he was speaking into you as much as he was speaking up at you.

“Getting to have you like this is perfect.” He sounded like he was going to cry. “I’ve been waiting so long. So long.”

And then, as if his mouth even left you, he returned with twice the vigor. His shoulders shoved into the backs of your thighs, but his grip on your hips pulled you in further, pressing the curved line of his nose deeper into your slit. The sudden intensity made your thighs quiver.

“Erwin, p-lease.” you moaned, voice broken and choking on nothing but air as your fingers pulled relentlessly on his once-perfect blond hair.

“Yes, c’mon baby,” he mumbled, eyes fluttering open and closed - unable to decide on focusing on pleasing you or watching how pleased you were - “Use me. Please. Show me you need me.”

“Need you.” you breathed, legs curling over his shoulders. “Need you so bad Erwin.”

All he did in reply was hum - the feeling spread from your cunt all through your body, washing in waves down to your toes, and up to your head, making everything fuzzy as your eyes closed in pleasure. You were content to stay exactly like that for the rest of the night.

But Erwin was never one to do things quietly - he went above and beyond - and he always had such a mouth on him. He was intent on making sure all his energy was pushed towards pushing you to release. His fingers and mouth, the muscles in his thighs keeping him knelt just right for you, and his thoughts never slept - he needed you to know exactly what he was thinking - as if he knew how much you loved knowing what he wanted to do with you.

“Just imagining how good you’d taste -” he groaned, pulling away and replacing his face with his fingers, two slid right in with very little resistance, “- when this blood on my hands is yours.”

Your mind went to the woman in your freezer.

Eyes slowly opened to glare as Erwin stood over you. With the different angle your hands moved - one down to where his wrist was pressing against your clit as his fingers curled inside you, the other around his throat, tensed around the veins that ran either side of his windpipe.

The same ones you cut to kill that woman in your freezer.

“If you kill me, I’m going to fucking murder you.” You hand pressed harder, enough that if you took your hand away there would be a white mark where the blood was forced to leave his perfect skin.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.. I could never hurt you like that.” he said softly, unbothered by your hand around his throat - the look in his eyes told you he was more than pleased at how rough you were being. He leant over you and mounted the table with a knee pressed to the underside of your thigh. “No, instead what you can give me is much better than her blood. Neither of us have to do a single thing in order to have it, and that makes it so much sweeter.” As he spoke his lips rested over yours, his breath was in your mouth and if you licked your lips you’d taste as much of him as you would of yourself.

His hand curled down, pressing your joint arms between your bodies at an odd angle, letting his fingers move in such a way that had your eyes rolling back and mouth opening in a silent scream at the pleasure and pain his fingers started to bring.

Like an open invitation, his mouth was on yours. As he stuffed your cunt with a third finger, his tongue worked into your mouth and spread the taste of your slick all over. It was intense - how all you could feel was him inside you and his hand around your ribcage; all you could taste was the salt you gave him, the kind he craved; all you could smell was him, oak wood and leather, and the smell of your sex that he'd pressed his entire lower face into.

There was no other place in the world like this - nothing compared to being pressed into the wood of your dining table by a man who completely adored everything about you. Now, you decided, you could stay right there forever.

His lips moved again, from your mouth down your chin to your jaw. They landed on your throat, and you moaned at how his teeth sunk into your skin and sucked. Once he felt sedated at the size and color of the bruise there, his tongue went to work once more - starting right down on your breasts and licking all the way up to your jaw.

Erwin was cleaning you. Drinking you clean and leaving you bare of the red splatter that once painted your skin imperfect - for he suddenly found the one thing he loved more than seeing you covered in blood was being able to clean it off you.

His breathing was heavy, and he groaned into your skin as his knee gave way so his hips could roll down into yours despite his hand blocking his way.

“Oh sweetheart, the things I would do for a chance to be between your legs while you bleed life right into my mouth.” His admission - along with the constant pressure of his wrist moving on your clit - was your final push. Your stomach tensed, pussy clenching over his fingers and sucking them in tight. “That’s it, yes that’s - perfect. You’re so perfect.”

In blind pleasure, eyes glossy and looking right past his head to your ceiling, your hands freed from their vice grips on his wrist and throat to move to his hips. As your hips bucked up into his hand while you rode out your orgasm, your new purchase had him rolling down into you even more.

Oh, if the size of his cock spoke it would tell you how he must be completely aching inside the slacks he wore.

“Show me,” you said between catching your breath and coming down from the release Erwin brought you, “Show me how you’d fuck me if this blood was mine.”

From the way his teeth sunk into your shoulder - so hard you swore he’d rip a mouth-sized chunk of flesh right from your bones - you had definitely said the right thing.

With his mouth still leaving borderline painful marks on your neck, his hands worked on slipping your dress off - the slick from his fingers left painted cold lines on your skin as he dragged the fabric off, blood spread thin over your body, and with a flick of his wrist the dress was gone completely. All in one piece, too.

But the same courtesy was not given to his own clothes - thread and buttons tore, and soon before you stood your perfect, bloodied, naked husband. He seemed to take a moment to look at you, chest heaving and looking like he’d just run a marathon.

Your thighs pressed together, and the sticky wet left strings webbed between your legs as he pried your knees open. His hands were big, and warm, and for the first time you really noticed how calloused his palms were. Before you could dwell on it long, his hand wrapped around to press your leg up into your chest - as it moved so did he, languid and calm, and he was above you again with your knee pressed to your chests and his palm at your throat.

He was looking at you with such an intensity that you knew in that moment that you would do anything he asked of you. Without a word, his eyes told you to stay exactly how you were - so you did.

You could feel your heartbeat in your ears, watching Erwin though lidded eyes as he leant away and his hips lowered and the leaking tip of his cock touched your stomach.

Your other leg raised to hook around his waist, an attempt to urge him into the place you needed him most. But he was nothing if not steadfast in getting what he wanted too.

“Tell me. Show me.” he said. “Let me know that you want it.”

But you couldn’t speak. The ability to form words had completely left you, partly from imagining how good the slow drag of him would feel inside you, and partly because the hand around your throat stopped most noise from going further than underneath them - you could barely swallow without Erwin having to give way to the movement. So you did all you could do.

