[amethyst-silk]

requests

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at the moment i write for

the marauders

spider-man

Andrew Garfield characters

Tom Holland characters

i don’t feel comfortable writing about Tom or Andrew as themselves but you will find a bunch of reblogs from people that do :)

[amethyst-silk]

the post bnd spiderman renaissance is taking me out

[uhhhj13iguess]

hurts, but i know how to hide it. kinda like it.

BND!peter parker x fem!reader

summary: when your upstairs neighbor, spider-man, had begun to experience bizarre side effects to his arachnid DNA taking over, he fought to suppress it. you encouraged the idea of him letting go and seeing what happened, knowing he would always be peter. for months, he didn’t even entertain the thought, not willing to 'become a monster'. today? today he was a bit more susceptible.

written with something’s off with peter parker dynamic written in mind, but by no means a required read before this one

wc: 5.3k

cw: BND SPOILERS!!! nothing monumental to the storyline, and i would argue nothing that wasn’t mentioned in the trailer, but the descriptions of The Spider™️ are very much written and talked about in the context of the film. read at your own discretion for those who have not seen it.

actual cw: !!MDNI!! smut (p in v), vivid spider-like descriptors, dubcon and bdsm elements (absolutely everything is consensual, but in peter’s current state, he is not “himself”, which therefore makes the consent dubious): bondage/restrained by webs, slapping (but you hit peter 🤭), choking, a dash of fear play and a touch of some primal/prey descriptors going on. dacryphilia, mean dirty talk by peter that also has a dubcon vibe, finishing inside, minor subspace mention, Def domdrop mention for peter, and probably more. jesus christ, let me know if i missed anything.

also a gross overuse of italics and bold. title is from 'my strange addiction' by billie eilish

don’t like, don’t read! enjoy my little freaks!

two years ago, your neighbor, you supposed, moved in to the apartment's storage loft right above you. peter parker, he had introduced himself as, was a rather shy, reserved guy for someone who created an entire new list of expectations for the upstairs neighbor archetype.

a year and ten months ago, peter parker was a frequent weekly guest for tuesday dinner and switch tournaments. what had started as a knock on his door and some of your grandmother's brownies had evolved into peter spending hours losing to you on mario kart over bowls of bland spaghetti and spongebob mac and cheese.

a year and eight months ago, spider-man swan-dove through your window instead of his on accident, mask stripped before he knew better.

a year and a half ago, peter parker had managed to become the person you trusted most in this life. and in a measly six months, you had become that for peter in return. he opened up to you about the deaths of his aunt and tony, how he'd lost his friends - fuck, his whole life - to the spell.

and after about a year, though he'd never admit it, you could tell he was happy to have a "guy in the chair" again. to have someone in his headset, someone to patch him up after a rough night with scorpion. suddenly, peter wasn't so alone. he had someone who knew him as well as he knew himself, someone who - while you didn't get it necessarily - was the only one in the world who finally knew he fucking existed again.

which is exactly why you also knew about the headache's peter had been getting more and more over the past few months.

you were the first person he ran to when they started, collapsing on your bedroom floor in tears as he tugged at his curls for relief from the pounding. he was begging you to make it stop, curled in on himself like, well... a spider.

the first time was the worst of them, mostly due to not knowing what was going on. but after decorating your room in a thick layer of web (despite not having his web-shooters), it was clear this was outside your basic first-aid training. that didn't stop you from helping how you could. in that moment, and beyond.

you attended professor banner's lectures with him, taking whatever notes you could understand. you stayed up late into the night with him, acting as his assistant as peter worked up in his loft on getting to the bottom of whatever the fuck was happening with his own DNA. he jokingly called you "Dum-E" once, and was quick to backtrack as he saw bewilderment flash across your face. he apologized and rambled on that it was a good thing, tripping over his words to explain himself, though the hurt in his eyes when telling the story told you it wasn't a time to push.

all of this to say, you knew that something about the arachnid DNA was evolving, and going fucking haywire in the process. which is exactly why, when you heard a thunderous crash and sharp curses from peter in the loft above you, worry immediately flooded your system.

you bolted up the stairs, the obscene noises coming from peter's apartment growing louder as you approached his door. you knocked rapidly, calling out his name as you did.

another loud crash sounded, and you heard peter howl. "uhh, not right now! not a good time!"

you huffed. "yeah it doesn't seem like a good time! let me in, parker!"

peter went to respond, but was cut off by his own pained groan, and a worried whine left your own lips in reply. he deserved his privacy, hell, he deserved his own autonomy, but your concern overrode all ethical dilemma as you heard his knees hit the floor. hard.

thank fuck peter never locked his door.

you crashed into the loft, stopping dead in your tracks as you took in the state of peter's apartment. there was webbing everywhere. it covered the ceiling and his furniture, splattered over the windows which caused the light to scatter in awkwardly. you could only describe the state of his webbed bed as a nest. there was a PC monitor on the ground next to his desk that looked like it had been torn in fucking half. in the left most corner, there were handprints in the exposed brick on the wall from where peter had tried to catch himself before hitting the ground below where you saw him now.

peter was hunched over in a similar position you had seen him in that first time, limbs curled in on himself as he gripped his head, no doubt pounding like a motherfucker. he was facing away from you, but his shirt was ripped off, showing off just how pale he looked. a thin layer of sweat glistened off his skin, droplets forming and almost looking sticky. peter was shaking and breathing heavy as you approached him.

you had seen him like this before. it hadn't been this bad in a while, but you had been there for peter through it before and you could do it again. you had seen him when everything got too loud and he started to shut down, something else fighting to take over. that was the entire point of the inhibitor he had been working on. to suppress whatever the fuck this was.

you had pushed back initially, playing devil's advocate to encourage him to let it happen. to let the spider in. prove to himself that he was still peter parker when spider-man took over. after seeing him in this much pain and discomfort enough times, you stopped entertaining the notion.

because seeing him like this? was heartbreaking. you knew just how much everything was hitting him right now. how every sense was stabbing at him individually, how each breath you took was a knife to his eardrums. so you approached cautiously, keeping a step or two away and knowing not to touch him right now.

you met him with a hushed voice. "peter, hey. it's just me."

he flinched at your whispers and you cringed, feeling nauseated knowing it was your voice that hurt him. "let me help, okay? how can i help right now? do you need me to grab your-"

"no," he rasped out. his voice was deep, in a tone you hadn't heard from him before. "no, i'm not kidding. you need to fucking go."

"pete, i'm not-"

"no!" peter's voice boomed throughout the loft as he screamed your name. "i don't fucking care what you think right now!"

"parker," you went to scold, but he cut you off.

"i cannot get this fucking inhibitor to calibrate, and i-i.. fuck, i'm not myself right now. you need to go." his voice cracked on the last word, like he was trying to hold back tears. a moment ago, his voice literally shook the building. now, it just sounded broken.

you stood your ground. "peter, i'm not leaving you. don't do this alone."

his fist slammed into the floor in front of him, shattering the hardwood. as if it were fucking glass, splinters flew around him like shards of glass snowing in the air. peter held onto the edge of the newfound hole in the ground while trying to recenter himself, his grip on the floorboard literally causing the wood to disintegrate into dust in his hands.

you heard him fucking growl at you, and while you still weren't afraid of him, part of you was a little grateful peter was still facing the other way as you felt your cheeks heat up at the outburst.

"do you not see that i fucking have to?!" peter screamed into the corner, dust and loose grout crumbling from the ceiling at the sheer strength of his voice. you could see his back expanding and inflating as he desperately tried to suck in breaths, his many muscles flexing around his ribcage, and-

okay jesus, maybe not the time.

you sighed, shaking your head and taking another step closer. "peter-"

"fuck, get out of here! i don't want to hurt you!" he pleaded, still trembling and pulling at his hair.

you took a step back to look over at his computer, noticing his vitals freaking out on one monitor as the other was hooked up to some homemade tech he had running sequences on the inhibitor. EVIE was working with the same desperation that peter was oozing, already on trial #392. you looked back to the corner where he was still hunched in pain, and decided with unwavering finality that you were not leaving him alone during this.

walking back over, you crouched down to brush his shoulder with your fingertips, hoping to ground him with a singular sensation. he caught your wrist before you could even bother.

"i said. don't."

peter finally looked up at you for the first time, and your heart dropped to your stomach.

a lot about peter had begun to change during his "molting process" (as you referred to it). his strength had grown expotentially -- so had his spidey-sense. even the organic webbing, which was brand fucking new.

you hadn't seen his eyes go black like that before.

you stared into his fully darkened eyes, hoping the shock wasn't as evident in your own as you knew it was. hoping the tinge of something else in your eyes wasn't as evident as you thought it was. you flicked between his deep glare and his hand on your wrist as you regained your composure.

"peter. i'm not leaving you. i'm not scared of you."

he laughed. peter parker honest to god laughed at you, as he kept a firm grasp on your wrist and held your gaze.

"you fucking should be."

before you could blink, peter launched upwards, fucking jumping from his spot on the ground as shoved you against the wall. hard. despite the aggressive action and your back slamming against the brick, his hand landed behind your head to cushion the impact. the rest of you still hit with enough force that the wall cracked behind you, dust from the concrete swirling in the air.

you coughed hard, though, whether that was a result of the dust or the grip of peter's hand on the base of your fucking neck, it was hard to tell. he stared at you for a moment, black eyes darting up and down your body as he tracked your every movement. every rise of your chest, every twitch of your lip as you wheezed through his grip.

peter looked at you like you were his prey. like you were a fly that had been caught in his fucking web. you tried not to be as turned on as you were.

his eyes flickered slightly towards his hand on your neck and he loosened the grip, though still not letting you go. he regained a bit more of himself, a bit more of peter, as his shaking hand kept you pined to the wall. his voice betrayed the stone cold look on his face, trembling as he told you: "clearly, you should be".

peter didn't miss how your eyes jut down to his lips before hitting him with a rattled but firm: "well, i'm fucking not."

he smirked at you and let you go fully, stepping back to analyze as you took a moment to catch your breath. he drank you in, sizing you up before letting out a deep chuckle. before you could look up at him, both of your wrists were webbed to the wall behind you, pinned over your head as your back was once again pressed against the hard brick. peter closed in on you, boxing your frame in against his own. he pressed against you, getting in your face. literally breathing down your neck.