Your hands scrambled for a place to hold, a place to sink your nails into and never let go - a place where the skin was so thin it dragged and curled and caught under your fingernails. It was an action you had done many a time before, but this time it was different. Your ferocity ran deeper, harder, he would bleed and hurt and he would wear these lines for weeks instead of days. The thought made your hips buck up, swivel in yearning and pure want. You were showing him how deep your need ran.

“Yes, hurt me.” he said, open mouth covering yours and swallowing every silent noise of want and relief as he angled his body to finally press into your core. He always felt so big, and he was harder than you ever remember him being. He was hot, and he slid right into your warmth like he was always meant to be there. Like it was his home, the one place in the whole world meant to be just for him.

“Erwin,” you mouthed, eyes unable to stay open anymore at the feeling of him stopping right against that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyes and warmth pool in your stomach.

“What is it?” he hummed, releasing the pressure on your neck enough so you could speak properly. For a few agonizing moments all you could do was pant and squirm as his other hand pressed down on your womb to keep you still under him.

“I need it, I need it.”

“Need what?” he asked, moving over you again to press too-gentle kisses to your cheeks, “I know you’re feeling a lot right now sweetheart, but I need you to talk to me. Can you do that?”

“Yes,” you said, eyes caught watching him watch you, and you swallowed thickly. “I need you to do what I said. I need you to fuck me.”

Your voice came out stronger, more collected and coherent than you thought it would. Even the way Erwin’s eyes widened slightly told you he was as surprised at your admission as you were. But it wasn’t an admission - it was an order.

“Anything for you.” he said, pressing his lips to yours. His hand moved from your abdomen to your hip bone, and you knew you finally - finally - got what you wanted.

From how eagerly he gave in, and how enthusiastic his movements became, Erwin had been waiting for this too. To have you exactly as he was right then.

The squelch from his thrusting into your cunt, and the rapidly cooling slick that spread from your core onto your thighs only served to urge you on further - it had your back arching and pussy clenching over Erwin’s cock. Both your hands flew to his wrist, not to stop his hold on your neck, but to ground yourself as you mindlessly bucked up to meet his thrusts.

“Oh baby yes, look at you.” Your eyes opened, mouth waiting and expectant for another consuming kiss - but Erwin was not looking at you. Not directly. His head was turned, and you felt how his hips picked up speed at what he was seeing in your dining room mirror.

Your head turned, and you had to fight to not roll your eyes back into your skull at what you saw. You couldn’t want for anything more than the man above you.

His grin was almost all teeth, jaw slack, and he looked nothing short of an animal. Erwin almost laughed at how pleased he was with how he had you.

His hair a mess, and parts sticking to his forehead at the effort he was putting in to please you. Even from your angle you could see the welts over his shoulders where, at his command, you had stripped him of his skin. Blood was still practically everywhere, and he looked like an absolute mess. A very pleased mess.

While one arm had your leg almost up over his shoulder while his hand gripped your bloodied and bit-ridden neck, the other was all over your other thigh - keeping it pressed around his hips, and your heel dug into the dip below his hips to encourage him as deep inside you as possible.

His thrusts weren’t letting up, and the sight of him watching you watch him had you moving as much as you could just to meet him. To force him as deep as he could go.

And then there was you. Laid equally bare and equally covered in blood - and completely at the mercy of your husband.

Your hair pressed down onto the table beneath you, bite marks and hickies littered your neck, dried spit and blood all over your chest. Your whole body felt like it was on fire. Hot and wanting - all you wanted was to come undone.

Lower still, thanks to your leg being lifted to the high heavens by a man who was now mouthing and panting at your ankle, was a perfect view of where your bodies met. With the way his cock sunk in and out of your pussy, and your white slick coating the wiry hairs at his base. With such a lewd sight as that, it was no wonder he became so frantic.

One of your hands went to your clit - swollen and aching, the fair brush of Erwin’s hairs as his hips met yours wasn’t going to be enough for you. You needed more. You were going to take it for yourself.

But Erwin, still keenly watching you in the mirror, saw. The hand on your hip moved down between your bodies, laying atop yours and guiding your fingers in a rhythm you didn’t even know - but one he knew would bring you to release, even if you didn’t.

Your grip on his wrist tightened, nails pressing crescents into his skin. Your mouth opened again, eyes unable to stay open for the feeling that built inside you took over. You were so close that it was all you were thinking about.

Erwin - he was all you could feel. He was consuming you. You were consuming him.

“That’s it, that's my -” he choked, words caught in his throat, feeling how you clenched around him tighter with a cry of pleasure - it went straight to his head. “That’s right, yes.” he said, eyes closing as yours fluttered open to watch as his face contorted in pleasure.

A new warmth burst into your stomach as Erwin’s movements slowed to a stop, hot and thick. As you laid there with the last waves of your own pleasure - and the complete feeling of being filled to the brim - lulling you into a sense of complacency, you watched as your husband opened his eyes again.

He smiled at you, his hand finally moving off your throat to the side of your jaw, brushing your hair further away from your face. The pressure of his arm keeping your leg up left, and it moved down to wrap around his waist too.

With a light groan, and a little assistance from Erwin, you sat up. Together you moved so he stood at the edge of the table, while you sat on it. You shuffled slightly closer, thighs tightening around his hips as the angle pressed him deeper inside you again.

Erwin’s tightened grip on your hip was a warning - one you were planning to follow. You didn’t think either of you had it in yourselves to go that far again that quickly.

Well, maybe you could - but you were more than happy not to.

But at that moment all you wanted was to just stay as close to him as possible.

Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, breasts pressed flush to the hairs on his chest, and his grip on your waist moved down to under your thighs. He lifted you off the table, and with a few carefully placed steps, he backed into the seat he previously pushed aside.

With you now in his lap, he held you properly. His fingers traced the curves of your back, and one stayed there to press you into his warmth while the other continued to wander up your ribcage.

“I love you,” he murmured, nosing your cheek and pressing a soft, slow kiss to your lips. Your fingers found their way to the back of his skull, itched past his undercut and found a home fixed in his blond locks.

Your chests pressed together, breathing still unsteady, but you’d never been so calm. So sedated. In that moment, as you looked at Erwin, all you could think of was how the flush on his cheeks made his freckles completely disappear. Your insides felt like a slow pour of the sweetest honey.

“I love you too.”

“But we need to talk about what you’ve done.” Erwin had barely broken away from you to speak again, but the idea of what exactly you did wasn’t clicking. He could see it on your face.

“I didn’t do anything.” you said with a pout - it took everything in him to not take your lip between his teeth, but he would be content just being inside your pussy. For now.

“Oh but you did.” he said, keeping his voice soft and movements slow, “Sweetheart, I think you’ve killed someone for me.”

He watched you frown, then watched as it deepened in realization. Then, like when he caught you in his button-down shirt for the first time, you shied away. Your face found a place on his shoulder so he couldn’t see it, and then you answered him.

“She deserved it.” you mumbled. “And if you were planning on finding someone else to fill your freezers then tough luck. I got there first.” he felt your fingers tighten on his hair, and he was slightly glad you’d hidden your face on him.

That way you couldn’t see the pleased smile that broke across his features. He was going to speak again, when you beat him.

“And if you think anyone besides me is going to carve her up, then you’re dead wrong.” When he realized what you’d said, his grip on you tightened even more. “I can’t wait to butcher her up like the pig she is. Bet she’ll taste awful though.”

He had to purse his lips together - an effort to keep his mouth closed and no sounds coming out. At your admission he became absolutely ecstatic.

Weeks ago he never would have thought you’d feed into his habit - he never even planned on ever telling you about it. He was content with having you clueless to his true nature. Perhaps once or twice, he fleetingly dreamed that you might happily join him when he dined on the flesh of the people who wronged you.

But this was better. This was so much better.

You had changed since he married you. His slow patience had worn off and he held in his hands the fruits of his labor - filled to the brim and painted red. Now you could do it together, whole-heartedly and in every aspect. From the slaughter to the meal, he had you. And you had him.

Now the moment you said so, he would believe you, and if you wanted someone dead he would happily, proudly bring them to your feet all for you to feast on. He’d take it even more seriously, and he would kill anyone you wanted him to. Anyone at all. And you’d do the same for him.

Turning his head, and kissing your temple, he let you feel him smile against your skin. Now he knew he really had you all to himself.

You had always been perfect for him.

#fright night bash 2023 #cw blood #cw cannibalism #erwin smith x reader #erwin x reader #aot x reader #snk x reader #aot smut #snk smut #erwin smith smut

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seikkoi · 5 months

Text

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

ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ [1, 2] | ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴏɴ ᴀᴏ3

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

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

You believed him, obviously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An apology is already spewing when he turns to you.

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

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

“We should leave in a few hours.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay, go ahead, shoot.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I won’t, I promise.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s the matter?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He laughs a bit when your issue proves so elementary.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“If I’m feeling generous enough.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Has he now?” you laugh lightly.

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

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

“Nice to meet you, I’m [y/n]”

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

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

“Indeed, he’s quite fond of you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where did you hear that?”

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

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

“Everything okay, doll?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I do not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“None taken, don’t worry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Open those pretty eyes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was absolutely nowhere near done with you.

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

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

“Shit, Tony, I can’t,” you whimper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And he was worried about us?”

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

“What if I was? You don’t know.”

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

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

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

For now, you’re too in love to care.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unfortunately, you end up wishing things were just awkward.

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

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

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

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

“Are you?”

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

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

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

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

Harley hums in approval, sitting back in his chair.

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

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

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

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

“Excuse me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah, a break would probably do you some good.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nope, wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You still with Stark?” he questions.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[ where are you? ]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shit.

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

“What happened? Everything okay?”

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

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

“You took the subway alone? This late?”

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

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

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

“Who were you with?” he asks slowly.

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

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

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

“How long?

“How long what?” he scoffs, unyielding.

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

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

part four coming soon

tag request: @those-late-night-feels

#seikkoiwrites #tony stark x reader #tony stark #tony stark fanfiction #tony stark smut #marvel fanfiction #mcu fanfiction #tw dubious consent #tw dubcon

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l0velylecter · 1 year

Note

Phillip graves head canons? :)

— headcanons on phillip graves ( sfw & nsfw ) pairing : phillip graves / gn! reader fandom : call of duty modern warfare ii rating : g for general and safe for work (sfw!) for the first half + e for explicit, minors don’t interact (mdni!), not safe for work (nsfw!) for the second half warnings : graphic descriptions of sex in the second half note : font is normal sized under the cut

safe for work ( sfw )

01 | He hates sleeping with the blankets around his neck, and in general, when the weather gets even slightly humid, he'd tear the sheets off his body. Phillip falls asleep very quickly, especially when you're around. Mid-sentence, you'd look down to your lap, and he'd have his eyes closed, breathing: soft and even. You find him passed out on the couch, on the chair by the patio. He prefers to have you with your head atop his chest, your hand absentmindedly stroking, soothing it in soft, gentle circles. The only downside is when he's away, he takes longer to sleep: thumb absentmindedly stroking the space above his heart.

02| Physical touch is his love language. Hand holding, fingers intertwined as you walk side by side. He'd occasionally lift your knuckles against his lips, palm flat across your cheeks to raise your head for a kiss — fingers, followed by his mouth, ghosting down your spine, your arm, your nape. He'd stretch across the bed to pinch ( never too roughly) the side of your thigh, already playful and eager to pick on you (lovingly) even when you've just swung your legs over the bed, barely awake with a bedhead he loves to ruffle. When you're next to each other, shoulder to shoulder, and you shift forward to leave, Phillip always asks where you're going. Under your touch, he melts — he blooms: stripped off his armor, he lays himself bare to you. Unashamed and indulgent.

03| He drives with the window slightly cracked open at the top. He likes the feel of the wind skimming his hair, his skin. In his blue cotton button-down, sleeves rolled up his arms. When under the heat of the southern afternoon, he always has sunglasses on — Dita Flight.006 with the frames thin and shades tinted. You know he hates driving alone, and even if he never tells you outwardly, he prefers to have you in the passenger seat. With the radio on and the two of you trying to snap your fingers to the beat, Phillip fails to get it right on purpose so he can see you laugh. With his accent, thick and unrestrained when he's back home, you call him a country hick. He doesn't deny it.