"no, you are. just a little," he growled in your ear. "but i think you like it."

you felt how fucking hard peter was through his juicy sweatpants, felt just how fucking big he was pressed against your hip. this was not a side effect of the arachnid DNA that either of you had seen in the last few months. or at least, nothing that peter had mentioned. come to think of it, why would he? it's not like he felt the same way.

you were snapped out of your thoughts as peter fucked sniffed you. you shook off the self-doubt as you took stock of the man in front of you, restricting himself to the point of physical pain right now as he caught whiff of your arousal. consequences to the friendship be damned, you were determined to stay at his side through this as his inhibitor kept running sequences on the computer, red flashing from the screen every few minutes to signal yet another failed attempt.

and, well. he exactly wasn't wrong.

you fought to hold contact with his deep, piercing eyes. "maybe i do, spider-man. what are you going to do about it?"

those were the magic words.

he ripped you off the wall, webbing still hanging from your wrists as he picked you up like you were nothing. a scream escaped your lips as you were airborne suddenly, flying through the air shortly before your back hit peter's bed.

his bed. oh fuck, you hadn't expected that to work so easily.

it was starting to become crystal clear that you were in fact going to have whiplash and possibly even a concussion tomorrow, but you were too fucking wet to care. you'd analyze what that meant about your psyche later. for now? you were simply too excited to see what the fuck he was going to do to you.

you watched as he stalked, taking in your frame as you laid hopelessly in his bed. his bed, which, was covered in webbing that extended down to the floor where peter was standing. you shifted with hesitation and watched peter's head flick towards you, almost like...

almost like he could feel your fucking vibrations against the webbing. like a fucking prey caught in his web, writhing for help and sending vibrations up this silk to signal the spider.

the spider, who was watching you through his black-hooded eyes, like he was fucking hungry.

peter started to squat down, and you sat up in turn, instantly worried his headache was consuming him again.

you didn't even get to meet his eyes.

peter pounced forward, a hydraulic explosion coming from his legs as he fucking jumped you on the bed, using his limbs to pin your own underneath him. your breath had initially hitched, but all air was taken from you as peter's hands were on your clothes, tearing the garments from your body like you'd only been in a paper fucking bag. shreds of cotton stuck to the webs around you as peter stared down at your mostly naked body.

he straddled you properly, using his hands to hold down your own again as he leaned close, breathing you in heavy. no doubt catching the pheromones in your sweat, a downright villainous smirk creeping on his lips as he got confirmation of just how turned on you were.

peter pulled back to see your eyes, and was taken aback to see the fear in them. regardless of every other emotion you were feeling right now, you were also scared.

and fuck, he did that.

he sat up straight, the black around his sclera retreating slightly as his breathing picked back up. you could feel him start to tremble over you again as peter buried his face in his hands for a moment.

"fuck, i don't- that's not," he choked out. "fuck, i'm so sorry. you need to get out of here, i fucking meant it earlier."

you could tell the headache was back as his grip tightened in his curls, a pained groan escaping from deep in his chest. he was fighting himself, trying to use the strength he had just minutes ago to lift himself off of your lap. you grabbed his hips to hold him down.

"peter, listen to me."

"please, i-i can't, i shouldn't have-"

"peter." he shook his head, refusing to look at you.

"i can't believe i put you in this position, oh my god. i-i, fuck i can't even begin to apologize..." he rambled. you tried to fight back, to tell him that it was okay, to let it happen.

you had been a firm supporter this entire time of the notion that peter just needed to let the spider in and see what the fuck happened. obviously, he had never wanted to do that. too afraid of what would happen. at this point, you were afraid of what would happen to him if he didn't submit to what was desperately trying to crawl out of him. this had seemed like as good time as any to test your theory, as peter's monitor still continued to flash red, the trial number now surpassing five hundred.

besides, if you died because spider-man ripped you in half from fucking you too hard? that was a fine way to go out, in your opinion.

so you antagonized him. just... a little.

"spider-man!" you yelled in his face, and your voice rang out alongside the CRACK! of your palm across his cheek.

peter looked back at you, slight shock on his flashing on face before his eyes went fully black again. he locked sight on you, eyes twitching as he analyzed each minute movement your body made. and there was that fucking smirk again.

"oh i see. you want this, don't you?" peter rasped in your ear as he leaned back down, his breath hot against your skin. "fine. but don't be mad at me when it gets to be too much."

in a split second, your hands were whipped high above your head, warm and sticky webs encasing your wrists once again. this time, attached to peter parker's headboard. fuck.

you squirmed in his grasp, fighting the webbing even though you knew it was no use. you were there when he discovered just how fucking strong his organic web was in comparison to the lab-designed. you couldn't move, and you knew it. he knew it too.

peter's hands were on you in a frenzy, ripping your bra clean from your body in a single motion. you gasped as he stared down at your chest, vibrating with restraint. restraint that peter didn't have right now.

perfect.

his hands weren't off your body for long, quickly lunging to wrap around your exposed breast. he squeezed the soft tissue, hard enough to elicit a scream that ripped straight from your throat. he growled at your response, loosening his grip and focusing on pinching your erect nipples instead. he leaned down to bite one, earning another piercing scream.

peter pulled back to admire his work, and you looked down to see the instant handprint that was bruising over your left tit. it made you dizzy, seeing peter spider-man mark you with such a primal fucking desire. blood rushed back to comfort the sore area, leaving your chest feeling warm and fuzzy. you weren't allowed much of a reprieve, however.

peter manhandled you exactly how he wanted you, crawling out of his hold on you to spread your legs and raise your knees. once he had you positioned, you felt the warm rush of webbing cover your feet as well. oh, you were so fucked.

his fingers trailed up your legs, starting at your feet and working their way towards your aching core. you shivered against his touch, and noticed how he relished in the way it caused his webbing around you to vibrate. you were but a bug in his web, caught and waiting to be eaten.

you let out a moan as he grabbed at your inner thighs, no doubt leaving matching handprints to the one on your chest. peter just snarled in response.

"so fucking desperate for it. is this why you've been helping me all along? just waiting to get fucked by spider-man?"

he stared up at you from where he was in between your legs, hot breath teasing against your damp underwear. "so desperate i bet you don't even need any prep, am i right?"

peter reached his hand towards your core, fingertips trembling with constraint as he could feel just how wet you were for him. he hissed, retracting his hand as though he had been burnt. within seconds, your underwear had been ripped off your body like the rest of your clothes, leaving you fully naked in front of peter parker.

in front of spider-man.

you stared into the black void of his eyes as he repeated the same action to himself, shredding the infamous juicy sweatpants in the process. you were pretty sure your eyes were as dark as his were, pupils blown to shit as you stared at the fucking greek statue in front of you.

did spiders have insanely large dicks, or was that just a peter thing?

not now, jesus.

as he promised, there was no goddamn prep. no easing into it. peter climbed back on top of you, his limbs stalking over yours as his webbing held you firmly in place. you tried to struggle against it, even if just for the show of it. definitely for the show of it.

"just a dumb. fucking. bug. aren't you? landed right where i fucking wanted you to."

peter gave no warning as he thrust all of himself inside you, a sharp cry punching from your chest as he bottomed out in one go. the line between pain and pleasure was a fine one as he set a disgustingly rough pace, pistoning in and out of you like it would literally kill him to go any slower.

maybe it would. you weren't here to find out.

you squirmed against him on a particularly heavy thrust, only to be met with a hand at the base of your throat again.

"no, hold still. you fucking wanted this."

oh, you were so gone. you weren't even sure you were going to remember enough of this to be able to psychoanalyze these newfound kinks, you were too fucking cock-drunk off peter. he was still relentlessly forcing his way into you, but you seemed almost distant from your body now. as though the pleasure was so good, you had started floating.

peter noticed and it only drove him crazier, watching your limp body move in time with his thrusts as he milked you dry, a creamy ring around his cock each time he pulled out.

"is this why you've been so against the fucking inhibitor? been wanting me to lose my goddamn mind like this?"

you weren't sure when you had started crying, but warm tears were now flooding down your rosy cheeks. peter mock cooed at the sight.

"don't cry now, baby. this is exactly what you wanted, isn't it? this is exactly what you fucking asked for."

you moaned at his words, too lost to form your own. peter only held you tighter. "such a pretty fucking crier. taking me so well."

peter dropped his head in the crook of your neck as he kept going, reaching new levels of overstimulation. and for the first time, the overstimulation wasn't destroying him. it was consuming, driving his every movement and decision -- but it didn't hurt anymore. it almost felt... good. natural.

he had never had sex like this before. sure, in the past, the physical intimacy of it all had been overwhelming, feeling each sensation of the other person as if it were also his own. but something about this was different. peter could feel your heartbeat inside of his own body, each time you pulsed around him sent an electrical current through his system that was, well... electrifying.

peter could feel you getting close, the constrictions of your muscles changing every so slightly to signal to him that you were on the edge. not only that, but he could fucking smell the hormonal change in your body before you even knew it yourself, soft moans falling from your lips in a desperate attempt to let him know.

like he didn't already fucking know.

"i know, that's it. come for me, baby. i want you to feel me for weeks. i want you to hurt so bad that no one else can fuck you. only me. you're fucking mine," peter snarled possessively in your ear.

that was all it took for you to fall over the edge, weightless as you screamed through the orgasm. the feeling of your cunt tightening around him, your juices slicking his cock even more, the sounds of it all: it was beyond lewd. peter was immediately behind you, the sensations coming from you enough to reset his entire system. it was a sensory overload in the best way possible, his vision going white as he came the hardest he ever had.

peter flooded you with his warmth, and you had come back to earth just enough to notice how similar his cum inside of you felt like his webs against your wrists. he gave one final thrust before collapsing on top of you, using his remaining strength to rip the webbing from your hands and feet. his breathing was heavy again as he pulled his head up to look at you, and you noticed that his eyes had returned to the soft brown rings of peter parker.

he flickered his gaze around you and where you both were, confusion flashing across his face as he fought everything in his body telling him to sleep.

"what... oh my god, what happened?"

peter barely slurred it out before he passed out on top of you. still inside of you.

you fought against your own haze, still on cloud nine as you caught a green glow from the corner of your eyes. thank god for his loft set up -- his desk being tucked next to his bed, allowing you to close access to his tech in this moment. sometime in the last god knew how long, EVIE had run a successful trial, signified by the incandescent green radiating from his monitor.

you reached out as far as peter's weight over you had allowed, just barely catching the inhibitor in your fingertips. you guided the small machine around his sleeping frame, connecting it to the spot on the back of his neck. you were already out of breath, fucked dumb and on the verge of passing out, but this was about peter. it had been since the beginning.

with the inhibitor finally latched and active with a soft chrip!, you let out a sigh of relief watching peter's vitals and DNA level back out on the computer monitor. you could feel peter further relax on top of you, and it was enough to give you a final sense of accomplishment before you let the lull wash over you too, pulling you under with peter into a blissful slumber.

you woke up hours later, tucked into the covers, still on peter's stiff mattress. the webbing around his bed was gone, leaving you to wake up on fresh sheets. the scent was overwhelming peter, causing a smile to graze your lips before you even opened your eyes. he must've moved you in your sleep, as both the bedding and you were cleaned off.

you opened your eyes slowly, a dull headache settling behind your eyes and confirming your whiplash/concussion hypothesis from earlier. you saw the evening light coming through the loft windows, which had also been cleared of the previous webbing, and noted that it had in fact been hours that you'd been sleeping. it was now that you also noticed you were still naked while wrapped in peter's comforter, and a blush settled over your cheeks.

you went to sit up, but your entire body screamed protest as you moved. only a soft grunt left your lips, but it was enough to alert peter that you were awake again. he was at your side in an instant.

"oh my god, you're awake. thank fucking god, i was so worried that-"

you cut off his rambling with a hand to his chest, grateful to feel his heart beat almost at a normal rate again. normal for anxious peter, at least.

"pete, i'm okay." you gave him a soft smile, but it was the comfort that sent him over the edge. he quivered next to you as tears fought to fall from his eyes, physical proof of just how sorry he was.

there was your peter parker.

"no, listen. i'm so fucking sorry. i can't actually describe to you how sorry i am, there's no words for it. i-i'm a fucking monster, i can't believe that i... fuck, oh my god- i'm going to fucking throw up. i-i have the cops on speed dial, you know that, right? i'll call them. i swear to god, i will turn myself in right fucking now-"

"peter," you tried again, sitting up to meet his eye level more. to stop his spiraling.

the opposite happened as the blanket fell slightly in your adjustment, revealing a bit of your chest where he had left a handprint. peter's eyes locked onto the bruise, and he looked moments away from throwing himself off the building. his nervous shaking had turned to violent, full body tremors as tears finally slipped down his cheeks. he opened his mouth, surely to apologize more, but you weren't having it.

you pulled him in for a kiss, ignoring how tender your wrists were as you grabbed onto his sweatshirt. peter was hesitant at first, but soon melted into the kiss, feeling something deep and primal within him relax.

you broke the kiss to look at him again, and peter was beyond confused. "but i-"

"peter, i wanted it. all of it." you held his gaze firmly, one hand holding his comforter over your bare chest, the other tightly holding his own trembling palm. "i wanted to push you and see what would happen. to help you prove to yourself that you aren't a fucking monster, even if you don't know what the fuck is taking over. you're still my peter parker. you're still good."

peter let out a relieved huff of air, pulling you in for a gentle and cautious hug as happy tears landed against your bare back. he held you, thanking you profusely for trusting him. for helping him trust himself.

"do you feel better, pete?" you mumbled into the crook of his neck.

he choked on a laugh, and you felt a soft nod against your cheek. "yeah. yeah, fuck, i guess i do."

peter pulled back, concern laced in his eyebrows once again. "but you-"

"but i nothing, parker. i'm okay, really. think i can't handle a good fucking? being hurt a little?"

peter's cheeks lit on fire, a red flush extending down under the collar of his shirt. he laughed nervously, absentmindedly reaching up to graze his fingertips over the bruise blooming over your breasts. "good, huh? you're not too hurt?"

"oh i'm definitely hurt," you smirked at how quickly his face fell, your hand cupping his over your chest. "dare i say, hurt so bad that no one but you can fuck me?"

maybe it wasn't so bad if peter let the spider take over every now and then.

main masterlist

tip jar!

[dearlyhyeon]

now that everyone is done watching bnd.. i’m expecting a shit ton of arachnid sensory overload! peter parker fics immediately at my desk by tomorrow morning with a side of canon compliance…

why do men get hotter whenever they’re depressed and bruised

[mypoisonedvine]

so relieved to see more dark peter parker on my dash after brand new day, finally someone other than me is seeing the potential

[plumeriyaaa]

Coworker friendships be like (inspired by that one ayo edibiri and ebon moss-bachrach story pic)

[amethyst-silk]

This might be a weird one…

Female Reader masturbates to Andrew (or Andrew’s Peter, whichever you prefer) and feels shameful about that).

Then, somehow, it ends up actually happening and he likes everything she does. Praise kink galore. And then shows her how he would do it.

Totally no issue if it’s too weird…

i’ll do you one better! why is gamora

a/n: so sorry this took 5ever 🙈 2-year writer's block is real and needs to be studied. This is kinda different than the og request but it inspired me

summary: Peter finds your open laptop one day and sees all of the Spiderman fanfiction his roommate of three months has written. You have know idea that your roommate is Spiderman, but boy are you about to find out.

warnings: not proofread, 18+ MDNI, pnv, web used as bondage, rough sex, dom!peter (if you squint), strangers to acquauntences to more, if i missed anything let me know

wc: 4.1k

Tumblr Girl

Nine-hundred sixty-seven dollars. A small ass, one-bedroom apartment for nine-hundred sixty-seven dollars. You had high hopes that you would find something at a reasonable price, but everything else you looked at had either been too expensive or practically unlivable for you and your roommate. You didn't even want a roommate, especially now with only one bedroom, but you were struggling to make ends meet.

The apartment wasn't perfect. Far from it, actually, but it was the only place you could afford. The paint was peeling, the appliances were outdated, and a faint odor lingered no matter how much bleach you used. You tried to make it feel like home by hanging up a few pictures and buying some cheap furniture, but it never felt like the cozy apartment you had hoped for.

At first, you and your roommate tried to split the bedroom, but it wasn't feasible. The room was too small to fit two beds, let alone two people. So, you decided you'd take the couch. It wasn't comfortable, but it was better than nothing.

Every Sunday, Aunt May came over to you and Peter’s tiny, shared apartment. Most of the visits were just her offering to take Peter’s laundry or to help him with the dishes. Each time Peter told her that he had his own dishwasher and washing machine, but somehow May always managed to convince him to let her help.

Soon, Aunt May's visits became a welcome break from the mundane routine of your everyday life. As soon as the two of you got wind that she was coming over, you and Peter would tidy up the apartment and prepare a small meal for her. You couldn't help but smile at the sight of her bustling around the apartment like a whirlwind of energy. Despite your protests, Aunt May always found a chore to do around the apartment. She would insist on washing the dishes by hand, even though a semi-functional dishwasher was available in the kitchen. And no matter how often Peter told her he could handle his own laundry, Aunt May would always leave with a basket of his dirty clothes to wash in her home.

You appreciated it, of course. That boy struggled to keep up with the things his aunt constantly offered to help with. Though, you weren’t sure why. Well, you knew he was barely home to do either of the chores, but you didn’t know why he never wanted to receive help from May. Hell, you don’t even know why he was gone so much in the first place.

You had only lived together for three months, so why should you even wonder? Part of you thought that it was because you wanted to actually become friends with Peter, but the other part just chalked it up to be curiosity. You told yourself when you first signed the lease that you wouldn’t get attached or try to become friends with your roommate, but Peter’s personality never let you see the promise through.

So now you’re wondering about his daily disappearances. Why he doesn’t like to accept help, why he prefers cinnamon toothpaste…why he has to be so stupidly attractive. You know, the normal roommate stuff. That cinnamon toothpaste thing was genuinely weird, though. You guys argued for thirty minutes before you just let his weird taste in toothpaste go.

Maybe you two were a little more than strangers, but friends? Maybe. Acquaintances, at least. Though it feels wrong to call him that. Maybe you two really were friends after all. The fact that you knew his favorite food, his coffee order, and his weekly routine made you feel like you were a little closer than just acquaintances. Though Peter would never admit it, he considered you his closest friend. You didn't know that his nightlife allotted him few friends; the only friend he really had was you. His only normal one, anyway. Sure, he had the Occasional masked vigilante help him with his crime-fighting endeavors, but that would be the extent of his encounters.

While you had so many questions you were building up the courage to ask, you knew it would have to wait. It was Sunday, and you didn't want to spoil an Aunt May Sunday. Monday seems like a better date to ask prying questions about Peter's life, anyway.

When you opened the door, all of the air rushed from your lungs. May had you in a hug that may render you dead if she doesn't loosen her grip. "Hey, you," she greets, now swaying you in the hug from left to right. You barely squeak out a response.

"Aunt May, don't kill her, please." She lets go and gives Peter a look of warning mixed with amusement, one she's used to giving him. "If she doesn't pay her half of the rent, I'll be evicted," he jokes.

He flinches before you slap him with a dish towel. "You think you're funny?" You poke back. You both fall into a laughter that seems too familiar for the amount of time you've known him. "Either grab the laundry or start boiling the noodles before I evict you myself."

Peter does a goofy, whole-body salute gesture with a silly voice to match, "Yes, ma'am. On it, ma'am," and runs away just in time for the dish towel to miss him.

He avoids the kitchen, knowing to stay away from a potential cooking disaster, and opted to gather the laundry from his room. You didn't want your hamper out in the living room in case you brought a guy home from the bar who was turned off by seeing period-stained underwear, so you and Peter decided to keep both hampers in the bedroom. His bedroom.