04| Out of his uniform, Phillip is impulsive and flies by the seat of his pants — a man who despises boredom and being alone. He never sugarcoats; sure, he loves using colorful phrases that leave you blinking at the incredulously of it, but if the man has offended you or hurt your feelings, there's a high chance that he won't notice unless you tell him. To Phillip, you're just having a conversation, and Phillip's usually more concerned with whether you caught his drift than yours. Yet, shortcomings aside, he bleeds and breathes confidence; commands authority with just the flick of his wrist. You know Phillip tries, and it shows. After every argument, when you finally find the strength to open the door, he'd be right outside: back against the wall with his legs outstretched, waiting, patient, even if he's constantly watching the clock. He makes you feel valued, protected, and appreciated: he keeps you on your toes, and you can never hate him.

not safe for work ( nsfw & mdni ! )

01| Even when you fuck, his arrogance is still there, simmering beneath the surface, occasionally leaking through the gaps to bleed into the way he kisses you. He loves having you bent over tables, against walls, and pressed against the driver’s seat. He loves to suck, to bite, to mark. He's not against being rough with you, but he never crosses the line. When Phillip is always eager to try new things and experiment — to push, to challenge, to drive you past your limits, to have you whining, crying out against his chest, a safeword is always ready. Spanking, ropes, cuffs, maybe even a daddy or authority kink if you squint. He's a dom, and he likes to tease. But he's open to being a switch; as I said, the man's adventurous.

02| But Graves isn't just about fucking. Most of the time, when he sees you for the first time in weeks, in months, he'd spread your legs almost gently, slowly, each movement careful as if to savor the moment. He's warm and desperate inside of you — going on and on about how he's missed you: lips brushing the shell of your ear. His arm, caging you underneath him, the muscles down his back, taught and tired from work. And when he comes, he’d be kissing you: deep, open-mouthed kisses, in a rare yet not unwelcomed show of slow-burn passion.

03| Big on dirty talk. This man cannot shut up, even in bed. Even with his face pressed against your weeping hole, he’s spewing out filth: sinful and wicked, you can feel the edge of his teeth skim your inner thigh. Leaving you to trap his head between your legs as they quiver.

" What's the matter, baby?" He'd chuckle, mocking how you can only pant and whine against the pillow as he pistons in and out of you, " Cat got your tongue?"

Cursing, groaning, whimpering: we all know this man can get vocal.

04| Phillip might lack common emotional sense, but he's not cruel, and most importantly, he's not stupid. Most of the time, aftercare involves a warm shower before passing out on the bed together, and when your legs wobbled: still sore and aching, he'd carry you under the shower head to support you with his body. You can feel his smile against your temple, somewhat apologetic, only to make up for how smug it made him feel. He'll dry your hair and give your ass a light smack before settling atop the bed, arms already finding their way around your waist.

a/n : thanks for requesting anon ! this was really fun for me to do as i am currently having a phillip graves brainrot 🥴i base a lot of his personality traits from his mbti : estp ! + the sunglasses featured here is actually the same sunglasses tony stark uses in civil war ( it’s ray band, and considering how patriotic graves is, he probably refuses to buy glasses from anywhere else. i mean i bet his car is even a black, ford pickup ) i hope you enjoy <3

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nicoline1998enilocin · 30 days

Text

Reflection

PAIRING || Tony Stark x PA!Fem!Reader

WORDCOUNT || 2.2K

SUMMARY || The sexual tension between you and Tony has been steadily rising for the past few months. After the latest victory tour, it's reaching an all-new height before boiling over, marking the start of a new adventure for you both.

RATING || Explicit (E)

TAGS || Everyone lives AU. Friends to FWB. Flirting. Sexual tension. Explicit sexual content.

WARNINGS || Use of nicknames. Reader is described as tattooed.

SMUT || Porn with plot. Dirty talk. Praise. Teasing. Edging. Fingering. Footjob. First time. Mirror sex. Bathroom sex. Unprotected vaginal sex (wrap it before you tap it!). Cream pie.

A/N || This one-shot is written based on this request from a lovely Anon! I want to thank @ccbsrmsf1 for helping me develop this idea and supporting me while writing. Your help is of indescribable value to me, and I cannot possibly begin to thank you enough for it 🩵

EVENTS Masterlist || @fandom-free-bingo Book Night || Reflection Masterlist || @fandom-free-bingo Maritime May || Tattoos Masterlist || @fandom-free-bingo Wild || "Do that again." + Overwhelmingly cute

Masterlist || @multifandom-flash Beehive #1012 || Nothing can stop us now! Masterlist || @seasonaldelightsbingo || Can't tell a soul Masterlist || @sweetspicybingo Hurt/Comfort || Gentle touch

GIF: @ccbsrmsf1 || All graphics are made by @nicoline1998enilocin

Main Masterlist || Tony Stark Masterlist

The last month has been nothing but long nights, little sleep, countless interviews, and even more appearances for you and the Avengers, but now you're finally on your way back to the Avengers Compound.

Steve, Bucky, Clint, Thor, Natasha, and Bruce are all asleep in the Quinjet, leaving you and Tony to be awake. Tony is seated in the pilot chair, and you are leaning back in the co-pilot chair with your sore feet in his lap.

"Have I ever told you you have some of the most beautiful legs, Gorgeous?" Tony asks as he rubs your feet, which he has done countless times after you've been in high heels for long days. As he rubs a particularly sore and sensitive spot, you moan softly, and his eyes immediately snap up to meet yours.

"Only a few times, but I will never get tired of hearing it from the most handsome man in the universe," you tell Tony, keeping your voice down as to now wake up the other Avengers.

Tony doesn't really hear what you're saying, because ever since you let out the involuntary moan, he can only focus on the fact he's gotten painfully hard. You can't help but notice as he spreads his legs a little wider to accommodate his hardness.