The shared desk you went halfsies on when you moved in also resides in his room. You found it during the search for second-hand furniture, and this oak desk seemed to have been lowered from the heavens. The woodwork was marvelous, and there were several large and small compartments for storing items. From one look, Peter knew you were in love, so he insisted on getting it. He said that the two of you could share it, but he knew you'd be getting more use out of it than he would. It also created a reason for you to be in his room, which he didn't mind.

"Oh, grab your bedsheets too, sweetie," May yells. "I keep forgetting to wash them."

"Yep, I'll grab them, May!" Peter was scrounging up all of his dirty laundry to send to his aunt's house. Her washing machine was better. It didn't leak or rattle, and it also didn't mix the soap and the fabric softener — her washing machine was better.

Peter picked up a shirt from the ground with coffee stains, and from the corner of his vision, he saw your computer light up on the desk. He knew. He knew he shouldn't look, but how much harm would he even cause? You mentioned to him before that you like to write, but you never let him read any of it. Peter thought, maybe they were good; maybe you could be the next New York Times bestseller. So he sets the shirt on his bed and leans over your computer, resting his weight on the desk.

He read a couple of sentences, and from what he saw, you were good. Peter never would have guessed you'd be into writing cheesy romance novels, but he didn't think it seemed out of character for you either. He continued to read, thinking that he had early access to a book that the next Hallmark movie would be based on

Peter thought that, until he realised he was reading porn. Porn about Spiderman. In three sentences, he realised he was reading a graphic, thousand-word entry that speculated what Spiderman was like in bed. That you wrote. His face was concerningly red. His hand went straight for his growing bulge. The initial action blossomed from shame, but he continued the contact to relieve some pressure. Knowing that you were unknowingly writing about him turned Peter on way more than it should.

"Is everything okay, Peter?" His eyes bulged, Aunt May's voice startling him from the living room, "I can come in and help if you want!" No. The last thing Peter wants to do right now is explain why he's standing over your laptop with a hard-on.

He fumbled with the clothes on the bed, panicked by the thought. "N-nah, Aunt May. I got it, I'm almost done!" As he rushed out of the room, he struggled to keep the wad of dirty laundry in his grasp, picking up several items along the way. When he finally got out to the living space, his face was blotchy and sweaty. Mostly because he was still embarrassed by the provocative words you wrote.

Peter looked like a deer in headlights, not breaking eye contact with May once he reached the coat rack by the front door. A lump formed in his throat as his aunt stared at him. It almost seemed like...was she judging him? Peter assumed she must've known why he was flustered. While he had spider-senses, she had aunt-senses, which in some cases made her more of a superhero than him. Peter's thoughts irrationally led him to believe he saw the whole encounter, and that Aunt May is going to call him out in front of you, and then things will be weird, and then you won't want to live with him, and then-

"You want a gym membership?" May offers. "Because if this has you all worked up, I can get you a gym membership." Peter sighs, letting his previous theory go. "Then you can carry everything without breaking a sweat," she encourages. She swiftly collects the clothes from him and shoves them into her laundry bag in one go. See? Basically a superhero.

Peter gulps, "Oh uh, I'm. Nope, I'm alright." He lets out a chuckle as he sheepishly scratches his head. "But if it changes, you'll be the first to know," punctuating the sentence with finger guns. He hoped neither you nor May would notice the spike in his awkwardness.

"Well, why don't you set the table then. You were gone for so long that I'm almost done whipping up the spaghetti." You don't look at him while you speak, which Peter is internally grateful for. "Were you writing a novel in there?" you joke.

His face pales as beads of sweat form near his hairline. "Ha. Ha," he mutters weakly, and does as he's asked. By the time you finished cooking dinner, the table was set with mismatched cutlery and whatever plates you could find at the second-hand store.

Dinner was normal, simple even, but all Peter could think about was the filthy words from your computer. Still, you updated May on your lives, talked about the news and the weather, and then you sent her on her way. It was always a little sad to see her go, but knowing she'd be back in a week always helped keep those feelings from growing.

As soon as Peter heard the lock click, he confessed. "Hey, please don't kill me, but I saw some of your stories from your laptop."

Your cheeks were immediately flushed, and you were trying to figure out what you were feeling. Angry that he was snooping? Embarrassed that he found out? Hot and bothered because he read it? You decided it was all of the above. "Peter, why the fuck were you looking at my laptop?"

His hands flew up defensively, "I don't know! I was just collecting the laundry for May to do, and I saw your computer light up, and I was curious." By the time he was done speaking, his hands were lowered to his sides, and his justifying tone returned to normal.

You sat on the couch, head in your hands, because you couldn't believe your roommate, of all people, knows a secret you planned on taking with you to your grave. "How much did you read?" You whispered.

"Enough to know you like guys who wear red and blue spandex."

"Nooooo." By now, the anger had dissipated, and embarrassment was left. How could Peter ever look at you the same, you thought. Would he seek another roommate? If only you had a password on your computer, then this wouldn't be an issue.

Peter could tell you felt uncomfortable, and he immediately tried to soothe you. "I thought it was actually very good. And you could definitely have a career in writing if you wanted." This didn't help

"This is mortifying." You spoke, still hidden behind your hands, "Please don't ever perceive me again."

Peter chuckled, easing some of the tension. "I'm serious, there's nothing to be ashamed of. Lots and lots of people love to read that kind of stuff and-"

Your head snaps up, and your hand flies to his arms. "Okay, okay. You can stop. Let's just be normal." But your hands don't move; they stay firmly grasped around his toned forearms. How have you never noticed how nice his arms are? You decide to make a mental note to think about it any other time than right now.

However, it's in this moment that Peter can sense it. Smell it. You. Peter can smell the hint of arousal that's barely starting to leak. He can almost hear it too. It takes him a couple of seconds before he connects the dots: you like him, too. Relief floods his system, feeling less guilty about reading your story and happy that his pining wasn't one-sided. The next thing that floods is his blood to his dick, creating a very apparent tent in his pants.

His voice lowers into a husky half-whisper, "Can I tell you a secret?"

Your thighs clench unconsciously, and you curse yourself for being so turned on right now. Have you really been holding his arms this entire time? You don't try to speak, afraid that nothing will come out if you do, so you nod instead.

Peter slides your grip down his arms and to his hands, now clasped in a clammy handshake. "Now, you have to promise me that you'll never, ever, tell anyone this secret." Your head nods again, rapidly this time, as you wait with anticipation for his big secret. Maybe you'll finally figure out the reasons for his late nights and sudden disappearances. Maybe tonight is the night that you learn everything about each other.

You hear a small 'thwip,' and feel a cool, sticky substance coat your wrists where Peter was holding them. You look down to find his hands are gone, but your wrists are still together. Instead of being held together by his hands, they're held together by...

"Shut the fuck up, you're Spiderman!?" You can't believe it. You've been living with the Spiderman for the last three months, and you didn't even know. You can't contain your excitement, but Peter tries to do that for you.

"Sh! Sh." His hand reaches to cover your mouth, silencing you. "Remember the whole 'big secret, do not tell anyone' part?" You slowly nod again, now understanding why he needed you to solemnly vow to keep this secret.

"Now, if I remember correctly, there's someone I know who's got a little crush on the bug boy," Peter smirks, seeing the effect his words have on you. He effortlessly picks you up from the couch and heads towards his bedroom.

You feel intense emotional whiplash. Less than thirty minutes ago, you were saying goodbye to May, and now Peter is whisking you to his bedroom. "What are you doing?" You giggle after he gently tosses you on his mattress.

Peter slowly crawls toward you until he's hovering above you, his eyes deciding whether they want to marvel in yours, or to look are your enticing lips. "I'm going to see if the rumors are true." His left hand travels to your hip, then slowly rubs circles that make you shudder with anticipation. Peter leans down to speak softly into your ear, "It seems there are quite a few rumors about Spiderman's sexual activities." His hand travels inward and dangerously close to the special seam in your jeans. He can hear how wet you're getting for him, and he loves it.

His mouth trails from your ear to your neck. He places a couple of soft, sensual kisses on the delicate skin, but it quickly devolves into him sucking dark red patches that will probably be there for the next week. "Wh-Who would ever do--such a thing?" You struggle to get the words out, his tongue massaging the sweet spots that have you growing wetter by the second.

Peter pulls back, admiring the marks he left on your soft skin. He makes eye contact with you right before his hand snakes between your legs to catch your eyes fluttering shut. He moves his index and middle fingers at a slow torturous pace, as your breathing becomes heavier. You try bucking your hips up to find some more friction, but Peter moves his hand away just before you could get the satisfaction...just like your writings.

Your eyes shoot open at the realisation, "You-" Peter crashes his lips to yours before you get another word out. His hand resumes his teasing as you moan into his mouth. Peter takes the opening to slip his tongue inside, heightening the experience for you. He explores your mouth as his fingers move faster, making you squirm. Each kiss tightens the coil in your stomach that's wound up by his fingers. This boy is going to be the death of you.

When Peter stops and gets up from the bed, a whine escapes your lips. All the places he was touching moments ago now feel like fire, and he's the only one who's got the water to put it out.

Not long after he's up, your pants come down. "I'm going to assume you want to have sex with me?" He stands above you, your pants in hand, waiting for your consent to continue. You hold eye contact for what seems like forever as you slowly hook your fingers on your underwear and pull them down too. "Is that a good enough answer for you?" However, your snarky response was about to bite you in the ass.

Peter lets out an unamused chuckle as he lowers himself back over you. "Of course not." You feel two of his digits collecting your slick, but not penetrating you yet. The need to have something inside you is almost too much to bear. "I want to hear you say that you want Spiderman to fuck you just like in the stories you wrote. Can you do that, sweetheart?"

You let out a loud moan. The feeling of his long fingers, combined with his lewd words, could probably do you in by themselves. But you needed this man's dick inside you tonight, so you were going to do whatever it took. "I want you to fuck me, Peter."

His fingers abruptly enter your slit, and he slowly strokes your G-spot. Somehow, this is much better and so much worse than before. He's giving you more, but you want it all. "Close, but not quite what I was looking for," he says condescendingly, "why don't you give it another go?" His fingers continued to assault the sensitive spot inside of you.

You struggled to catch your breath, fighting the several moans that he's trying to pull from you. "I need Spiderman to-"

The bastard picks up the pace. Compared to the sloth-like movements from earlier, this has you seeing stars. "You need Spiderman to, what?" He knows what he's doing, and he loves it. He's made you dumb for him.

"To fuck me just like the story I wrote." He slows his movements and pulls his fingers out from your dripping core, sucking his fingers and licking what dripped to his palm. You whine yet again at the loss of contact, your desire almost unbearable at this point.

You look up to see his pants are off as he rifles through his bedside drawer. He pulls out a shiny, gold packet and rips it open with his teeth. "I'm not trying to have any spider-babies crawling on the ceiling, so I think we'd better use this." You nod in agreement, although the possibility of your children one day giggling and hanging from the ceiling does bring a smile to your face.

The feeling of Peter slapping his dick on your pussy brings you back to reality. You don't know how much more of this teasing you can take, but before you can complain, your hands are stuck to his headboard. Must be his web, you think. Which is a crazy thing for you to be saying when you didn't even know he was Spiderman up until twenty minutes ago. Man, today has had a lot in store. Luckily for you, it's not over yet.

"I should just leave you like this," Peter declares as he fists his dick. The sight alone might make you cum. "God, you'd ruin the sheets though." You whimpered at his words. Holy shit, does Peter Parker have a dirty mouth, and you love it.

You thrash your legs, trying to bring him closer to you. "I need you to fuck the shit out of me. Right now." Peter shudders at the thought of being inside you and wastes no time to do exactly that. As he enters, you feel a tight stretch, and you gasp, trying to adjust to the sensation.

Peter pauses, giving you a slight reprieve before slowly sliding in and out of you. The sound of wet squelching is loud, and the empty walls amplify any noises made in the room. His steady pace equally satisfies you and has you craving more.

"Peter, I need you to pound my cervix until I'm screaming," you plea. He continues fucking into you as he pretends to contemplate providing what you asked.

A sexy, crooked smirk appears on his face, "That can be arranged." The next four minutes are a blur.

Peter flips you around to your stomach, your arms crossed and still connected to the headboard. He lifts your ass up, and without warning, rams into you at a rapid pace, hitting all the right places to have you a moaning mess. His dick feels bigger, harder. He's not holding back anymore, and it feels amazing. Your bodies become slick with sweat as Peter gets his cardio in for the week, and you try to hang on for dear life.

When he reaches his arm around you to rub your clit while he's still fucking you, you know you don't have a lot of time left before you combust. Each stroke with his dick and each circle of his fingers winds you up tighter and tighter. A white-hot feeling forms and threatens to burst at any moment

"Peter, I-I'm gonna cum," you practically scream out. He just pounds into you harder, egged on by your comment.

"Come on then, come for me." It only takes a few more thrusts before you see stars. Ecstasy sweeps over your body, and you feel a high like never before. Peter feels it too, slowing his movements as he throbs inside of you.

You lay there in silence, catching your breath and waiting for Peter to cut his web. Your hair is in need of detangling, and you both need a shower. Both of your shirts are soaked with sweat and will most likely need some TLC from May. Then again, maybe this should be a job for your own washing machine.

Peter flips you back around so he can see your face, admiring how beautiful you look in the moonlight that comes in from the one window in the room. "So how did that hold up compared to the literature?"

You fake a contemplating expression. The real answer? That was the best sex you've ever had in your life, and you can't believe you just fucked Spiderman. But what you actually said included none of that.

"That was pretty good, but I think there's a story somewhere about Spiderman loving shower sex." Peter gives you a mischievous grin. You look up to him with innocent eyes, "Think we should find out?"

[blooming-violets]

CREATURE LIKE ME || CHAPTER FIVE (part one): YOU'RE IN A CULT

[TASM Peter Parker!Werewolf AU]

Story Summary: Kraven and his guild of hunters have been tracking and quelling the werewolf population for centuries. The time has come for Aylin to complete her first solo hunt to prove herself to the guild. It was supposed to be simple. One wolf, one death, one victory. She never expected to end up with a secret hostage on her hands.

Chapter Five Warnings (spoilers): mild sexual exhibitionism (fondling an exposed breast) in front of an unwilling person, being unknowingly drugged

[link to chapter index]

The familiar scent of pine soothed her worried soul as she stepped through the threshold of her home. 

Their little, brown cabin, with its sturdy fireplace of stacked, gray stones, and pine needle covered roof gave off the illusion of a safe haven. She might be back in her guild’s territory but this was her house. Her home. Here, she could find respite. 

It was quiet as she stood in her cozy living room. Everything was still. By mid day, her mother would have been in the communal kitchen preparing meals for anyone who might want to stop by for a free lunch. Their guild supported their members and made sure no one would ever go hungry. They functioned as a bunch of tiny parts all moving in unison to form a single, powerful behemoth. They worked on the bartering system and the good will of their neighbors. If something was taken, something else would always need to be given. 

Mrs. Harkner, down the road, gave her time to teach the children academics, in return, the children would pick the crops from her garden so her focus could be spent on lesson planning. Mr. Jacobson, at the other end of town, couldn’t aim a gun to save his life, but was an expert in construction and could fix any housing issue that arose. In return, the hunters would make sure he was always provided with fresh game and a well stocked freezer. Eight year old Christopher Lennings would sell freshly made apple juice from the apple tree in his front yard every Saturday morning and all it would cost was the coolest looking rock you could find. Everyone had a job and everyone was taken care of. 

As long as they followed the rules. 

Aylin had formulated a plan during her five mile hike back home. She knew she would have the house to herself at this time. If she could quickly pack her car full of gear, staying out of sight, then she could head back to Peter for the next few days. During that time, she would get every bit of information she could about Kat’s pack. When she finally returned back to the guild, she could trade that information as an apology for not completing her ritual to become a full time hunter. Trading was how their guild functioned. Information could be traded for a lighter sentencing. Sergei would be more focused on taking action against an entire pack than dealing out punishments for her defiance. She could right all the wrongs before the situation got too out of hand. 

It wasn’t a perfect plan but it would have to do.

The old floorboards creaked under foot to alert the only available member of the household to her presence. Her large, sleek black cat lazily rose his head off the sofa to see who dared to disturb his nap. When he caught sight of Aylin, his ears perked up and he gracefully leapt to the floor to greet her by weaving between her legs. He gave a piercing whine, begging for attention. 

“Yes, yes. I missed you, too, Kedi.” Aylin bent down to scoop him into her arms where he proceeded to be carried like a baby up the stairs to her bedroom loft. “Has mom been worried about me? Have you been looking after her?” 

Kedi purred, his golden eyes squinting up at her. It was a rarity to find him inside their cabin. He preferred to be out hunting for his next meal or clawing his way up the highest tree. Finding him willingly behind walls meant that he knew something was wrong. He had probably spent the night curled up next to Nesrin. Sometimes Aylin swore that he was actually a person trapped inside the body of a cat. She imagined him to be a grumpy, old man who would yell at innocent children to get off his lawn but secretly loved the attention they gave him. He was fearless, tenacious, and a ferocious serial killer of all rodents. 

A family of killers. Is that all they were?

Peter’s words from this morning still buzzed around her thoughts like an annoying gnat that refused to leave her personal space. 

“We’re not in a cult, right? I’d know if I was in a cult,” she mused down at the cat in her arms. 

He responded with a deep, guttural purr that vibrated his entire body. 

“Sergei isn’t Jim Jones or Charles Manson. He has a reason behind what we’re doing. There’s a purpose. A meaning. We’re helping people. We’re…” She paused and gave a long sigh. “My father wouldn’t have been best friends with a cult leader. He was smarter than that. He was a good man. Peter’s wrong. He doesn’t know us, does he, Keds? He’s a stupid, low life, pathetic, disgusting werewolf. He’s-” 

She stopped to listen to the words falling from her lips. No one was around to hear them and she was still holding deep prejustice for a man who had done nothing but show her kindness and grace despite her attitude. 

Lycans. That’s what Peter referred to himself as. Not a werewolf. A lycan. A person with the ability to shift into a wolf. 

A person. Not a monster.

Good and bad people. That’s what Peter had said. There were always good and bad people regardless where you stood in the world. 

Which one was she? 

Aylin carefully dropped Kedi onto her bed so she could pack a bag, trying to pull her thoughts away from Peter’s grasp and focus them back onto the task at hand. Some extra clothes, camping supplies, her crossbow, and more food would be on her list of needed items. She quickly changed out of her dress and into something more practical for forest living. She began tossing clothes out of her drawer and into the waiting duffle bag. As she turned around to pack them more neatly, she stopped to see Kedi curled up under the growing pile. 

“You’re not helping, Ked. You’ll suffocate under there if I zip it up,” she smiled softly down at the stubborn cat who merely squinted back at her. He was always able to lift her mood. “Okay fine, you can stay but I’m going to keep packing around you.” 

She grabbed an unopened pack of spare toothbrushes and ripped it apart. Carefully, she glanced over the colors, selecting a red and blue striped one for Peter. She felt like he would suit those colors…and he really needed to brush his teeth. It had probably been a while since he had a toothbrush of his own. 

With some basic grooming items taken care of and a duffle full of spare clothes, Aylin shooed Kedi out of the way to finish her getaway bag. He followed as she made a handful of trips from the house to her car, filling the trunk with everything her and Peter might need to survive for the next few days. She slammed the full trunk closed, tucking her keys into her pocket, and put her hands on her hips. A sense of determination settled over her. 

“There! We have a camping stove, some canned food, extra water…I think we should be all set for a couple days,” she spoke down to the cat waiting patiently at her feet. “If you would like to come with me, Keds, I would be more than happy to bring you. I don’t think Peter would mind the extra company.” 

Kedi’s fur raised along his back, his ears flattening, and he gave a long hiss before darting to the safety of the darkness under her car. 

“Wha- he’s not that bad, jeeze,” she frowned at his sudden change of attitude, wondering what had set him off, when she heard the crunching of footsteps making their way up her dirt driveway. 

“Going somewhere, Aylin?” The familiar baritone voice caused her skin to erupt in goosebumps. Her heart leapt into her throat as a wave of nausea overtook her. She suddenly felt faint.