"Hmm, did I make you hard by moaning, Angel?" you ask with a raised brow and a smirk on your lips, and Tony can only bite on his bottom lip to supress the moan threatening to leave his mouth.

You have shifted your foot in such a way that you're practically working his boner with your foot, and his hands are now gripping the armrests of his chair, his knuckles turning white as his face turns a shade of bright red that starts to resemble the same shade as your dress.

All he can do is nod as you feel his erection under your touch, though his hand suddenly grips your ankle when he's getting dangerously close to the edge. A gush of arousal ruins your panties at his sudden assertion of dominance, and a soft gasp leaves your lips.

His eyes are dark as he softly lets his fingers glide from your ankle, over the floral tattoo on your leg, and up to your thigh. The gentle touch has you wanting more, and when his fingers caress your inner thigh, you know your panties are entirely ruined.

The sexual tension and flirting between you two has been visible for months, and it is finally coming to ahead. The addition of possibly getting caught by any of the Avengers as they wake up only makes it hotter for you both, and you're willing to see how far you can push him before he breaks.

While his fingers caress your thigh, you slightly tilt your head to the side, your legs spreading just wide enough for Tony to see the light blue panties you're wearing under your dress, and he gasps softly as he sees the fact that you're practically dripping for him.

A mischievous smirk lies on his lips as he leans forward even further, your foot still placed over his erection as he does. A low groan leaves his throat as you suck in a deep breath, his fingers now gliding past the edge of your panties and ghosting over your sensitive heat.

"Tell me you want this, Gorgeous. Tell me, and you'll have me," Tony whispers loud enough for you to hear.

"I want you, Tony, all of you," you say in a breathy whisper. As soon as the words leave your lips, he pulls your panties to the side to expose your pink, puffy folds that are glistening from the arousal, and his fingers glide through them to gather some of your arousal.

Soon, he finds your sensitive clit, and he can't resist pressing down, at which point you're slapping a hand over your mouth to stifle any sounds, as you don't want anyone waking up. As soon as his touch is there, it's gone, and you're left wanting more.

"Let's go somewhere a little more private, Gorgeous," Tony tells you, and you nod while you watch Tony suck your arousal off his fingers. It's one of the hottest things you've ever witnessed, and you can't get enough.

As soon as you can stand, Tony guides you to the bathroom with silent steps. Once you're there, you feel relieved that no one woke up. The heat of the moment heightened your senses, but once you're in the bathroom's safety, you let out a deep breath.

Tony locks the bathroom door, and before you know it, he's pushing you against the counter in the bathroom, his cock pressing against your lower back as his hands softly squeeze your hips.

"This is what you wanted, isn't it? You decided to see how far you could push me before I gave in? It seems that you're in luck today, Gorgeous because I'm hungry for you," Tony whispers in your ear, and you moan softly at his words.

Without a second thought, you press back against Tony with your hips, and his gaze locks onto yours in the mirror. As you look at your reflection in the mirror, you can see your already fucked out expression, and he has barely done anything to you.

"I've been dreaming of this moment for so long," Tony tells you as his fingertips softly glide over the fabric of your dress until they reach the hem. You breathe in sharply as his long digits curl around the edge, pulling it up slowly.

"I can't tell you how many times I've thought about you when I fucked my own fist, imagining how you'd feel when you're squeezing the life out of my cock with your tight, dripping pussy," Tony says as he places soft kisses on your neck and shoulder, your dress now bunched at your waist, your ass on full display for him.

"Me too," you say, and Tony smiles at the thought of you playing with your clit as you think about him.

"Yeah? And what did you think about, exactly?" he asks you as he's slowly pushing down your panties, your legs spreading on instinct.

"Y-you fucking me." The words come out shakily, a soft whine escaping as Tony frees his giant, veiny monster of a cock. For a moment, you look back at it, and you're shocked as you do.

Tony's hand is working up and down expertly, and you can see a bead of pre-cum gathering at the tip, which he quickly spreads over his cock to act as a lubricant.

"Are you ready, Gorgeous?" Tony asks, his free hand gliding over your back in a soothing motion, and you nod before turning back to look at yourself in the mirror. You're met with half-lidded eyes, a flush on your cheeks, and your mouth slightly slack. A sight that will be engraved in both your memories for the rest of your lives.

Tony lets his cock glide through your folds a few times, and the feeling of his hard, veiny member has you moaning each time it hits your sensitive, swollen clit. However, there's only so much Tony can take, and before you know it, he's carefully working himself into your tight, warm pussy.

Your face is pressed against the mirror as he bends you even further forward, giving him the perfect angle to fuck you nice and deep.

His fingers are digging into your hips as he bottoms out with a groan, and for the first few seconds, he can't move as you're squeezing him so tight he's unable to move for even an inch.

"God, you're squeezin' me so good, Gorgeous, pussy feels like heaven," Tony whispers as he plants a few soft kisses in your hair, waiting for your body to release him enough to start thrusting in and out of you.

The moment he starts thrusting in and out of you at a slow, languid pace, you feel the knot in your core tighten immediately, and you know it won't take long for you to cum around his cock.

"T-Tony," you moan as he speeds up his thrusts, but instead of answering you, he pulls you against his chest, his hand over your mouth while he keeps himself working in and out of you at a steady pace.

"You need to be quiet, Gorgeous. You don't want to wake the rest, do you?" he groans in your ear, and you shake your head.

"Good girl," Tony whispers, and you squeeze his cock as he praises you, a wave of arousal flooding over his cock at the words.

"Do that again, Gorgeous. Squeeze my fuckin' cock with your sweet, tight pussy," Tony says, and you do. He speeds up his thrusts, effectively building up your orgasm until you're on the edge, needing just a little more to be pushed over.

"Are you close, huh? Is my cock-hungry slut close?" Tony asks, and you nod to the best of your ability, his hand still stifling any moans leaving your lips.

"Look at yourself as you cum; I want you to watch yourself as you cum all over my thick cock, splitting you open like a good girl," he orders, and the second your eyes are focused on yourself, your orgasm washes over you.

"God, nothing can stop us now, Gorgeous! You feel so fucking good when you cum on my cock, and I never want to stop splitting open your pussy on my monster of a cock," Tony growls, and you whine against his hand, your fingers gripping the edge of the counter tightly.