She wasn’t fast enough.

The only other time she had seen Kedi display fear like that was when a black bear broke through their screened in porch one afternoon to try and grab a bite of his cat food. Even then, he had darted back out from under the safety of a chair to claw the bear across the snout before running away again. Today, he stayed hidden. 

Aylin straightened her back, attempting to fix a warm smile onto her lips, and turned around to face Sergei standing in the middle of her driveway. He was dawning his signature werewolf pelt draped over his shoulders and giving her a grin that was stretched far too thin to be anything but forced. The sight of the pelt made her sick to her stomach when she thought about the person who it once was ripped from. Barbaric. He might as well be wearing a pelt of human flesh.

Where was she going? She tried to steady her fluttering heart as a million potential answers swirled around her panicked thoughts. 

“I’m planning on going to the Catskills to hike along the Devil’s Path like I do every year,” she lied, thinking quickly. With the way her trunk was currently packed, it easily resembled a hiking trip. She could fake this scenario. 

“Isn’t it a little early for that?” He raised his scraggly brow at her. He was starting to get flecks of silver among his dark hair. The silver stood out more prominently against the midday sun and made him look closer than usual to his age. It was rare to catch signs of him aging. He seemed to always be in his prime despite how many years have passed. “Don’t you typically do that hike closer to the summer?” 

Aylin shrugged, trying to play it off like it wasn’t a big deal, “Last summer was too hot. Thought I’d go early this year.” 

“In the rainy season, I imagine parts of the hike would be really dangerous?”

She held firmly onto her bluff, knowing he was trying to break her, and kept her eyes locked with his to help sell the lie, “Sure, but isn’t that part of our training? To overcome difficult feats despite the challenges that face us? Besides, it’s not called the Devil’s Path for nothing. It’s meant to keep you on your toes. I think I could use a good challenge. ” 

Sergei squinted at her with a hard glare, “Yes. About that. I think we need to have a talk about exactly what challenges are facing you. Something seemed to bother you the other night, did it not?” 

She could tell from his tone that he was carefully keeping his voice steady. Under the surface, he was boiling. He wanted her to pay for the other night. There had to be consequences. Aylin had not only gone against his direct orders but, in her defiance, belittled his authority in front of the guild. If there’s one thing to never do to Sergei, it would be to embarrass him. She was now caught in an unwanted game of cat and mouse and she was terrified of losing. 

She widened her eyes like it was a shock to hear that and not a conversation she had been dreading, “Oh? You mean when I ran from the ceremony? I’m so sorry about that. Really. I must have eaten something weird. Probably undercooked meat. I got really sick. I spent the night on the toilet. I had to run before I had an accident in front of everyone. You know how it is. When you gotta go, you gotta go.” 

He took a step closer, a dreadful smile flicked at the corner of his lips, “Really? I stopped by your house to check on you later that night. I wanted to make sure you were okay after that shameful display you pulled in front of everyone. Your mother told me you weren’t home. Poor woman was worried sick about you. She thought you might have run off and done something stupid.” He paused, closing the gap between them. The cold metal of her car door pushed against her back as he towered over her. He propped an arm against the roof of her car to pin her in place. “Well? Did you? Do something stupid, I mean.” 

Her stomach flipped with nerves as she shook her head. She was going to lose this game. The cat was ready to pounce and she had nowhere to hide, caught in place, forced to face her demise. Sergei went in for the kill, sensing he was gaining the upper hand in their silent standoff, and threw a heavy arm around her shoulders. He had her locked tightly in place against his side and gave a loud, dark laugh as if that would expel the thick tension between them. She couldn’t run. Couldn’t hide. He had her exactly where he wanted. 

“Why don’t you come take a walk with me, Aylin?” He started to drag her down the driveway. “Cal made rabbit stew earlier. We can have some tea and lunch and discuss our futures. I have a proposition for you. What do you say, kid?” 

Despite his question, there was no choice to be had. She was going to be coming with him even if he had to throw her over his shoulder and carry her there. 

“Uh, yeah, I guess that’s okay. I should go leave a note for my mom so she knows where I’m at when she gets back…” Aylin tried to dig her heels into the dirt but got shuffled along like she weighed nothing. Any resistance would be futile. She had lost the game. The cat had caught the mouse and was now boastfully parading her squirming body down the road as he carried it proudly between his salivating jaws. 

“That won’t be necessary. I’ll inform her exactly where you are should she come asking. There’s nothin’ to worry about. You’re safe with me. You know that.” The weight of his words hung over her like a rapidly approaching storm. There wasn’t a single ounce of truth behind anything he said. 

It was only a matter of time before the cat clamped down, piercing her flesh with his razor sharp teeth. 

The Kravinoff residence was the largest house in their town. A two story cabin with breathtaking floor to ceiling windows to let in all the natural light. The eaves of the red gabled roof were decorated with ornate wooden details. They had been handcarved by Sergei Sr. when he rebuilt the Kravinoff home many years ago before his passing; his final gift to his spoiled son.

Their kitchen was larger than the floor plan of her entire house with brightly painted, red cabinets to match the color of their roof. A pot of yellow sunflowers brightened up the room to soften the red and create an inviting atmosphere. Calypso lounged against the double wide, walnut island wearing nothing more than a skimpy, silk robe. Her dark, tight curly hair haloed around her head and she flashed Aylin her infamous, pointy toothed grin. 

“Ah, the weakling has returned, I see,” she slinked over to the younger woman, standing tall in front of her. “Such a disappointment you gave the guild last night, was it not? I don’t know why Sergei holds you in such high regards. You don’t look like much to me.” 

Sergei placed a possessive hand over Aylin’s shoulder, “Now, now, Cal. Enough teasing. Everyone makes mistakes. She says she wasn’t feeling well. Ate some bad meat. Happens to the best of us. Aylin is our guest and should be treated as such. She’s here for a chat over drinks. Why don’t you make us some of your special tea?” His eyes flashed into his wife, giving her a silent command. “The kind we save for our very important guests. Aylin needs to be reminded how much her community values her.” 

Calypso smiled and bowed her head, “Of course, dear.” 

Aylin was led into the dining room with the sounds of Calypso rustling through the cabinets following her out the door. A long, black cherry dining table, lined with tall chairs, greeted them. At the head of the table was a throne, carved out of the trunk of a tree and adorned with giant wolf claws at the end of the legs. Kraven sank down onto the pelt covered seat. He looked like a true king of his castle. He waved a large hand for her to sit in one of the normal chairs beside him. 

She took a hesitant seat, having stayed quiet this whole time, terrified that speaking the wrong words would get her further into trouble. It was better to play defense with Sergei. Let him take the lead so she could match his energy. 

“It’s been a while since you’ve been in our home,” he mused, lazily scratching at his beard. “You used to visit all the time with your father. I believe the last time you stepped foot inside these walls was when you were merely 16 years of age.” 

After Samuel and Emir’s funeral. 

Sergei had held a repast at his home after the burial service. Everyone in town had attended, each bringing a dish of food or drinks, to show their support for the fallen members. Nesrin was too busy weeping in the bathroom to know her daughter was getting wasted off some stolen liquor. Aylin had snuck away from the guests with her bottle in hand to hide in one of Segei’s guest rooms. The rest of the night was a blur but she distantly remembered him finding her tucked away in the corner behind a bed and holding her while she cried. Everything after that was dark. That entire year had been dark. 

She remembered a time when she felt protected in his arms. His presence used to come with a warm safety. Now, it came with a foreboding sense of danger, like stumbling upon a sleeping rattlesnake. If she was careful enough, she might get away without a fight. If she took one wrong step, all it would take was a mere second for the snake to strike. 

“Things got bad after-” She stopped. She didn’t need to say anything else. 

Sergei gave a solemn nod, “Yes. I can imagine. Sam was my good friend. He was an important, valuable member of our guild. It was hard for everyone.” 

He was studying her face, trying to read every micro expression she held, but she kept her features stiff. She should have left sooner. Maybe if she hadn't spent so much time doting on Kedi, she would have escaped before Sergei arrived. She wished she was already back with Peter and wondered how long he would stay in her trailer before he started to wonder if she’d ever return. 

“Who’s Peter?” Sergei asked with an air of innocence, as if he had directly read her mind, but kept a close eye on how she responded. He was carefully studying her every move. 

Aylin’s eyes widened in shock for only a split second before she softened her face but there was no doubt that Sergei had caught it. Had he read her mind? There was no other way he could possibly know about Peter…was there? Her stomach churned with nerves at the question but she raised her eyebrows in feigned confusion, “What do you mean?” 

He shifted on his throne, leaning towards her, and placing his arm on the table, “When I came to pick you up, I heard you say ‘I don’t think Peter would mind the extra company.’ So, who’s Peter?”

That’s what she got for speaking out loud to a cat. She should have kept her mouth shut. 

“He’s my friend,” she lied, thinking on her feet. “Works at the gas station a few miles out. He works nights. I’ve met him a few times and we got to talking. He enjoys hiking as much as me. He was planning a trip of his own so I invited him on mine. I thought we could both use the company.” 

“Is he your boyfriend?” Sergei’s tone was light but his tense shoulders gave off the impression of a possessive, jealous lover. Aylin was beginning to see him as an overgrown child who refused to share his toys with others. She felt like she was nothing more than his property. 

She repressed a gulp, refusing to let her eyes wander from his, “No. He’s a friend.” 

He ignored her statement. “After Leah Rivera, I thought you might not be not interested in men. It’s good to know you appreciate both sides,” Sergei leaned back to give off the illusion of someone who was casually lounging instead of someone fishing for information. They were both playing a difficult game of chess, each crafting their next move, while simultaneously trying to find their opponents weakness to exploit.  “Cal swings both ways, too.” 

“He’s not my boyfriend. He’s just someone who enjoys hiking as much as me,” Aylin’s jaw tightened, giving him a stiff reply. She desperately hoped the heat burning behind her cheeks wasn’t outwardly noticeable. Her racing heart spiked at the mention of Leah. That was a name she hadn’t heard spoken aloud in years. “I don’t swing any way. Leah was nothing more than a friend, too.” 