It only takes a few more strokes for Tony's pace to falter, and when you feel the warmth of Tony's cum filling you up, you close your eyes as he pulls you against his body.

"Hmm, you felt so good, Gorgeous. I definitely want to do this again. What do you think?" Tony tells you, and you let his words sink in, unable to speak quite yet.

As Tony patiently waits for an answer, Tony pulls out with a soft groan, and he cleans both of you up before pulling down your dress, keeping your panties in his pocket for himself to enjoy later.

Once you've found your footing, you turn around and lean against the counter, looking at Tony as you smile softly. The first thing that comes to his mind as he looks at you is that you're overwhelmingly cute, with flushed cheeks and a soft smile.

"So, did you give it a thought?" he asks carefully as he tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear.

"I'd love to do it again, Tony, but we should keep it casual. Just friends and coworkers who happen to fuck each other too. No feelings, no commitment. Just a good fuck when we both need it," you say, and Tony agrees.

Despite the agreement you both made just now, Tony leans in to capture your lips in a soft kiss. His facial hair feels rough, the complete opposite of the way he kisses you. Your arms wrap around his neck as you pull him closer.

His tongue licks your bottom lip, and you gladly open your mouth for your tongues to explore one another, the feeling of Tony's hands on your body as they squeeze softly almost overwhelming.

Eventually, you pull away as the need for air becomes too much, and you tuck your face into Tony's neck, inhaling his warm scent. It's very familiar and gives you a sense of security with how your bodies are pressed together.

"We can't tell a soul about what happened, okay? I want to keep it strictly professional when the others are around," you tell Tony after pulling back, your gaze locked onto his deep, dark brown eyes. He nods in understanding, and you smile before letting him go.

The moment Tony steps away from your body, you already miss his touch, but you don't give yourself much time to think about that because as soon as the lock clicks, you're instantly back into 'PA mode.'

Tony opens the door before stepping out, and you quickly follow, only to be met by the piercing green eyes of Black Widow herself. Natasha looks at you both with a quirked brow and a smirk; her arms crossed as she takes in the situation.

Both of you get a deep red blush on your cheeks as you can already guess what she's thinking, and she would be correct. She knows what you two did in the bathroom, but instead of saying anything, she winks at you to let you know it's all good.

Your secret is safe with her. When she passes you both, you quickly go back to the passenger chair in front of the Quinjet, only to find there are about 15 minutes left before your flight is over.

The last few minutes are spent in complete silence between you and Tony, but it isn't uncomfortable. You two glance over at the other occasionally, and you can't stop smiling at the thought of what just happened.

You just had sex with Tony for the very first time, and you're already looking forward to the next time he'll be sinking his thick, veiny, monster cock deep into your heat.

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frozenjokes · 24 days

Text

Unbeknownst To Grian, Doc Hasn’t Had A Real Conversation With A Person In 15 Years, And It’s About To Be Grian’s Problem

Grian did not like to be predictable. He didn’t like to follow expectations, he didn’t like to give people what they wanted. This could manifest in small, annoying ways; if something he was curious about got popular, he was more likely to lose interest, think negatively of it for no reason. Grian valued uniqueness in his craft. If he was going to fuck with someone, he would do so in the most creative possible way, and just so much as seeing a similar idea online to one of his own was enough to void all his motivation.

If Grian was going to make his mark, he would not do so giving the people what they wanted. He’d change the game. He’d sprint as fast as his legs would take him against the grain.

They wanted him and Scar.

The clips from yesterday had gone completely viral, Scar’s suggestion to velcro himself to Grian’s back so they could fight together to retrieve his legs from the villainous Goat spawning waves of excited chatter, cheering, and trending hashtags to varying degrees of ridiculousness. Now, even if Grian had wanted to team up with Scar like this in the first place, the amount of insistent attention would be enough to change his mind in a snap of an instant. Please. He was not some showpony that lived to serve the community. If he was going to put on a show, it would be on his own terms, superheroes be damned.

So that’s how Grian found himself at The Goat’s doorstep, a massive, impending thing. Most supervillains took utmost care in hiding their identities and home addresses; they had to, otherwise the police force would have no reason to pretend they couldn’t arrest them. The Goat, however, was an exception. This place could hardly be called a house; it was more like a fortress that loomed over the entire city, spires like lightning rods collecting energy from storms in a light show that you could see for miles. While The Goat had been arrested several hundred times by now (he’d been around for as long as Grian could remember, very possibly before he was born), he never quite stayed in jail, always finding a way to escape in one way or another. At this point, it was common knowledge that The Goat was only ever taken into custody because he wanted to be; successfully imprisoned for only however long he allowed. While quite famous, The Goat also happened to be a bit of a hermit, only surfacing from his lair once or twice a month, so really, it was pretty unlucky for Scar to come across him the one day he had chosen to lay pathetically on the concrete, legs ripe for the stealing.

Regardless, this mysterious reclusiveness made the villain quite popular among many, his nonchalance combined with the insanity of some of his works of engineering drawing a great deal of attention. That, and people were just outright thirsting over him. Unabashedly horny. Grian had never seen The Goat in person before, but he’d seen enough pictures to understand- not that he agreed or anything, just that it made sense. The Goat was a big guy, like, big; Grian didn’t know the logistics of his exact species, but he was a sort of centaur-like creature, built like a clydesdale but even taller, half of his chest, left arm, and face entirely cybernetic, armaments that were constructed by the man himself.

It was at this point that Grian realized he was stalling. In fairness, he wasn’t exactly sure what to do with himself. The knocker was purposefully high above the typical human height, something he could reach regardless with a flap of his wings, but it was relatively obvious The Goat did not like visitors. Grian wondered how many civilians had turned up at this very doorstep, only to be ignored for hours until they left. Would The Goat even care about CuteGuy? Maybe he had seen all the hubbub online and would keep him locked out on purpose. Grian hadn’t really considered that before coming. Honestly, with all the cameras around, it was very likely The Goat already knew he was here.

Well. No time like the present!

Grian beat his wings in a small jump, but the door swung open before he could reach the knocker, causing him to fall and stumble a little pathetically at cloven feet. He looked up. Holy shit.

“Speak of your intention,” The Goat spoke gruffly, tucking his hands away in the pockets of his long lab coat. Grian had to crane his neck just to see his face, a dark, cold expression looking natural on The Goat’s imposing figure. His eyes were pupil-less, narrowed and difficult to read, but Grian didn’t detect any hostility. Maybe he was delusional, but it almost looked like The Goat was more curious than anything, interest evident in the way his mechanical eye moved in quick saccades, taking all of him in. Grian took a deep breath, puffing out his chest.

“Just wanted to hang out, that’s all. This is a pretty secluded place, you know, thought I might be able to get away from all the mess,” Grian forcibly relaxed his shoulders, waving his hand in a vague gesture.

“Hang out?” The Goat said the words like they tasted bitter, but then again, he said most things as if they left an unpleasant taste in his mouth, “You sure you’re not looking for anything?”

“If you’re referring to HotGuy’s legs, then no, I’m not looking for them. I don’t care about him or his legs, actually! I’m more concerned with my reputation, that being, how good it’s been lately. I think this city needs a reminder that I don’t work for anyone.”

The Goat chuckled, the sound far more soft and pleasant than Grian would have thought he could produce. “Is that so?” he mused, and Grian hoped that was interest behind his tone, “You don’t serve our government? Contractually? Won’t they be displeased to see another of their pets mingling with the enemy?”

Grian scoffed, “I don’t serve anyone. As far as I’m concerned, they’re being scammed out of a paycheck. And no, honestly, I don’t think they care what I do so long as it drums up media attention and puts more coin in their pockets. So long as it’s advertiser friendly.”

“I hear you are famously not, friend.”

“Well that’s not my problem.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.”

“The court of public opinion indicates otherwise. People are crazy about me, nearly as much as HotGuy. It would be stupid to let me go, not before they milk my novelty for everything it’s worth. By then I’ll be rich enough to retire or something, I don’t know. That’s a problem for future Grian.”

“Grian?” Grian’s heart dropped as The Goat smirked, lips raising just enough to reveal pointed teeth. But just as Grian started to stutter to a defense, the villain laughed, drowning him out, “Do not fret, I could not care about any person’s identity, superhero or no. Nor do I particularly care to shield mine. Please Grian, call me Doc. Follow me.” Doc turned without another word, leaving Grian to gape as his massive hooves kicked up clouds of dust. Doc did not look to see if he was following nor slow his pace, so Grian had to run to catch up. Nine foot tall monsters walked very fast it turns out! And if Doc noticed Grian struggling to keep up, he certainly didn’t show it.

It occurred a little late to Grian that he should probably be keeping track of where he was going and how he’d escape if necessary, but Doc’s fortress had so many twists and turns, by the time he had the sense to think of this, he was already hopelessly lost. Well. Hopefully Doc wasn’t planning on dissecting him and displaying his wings on a pedestal or something. (Many of The Goat’s fans seemed to insist this was a big thing for Doc, though, Grian could not find any actual evidence of any dissections occurring. On second thought, those people were probably just horny.) Oh well.

Eventually, the two of them reached an elevator with, quite frankly, an alarming amount of floors- “What do you need this much space for?'' The thought was spoken aloud before Grian could stop himself, far more judgemental than would be advised for the company he was keeping today, but luckily, Doc didn’t seem to care.

“The lower floors are where The Hivemind works. Building, innovating, grindingoptimizingautomatingthriving, you know. A lot of the space is storage from past projects, and upkeep generally takes a lot of my time. My machinery can get to be quite large. You will not see most of it. We aren’t going down far.” Doc selected B1, making Grian question why they were even taking the elevator if they were only going down one floor, but after a particularly long ride, he got some idea.

Basement Floor 1 was massive and sprawling and dark. Grian had better eyesight than most, even at night, but the only parts of the ceiling he could see were spots of reflective metal and small pools of light that bounced off stalactites.

“Do- do those ever fall?” Grian asked, eyes wide at the ceiling, and Doc stopped, turning in a slow swivel so Grian could see his entire upper half.

“Yes.” He flexed the fingers on his mechanical arm, glowing red eye boring into Grian, “It is a good thing The Hivemind is smart. And quick. Though, after the second incident, we hope to have fixed the problem. On the other floors. My workstation remains as it is.”

“You- You can’t just knock them all down?”

“I can. But I believe that if God wishes for me to be struck down, then she should have the means to do so herself. She’s gotten a couple good shots in,” Doc narrowed his physical eye, and Grian was pretty sure there was humor there, “but she knows I am above her power. So instead we will continue to feud, and I will continue to break her precious world. And if one day I die, then I would have it to be no other way than by her hand.”

“If-?”

Doc only laughed, continuing to walk down the corridor. Grian was forced to follow lest he be left behind.

It occurred too late to Grian that he probably shouldn’t be surprised Doc was leading him to see Scar’s legs. Regardless, Doc was amused, chuckling when Grian took a sharp breath.

“I wanted him to come and get them. With or without you. Worked all night on the programming with The Hivemind, though, turns out that wasn’t necessary. You two are slow. HotGuy isn’t even here.”

Grian cast a nervous look at Scar’s legs, laid flat on a desk next to a large monitor. The workspace had the feel of an organized mess, all the clutter making it difficult to tell what exactly Doc had done. Well, if he was programming something, Grian wouldn’t be able to see it anyway. Were- were the legs even programmable? How would that work?

“What did you do to them?” Grian finally said, feeling incredibly daft at the note of worry he failed to suppress.