Liar. Leah was more than a friend. She was Aylin’s childhood best friend, her favorite person, her first crush, her first love. Leah used to be her everything. 

Until she was nothing. 

“Right, right,” he chuckled. “Cal and I were just friends once. I get it. But, Aylin, you know how this guild feels about outsiders. You can not trust them. It’s best you let that friendship drift away before it’s too late. I don’t want you going on a trip with that boy. It’s too dangerous. Cancel it. Stop seeing him. There’s more than enough eligible men here for you to attach yourself to. I can think of at least three off the top of my head who would love a chance. Stay within the guild.” 

She had tried to stay within the guild until Sergei caught on about her and Leah’s relationship. She remembered his eyes flaring with hatred when he saw them share a quick kiss behind the school house one afternoon. Neither of the girls could understand why he would care what a couple of sixteen year olds got up to. It wasn’t long after that Leah’s entire family disappeared in the middle of the night. One day they were there, the next they were gone. Banished. No explanations given. No goodbyes said. Their empty house was demolished, as per tradition, whenever someone leaves the guild. Erase everything and build back up from scratch without the tainted memories. They were to never speak about the Rivera’s again. Every ounce of Leah’s existence in Aylin’s life was gone overnight until it was almost as if she never existed at all. If it wasn’t for the pictures hidden in a shoebox in the back of her closet, sometime’s Aylin might wonder if she dreamed up the entire thing. First, her best friend disappeared, then, her father and brother were slaughtered by wolves. Sixteen had not been kind to her. 

But that was years ago. Leah was gone and so was the person Aylin used to be. She didn’t want Peter to become another pained memory added to the ever growing pile of forgotten people. She would protect this one. She wouldn’t let him be another soul for Sergei to steal from her. 

Even if that made her a traitor. 

She fixed a pleasant smile onto her face, “You’re probably right. I don’t know him that well anyway. I was just looking for a hiking buddy. Not a big deal and I’d better be safe than sorry. You never really know what those outsiders are like. Although, I do think I would be able to overtake him if it ever came to that. I’ve taken down werewolves. I think I can manage to get the upper hand on a random gas station employee. You’ve trained us well.” She threw Sergie her best attempt at a cheeky wink despite the anxious tightening of her throat. Her desperation for him to believe her was suffocating. 

Outsiders. Traitors. Banishment. 

Maybe Peter was right. She might be in a cult. 

The truth hit her hard. She forced a smile onto her face despite wanting to slide under the table and crawl away. 

Canceling fake plans with an imaginary boyfriend was easier than the truth of her deception. Outsider Peter was better than Werewolf Peter. One was a simple mistake at the hands of a lovestruck young woman. The other was direct treason against everything she ever knew. 

He didn’t look impressed with her response.

Earthy, herbal smells wafted out from the kitchen door. She caught notes of lavender and chamomile mixed with some kind of sharp spice she was unfamiliar with. Sergei noticed her analyzing the scent. 

“It’s not something we grow here in the mountains,” he remarked, blatantly ignoring her attempts to butter him up. “Calypso has family in Haiti. They send her all sorts of home grown products she can’t get here. She likes to think of herself as a bit of an alchemist when she’s in the kitchen. She makes the most wonderful tea. You’ll love it.”

As if on cue, Calypso burst through the doorway with a tray in hand. A clear teapot was placed on the table in front of them. Bits of loose herbs floated around inside the amber liquid. Skinny, swirling trails of hypnotizing white steam rose from the spout. She lifted the pot to pour out the delicious smelling tea into the delicate china cups. Aylin was handed the first one. 

“For our guest,” Calypso smirked. “Made with love.” 

Aylin ignored the snarky edge to her words and gave a polite smile. She took a small sip, happy for the distraction. It burned her tongue but slid smoothly down her throat. It was like nothing she’d ever had before. Warm and cozy with a sharp tang of spice as a lingering aftertaste. She took another big gulp as it gave her something to do with her fidgety hands. 

Calypso perched on the thick arm of Sergei’s throne as she watched her guest drink, “How is it?” 

“It’s wonderful. Thank you,” she feigned a smile. She wasn’t lying. It was delicious. She just struggled to make her voice sound genuine when her and Peter’s lives hung on her every word. 

“Pleased to hear it.” 

Sergei patted his wife’s thigh, “Aylin was just telling me about her gas station boyfriend. An outsider. They’re already planning a trip together.” 

Calypso leaned against him, running her fingers through his hair, “A gas station boyfriend? Even she can do better than that.” 

“He’s not my bo-” She was cut off by Sergei. 

“I already told her that it would be best to let that relationship fade away. I think we could find her someone better. One of us. I would be doing Sam a disservice if I let his daughter run away with an outsider.” 

Aylin bit her tongue and refused to mention that her mother was once an outsider. The longer they stayed on the topic of her lie, the more anxious she became. She didn’t want to have to keep thinking on her feet. It was exhausting her psyche. 

“I said I would. It’s not a big deal,” she huffed, taking another sip of her tea. “He means nothing to me. I just thought it might be fun to have someone to hike with but I prefer being on my own anyway.” 

Calypso smirked, “That’s what I like to hear. Outsiders are nothing. They don’t deserve your time of day. You have everything you need right here.” She shifted her body to lean forward, her deep brown eyes penetrating into Aylin’s very soul. “We’re all you need.” 

She was most definitely in a cult. How could she have ever been so oblivious? 

She might be the stupidest person alive. 

This would be her downfall. The people she loved and fought to protect were the one’s holding the knife. They would be the ones to fatally stab her. Not the Lycans. 

Before the realization could overtake her, Calypso’s loose robe had fallen open when she moved and her right breast had pushed its way out from the silky material. The sight of the woman’s freshly exposed skin caused her spiraling mind to halt. Sergei’s arm wrapped around his wife to grasp onto her breast, absentmindedly flicking her dark nipple with his thumb, as they both stared in her direction. Aylin’s ears heated up with a mixture of disbelief and horrific embarrassment. She quickly averted her gaze to the table. She got uncomfortable watching people kiss in public. Watching someone blatantly fondle his wife in front of her made her want to claw out of her own skin. They had always been overly affectionate with each other but it had never been as in her face as it was now. This was different. New. It was like they were challenging her. Like this was some kind of sick test she’d have to pass. From the moment Sergei showed up behind her, she was being tested. Her every move was stuck under a microscope and picked apart with a watchful eye. 

These were not the people she once thought they were.  

A new found hatred wrapped around her like a warm blanket. They were toying with her. Teasing her. Playing with her. They were getting off on watching her squirm. They liked this. 

This was who they really were. 

Aylin focused on her tea to keep herself distracted. She heard Calypso stifle a laugh under her breath. They were getting off on her discomfort. Her head was starting to feel dizzy and her heart felt like it was pounding in her ears. She suddenly felt very sweaty like there was a fire igniting in her stomach and spreading up her chest towards her throat. She hated them. That much was clear to her now. The guild was not a safe place. It never was. It had only felt that way because she was drinking the Kool Aid along with everyone else just like Peter said. Her whole life she had been fed a lie which she happily lapped down. Her world was crumbling down around her. Piece by piece it fell with deafening crashes and she was beginning to suffocate on the smokey rubble filling her lungs. 

A headache was rapidly growing and her vision blurred for a millisecond before she blinked it back into focus. 

“Ms. Aylin was just about to tell me what happened last night,” Sergei spoke, still massaging Calypso without any hint of embarrassment. His tone had flipped, losing the fake lightheartedness from earlier. He was serious. There was no more time for games. “She was going to explain exactly why she refused to kill a wolf in front of her entire guild.” 

She was?

“For someone who claims to have killed two on her own, without any proof, you’d think a malnourished, caged bitch would be easy,” Calypso remarked. “It sounds to me like there might be a little white lie hiding somewhere in your story, dear girl. Don’t worry, darling, you can tell us. We won’t judge. We just want the truth.”  

She took another sip of the tea to avoid having to answer them right away. Was she the only one drinking? Neither of them had touched the stuff. 

Aylin didn’t want to look in their direction to check. She didn't want to watch what they were doing. They were making her uncomfortable on purpose. A power play. A way to prove that she was nothing but inferior to them. She didn’t want to be here. Her head felt like it was swimming with a million thoughts but none of them were making it to her lips. Her body was refusing to function. She couldn’t make her mouth and brain work as one. 

“I, uh,” she stuttered over her words. “I…” 

Her mind was starting to feel like it was slowly filling with sand. An hourglass at the verge of tipping. Her mouth felt dry so she downed the rest of her cup. 

“That girl- she…she…was just…so…so young…” Aylin gave a slow blink, her chin bobbing down to her chest before quickly steadying her head back upright. “I…feel…”

She was suddenly exhausted. The empty tea cup slipped from her hand to shatter into pieces across the floor. She finally turned her attention to the couple, fearing that she was coming down with an illness. She was seeing double. Their forms wavered like rain in a puddle. 

“Something’s not right,” she whispered.

“That would be the tea,” Sergei spoke, his voice steady. “Don’t worry, my dear. You’ll be fine.” 

He pushed himself up from his throne to walk over to her. Aylin slumped into his arms, feeling paralyzed, as he easily lifted her to his chest. He cradled her there while he moved through his house, each room flashing slowly before her lagging eyes, until he stopped in front of a large bookcase. 

“Wha-” she tried to speak but words were useless to her. 

Sergei kicked his foot at something hidden against the side of the bookcase, tucked away from view, where the wall meets the floor. 

With a low grumble, the bookcase slid slowly to the right to reveal a set of wooden steps leading underground. They creaked underfoot as he carried deeper into the abyss. 

The musty smell of mildew and copper hit her nose. 

“No…” Aylin managed to whisper, in a last ditch effort to protect herself before the drugs completely captured her mind. 

“Sleep now,” Calypso purred over Sergei’s shoulder. “We have some important business to discuss. You’ll need your strength. Shh, drift off, little one. We’ll keep watch over you. Sleep.” 