Doc snorted. “Nothing. I did make a mechanical waist though,” he hummed, shaking his head, “Well, that’s not true, I’ve had the actual machine bit made for a while now, I just did most of the other stuff last night. It’s been some time since I’ve gotten a look at these, and the technology has advanced significantly since then. At least my tech has; imagine my surprise when I see his useless government agency has hardly updated his prosthetics at all! If it’s not broke don’t fix it I suppose, but these are certainly broke. I’ll make sure to get started on a prototype for an update soon, yeesh. Regardless, after digging through my old blueprints, it wasn’t hard to hook everything up to a little remote control. Oh, his face will be priceless. His own legs greeting him at the door and kicking his ass?” Doc laughed, missing Grian’s open mouth gaping, “Unfortunately balance is still an issue, I obviously didn’t have time to work out all the kinks, but I’m just here to mess with him, it’ll be serviceable for-“

“Wait- Wait-“ Doc did not look happy about being interrupted, fixing Grian with a glare that stopped him directly in his tracks.

“Go on.”

“You made his prosthetics? His legs?”

“Obviously. Who else would have made them? Have you seen the typical modern-day prosthetic? They’re nothing like mine, borderline barbaric. Of course, mine are quite expensive, and people don’t just go and commission a guy like me over the table. HotGuy’s parents must love their son very much, though, they threw a whole tissy when I told them I’d need to visit him in the hospital. Idiots. As if I would trust anyone other than myself to collect the measurements I needed. They made me arrive under a sheet-“ Doc cut himself off with a groan, “The things I put up with sometimes. HotGuy’s lucky it was an interesting project. Human legs are very different from my own, so I wouldn’t be messing with them without an excuse. Of course, he grew up to be a fucking pain in the ass, didn’t he. Could have done a better job just raising the kid myself.” Grian had so many questions, but Doc hardly even stopped to breathe when he spoke, and Grian wasn’t about to interrupt a second time.

“Fuck, if they haven’t updated the legs, they probably haven’t touched his back either. Did you know that? His lower back was completely shattered- now that was an interesting project. Idiots, seriously, commissioning me to make their son legs when he’d never be able to use them. I ended up doing a lot of work on that boy, and not one thank you. Not from him all these years later or his useless family. He’d still be in that hospital bed without me, I know it. I bet if they’d let me have my way with him he would have been walking in under a year. But no, no, I was only on the project for two years, and I believe it lasted five? Six? Those idiots made me sign an NDA and everything!” Doc barked a hard laugh, “What are they going to do? Take me to court? Arrest me? Stupid. Amusing in hindsight, but they were insufferable.”

“I- okay. I mean, it’s not like this is common knowledge or anything. I feel like I would have seen this somewhere by now if the public knew you made all his prosthetics.”

“Oh no, the information isn’t public. I’d rather peel off my skin than be associated with that lot, and I’m sure HotGuy’s managers feel similarly about me. There’s a reason his prosthetics are so outdated- look, feel this. The movement at the joints is awful!” Doc took Grian’s hand, uncaring for his own strength as he yanked Grian forward to touch (something that felt deeply invasive toward Scar, though, it wasn’t like Grian had a choice) as Doc bent the knee. Grian had no idea what he was supposed to be feeling here, but Doc must have mistaken his discomfort for agreement because he let go right after.

Grian cleared his throat, rubbing his wrist, “And you think HotGuy knows?”

“Knows what?”

“That you made his prosthetics. I’m just curious, I mean.. He’s never mentioned it- not that we’re close or anything. It just feels like something that might have come up before to uh- well I don’t know if dating is the right word, but he and my roommate have something going on-“

Doc rolled his eyes with a huff, “Of course HotGuy knows! He’s just conceited like the rest of his family- his workforce for that matter. God forbid the public know how blurry the lines between ‘hero’ and ‘villain’ actually are. The only actual reason I’ve got the government breathing down my neck is due to the IRS- no, I will not be paying ridiculous sums to DC just for the money to be wasted on international affairs the States have no business sticking their nose into anyway. I only immigrated for the, quite frankly, insane lack of weapons regulation. You can do whatever the fuck you want in America. Regardless, I’d do better to put that money into the community myself.”

“Do you?”

“Not locally, I have a reputation to uphold and I like this shithole the way it is. Occasionally if I see something that really pisses me off I’ll pour some money into it.” Doc scowled, like the thought of doing any good at all was deeply unappealing, “For the most part though, I only keep tabs on the world as it pertains to me. I care very little for pettiness.”

Grian snorted. “Is using HotGuy’s own prosthetics to kick his ass because he never said ‘thank you,’ not petty?”

“For personal matters, I indulge. Most of the time however, I am far too busy for nonsense such as this. Speaking of, I have work to do, so I am going to hold you for ransom to speed this up. Do you have a problem with that?”

“If I comply, do I get a share of the cash?”

“You can take whatever you want. I just want HotGuy here.”

Grian’s wings fluttered, his mind already moving miles a minute, “Do you need a picture? Oh please, let’s take pictures. Something fun, ambiguous- I really want to mess with him.”

“Can I not just take a picture of you right here. Maybe try to look at least mildly unhappy, I’d like if HotGuy had a reason to be prompt.”

“Oh he’ll be prompt- do you have a tripod or something? We don’t need one obviously, I just feel like you’d be the type of guy to have something like that on hand. Do you? How do you feel about the lightest of the light kind of suggestive pictures? I think it would be funny. Ambiguously suggestive. Honestly, I just kinda feel like you’d be a fun person to pose with, y’know? I have a vision. Just saying, if you really want to fuck with HotGuy, this would go crazy. Your fans would go NUTS. Do you know about your fans? I saw some things while doing research.”

Doc snorted, ears flicking in what Grian was pretty sure was amusement, “You remind me of a man I knew long ago,” he sighed, sounding dangerously wistful. His eyes shone as he raised a shaking fist to the ceiling.

“You don’t have to divulge-“ Grian started in great alarm, but there was no stopping the rapidly approaching trauma exposition hurdling his way.

“Ren was a brilliant man. Awkward, but damn clever, an incredibly talented engineer with ideas to rival my own. Struck down too soon, too soon. Sometimes I wonder if that stalactite was meant for me, or if it was meant as a punishment greater than death. She knew I would try to bring him back, friend. She knew he would come back wrong.”

“This seems really personal-“

“A hippie.” Doc growled, and Grian got the sense this train was not slowing down any time soon. Might as well settle in.

#hermitcraft #hermitfic #hermitshipping #grian #gtws #goodtimeswithscar #docm77 #cubscarian hotguy au #hotguy #cuteguy

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