[CHAPTER FIVE (part two)]

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[amethyst-silk]

THIS IS SO GOOD!! took like at least a year long hiatus on here and to come back to this is amazing. i love your writing and this story is just so unique and it feels like you really enjoy writing this story. keep doing stuff that makes you happy and thank you so much for gracing us with this literature (contemplating getting this book bound as a hard copy when it’s finished but we’ll see)

[youandtom2]

The Hunting Ground (18+)

Dom!Tom Holland x sub!bratty!Reader

Summary: How else would you get adventure back into your life than to visit a speakeasy that's definitly not a kinky-cult-sex-club? Themes: EXPLICIT, BDSM and mentions of BDM, dom/sub, knife play, breath play, unprotect p in v, oral (fem rec.), orgasm denial, overstimulation w/c: 13k oops

a/n: it's late and it's 13k so I'll probs revisit another time whoops. apologies if writing gets sloppy.

MASTERLIST

“Come on. This has got to be a joke. This is the kinkiest cult shit I’ve ever seen.” 

“Nope. Not a joke.”

“When I said I was looking for something exciting and adventurous, I didn’t mean a sex club!” You flippantly disregard the masquerade mask onto the couch, whilst your friend Danny, holds his elegantly in his hand as if it is the beholder of all his memories. 

“It isn’t a sex club. It’s…an opportunity.” Danny’s lips twist into a smirk that wavers between sweet and sinful. That alone should’ve told you that his opinion on this ‘club’ was simply that. An opinion. A biassed one at that. The other thing Danny doesn’t account for is that opinions are subjective, interchangeable and while he sees his little kinky sex club as an opportunity, you see it more of a shameless hookup with cultic motives. 

But you’re curious to hear how he can possibly sell this to you. “Oh yeah? An opportunity for what? Enlighten me.” 

Your friend coyly swivels his hips playfully, that all too familiar bashful glow emanating from his olive cheeks. He leans gayly over the edge of the couch with his bottom lip snagged between his teeth, entrapped in his childlike manner and embracing his inner Princess Diaries by swinging his feet. He so desperately wants to say ‘to flirt with hot men and recklessly have sex with them with no strings attached’, but to your surprise, his answer is a little more profound and in-depth.

“To meet like-minded people who share similar interests. To embrace a community that doesn’t judge you for what you like, who…take you as you are. It’s actually very liberating.” 

“Puh-lease! You threw that innuendo in there on purpose. Look. It’s a sex club. You meet up to have sex. That’s the common ground.” 

“Oh my God, you speak about it like it’s a brothel and you couldn’t be more wrong. Okay, okay, I’ll admit, it’s a little provocative, but it’s not like some sex dungeon, it’s a speakeasy. There’s a bar, drinks, music, dancing, it’s totally chill. You don’t even need to have sex, it’s not a guarantee.”

You fold your arms, staring outwardly and chewing your lips as you mull over the possibility that it might not all be what you initially think it is. But the only way to prove otherwise is to go. Dammit you wish you weren't so curious. 

“And…what’s this place called?”

Danny smiles contentedly. “The Hunting Ground.”

~~~~~

“Do I really have to wear this?” The flimsy black ribbon of the mask trickles through your fingers. The shell is midnight black with a faint covering of silver lace, embellished with enough sparkle to catch your eye under the streetlights. Ahead of you is what looks like an ordinary bar under the false name of The Playground. The tinted windows and low purple LED lights inside is a clever ruse to fool anyone who is none the wiser to believe that the mystery is revealed when you step inside, leaving no other incentive to keep exploring. However, hidden behind the facade of an ‘ordinary bar’ as confirmed by Danny, is the speakeasy. It’s quietly genius; it’s all hidden in plain sight. 

“Yes, you have to wear it; it’s like a pass for entry into the club since it’s invitation-only. Plus, anonymity is kinda a thing here. Especially for newbies if they’re not too sure what they’re looking for. You get all types of people here. You’re bound to find someone who is yours.” 

You roll your eyes as you tie the ribbon tightly around your head with a grunt, the thick plastic mask sitting squarely on the bridge of your nose. “Anonymity, sure. These things are as good a disguise as Superman putting on his glasses and all of a sudden he’s Clark Kent and completely unrecognisable.” 

“Trust me. They do their job. Oh and one last thing.” Why is he smirking again? “Sub or Dom?” 

“Come again?” 

“What are you, Sub or Dom?”

You blink. “I don’t know. I don’t even know what that means.” 

“God, you’re so vanilla--they’re, um…types of people.” Danny vaguely explains and purses his lips, thinking as he evaluates you. “Hmm, we'll stick to sub for now. When you get inside grab a white cup.” 

“Fuck sake.” 

You follow Danny down a poorly lit, narrow staircase and you get a sense of entering a restricted area, having it not as well decorated, but then you remember; it’s supposed to be secretive and unwelcoming to any wandering stranger. The staircase is quiet compared to the floors above you and below you, giving off a feeling of limbo, neither here nor there as the pounding of the bass-heavy music distorts your sense of direction. There’s two different songs playing and they blend into each other so well that you can’t quite tell what is coming from where, but the further you descend down the staircase, the more obvious it becomes. The floor above you is phased out when you come to a stone archway, lined with plum velvet curtains hanging at either side where wisps of vapour spill from the room. A fiery red spotlight casts a shadow where the words ‘The Hunting Ground’ are projected on the wall to welcome you. Danny stops you before you enter.

“And you told me this wasn’t a sex club,” you quip, motioning to the entrance to hell.

“Remember it’s just to socialise. Nothing needs to happen, okay? After a drink or two, you’ll start to loosen up and have more fun.” 

You huff. “I’ll take your word for it.” 

You take one step into the stuffy haze and instantly you feel the change in aura, perhaps because you know what people are here to do. Danny patiently waits with you as you soak in the sights, the smells, the heat and the very suffocating atmosphere of the room in front of you. A fine mist hovers in the air, just enough to hinder your view of anything further than 10 metres in front of you - probably intentional to hide the erotic acts in the corner - and only the blacklights and the dancing neon laser lights shoot through. Unlike the bar above, the music is slower and less adrenaline pumping, perfect to fulfil its purpose of enticing its listeners to socialise rather than all-out partying, but in effect, it makes you more nervous; how do you socialise with people you’ve never met? You bump shoulders with Danny is a quiet plea to stay close.

A few people within eyesight turn their heads as you enter in your sage green dress, making their judgements on you through the narrow slits of their masks, a symbol of membership to the club, identical to the one you wear. Under the cover of darkness, the masks do actually provide a sense of anonymity and you take back an earlier thought; what the hell are these masks going to hide? Everything apparently. 

You decide not to linger around the entrance any longer for you feel that others can smell your hesitance a mile off. You make a B-line to the table adorning white cups, directly across the table that hold a much smaller number of black cups, and perpendicular to a table with grey cups. As soon as the rim of the cup touches your lips and alcohol sears your throat, you ease a little.

“God, I feel like I’ve just entered the mafia. Why is this place so stiff?”

Danny laughs inwardly. “Oh they’re stiff alright.” That earns him a swift elbow to the ribcage. “Ow!” 

“You said this place was chill and judgement free.” 

“It is--”

“Then why do I feel like I’m being victimised?”

For a fleeting moment, you catch Danny’s eyes flitting over to the white cup you hold in your hand, being quickly emptied by you. There’s obviously significance behind the white and black cups and you’re certain Danny knows why as he too picks up a white cup with conviction, but what significance they have is being purposely withheld from you.

It’s definitely a cult thing. 

“They just want to get to know you. Give them a chance. It’s all with friendly intentions, I promise.” 

“Uh-huh.” 

Like Danny said, there’s all sorts of people here; men, women, and more situated around the room whether it’s standing in small clusters around a table or sitting in smaller, more private groups in booths. Few white cups, some grey cups, but black cups hold the majority. Some are dressed more provocative than you would ever dare where some keep their secrets to themselves. Those who begin dancing are booming with confidence, sashaying their hips while others simply observe with a glass of whisky in hand. Even hours into the night, you’re still pondering over the likemindedness of such a diverse group. There must be something that ties these people together, because every hour or so you catch a glimpse of couples' escapades, hand-in-hand as they disappear through another archway with a black curtain. 

“I’ll be right back,” Danny murmurs into your ear.

“Where are you going?” 

“I’m just going to catch up with a friend. I won’t be long. You can manage your own for a bit, can’t you?”

“Don’t think I have much of a choice.” 

Danny quickly disappears into the smog and across the dancefloor, and by the time he reaches the bar, he’s out of your sight and anxiety creeps in. As ever, you find solace in the very alcoholic drink, quietly sipping away in a dark corner of the room. 

Or at least you thought you were in the corner of the room…

The solid wall behind you suddenly swings open and you lose your balance, falling backwards into the void that has just opened up. Your heart leaps to your throat and your lungs flood themselves with oxygen to prepare for what you know will be a painful fall and the loss of your dignity. Inches from disaster, a miracle happens when two hands reach out to hook underneath your arms and break your fall, leaving you hovering over the floor until the stranger finds the strength to bring you back to your feet again. Sadly, there’s nothing to be done about your drink that puddles on the floor…

With a breath of relief, you quickly compose yourself, turning around to see that indeed the wall you were standing against was actually a door, and in that doorway now stands the masked stranger that saved you from your fall. He stands just a couple of inches taller than you, dressed in a black suit (it could be navy - it’s just so damn dark in here) but replaces the standard crisp, white shirt with a baby blue one, keeping it casual with undone buttons by his collar. You want to make more guesses of his appearance but this club’s obsession with anonymity is slowly becoming a nuisance. 

“I’m so sorry, I really thought that was a wall.” 

“No worries, it’s easily done.” His words are smooth and puckish, and you feel like he genuinely believes you when he places a gentle supporting hand against your back. 

“Right? Especially with a place like this, I mean, would it hurt to turn up the lights even just a little bit?” An innocent laugh escapes you but the second you see his lips parting in what you can only assume is disbelief, you instantly feel like you might’ve crossed a line. His hand drops and sinks deep into his pocket. So much for no judgement…

“Well, we could but most members here know there’s a door here.” 

Caught. 

He doesn’t watch for your reaction as he picks up the empty white cup from the floor, long, slender fingers holding it tightly while he studies it for a moment and the corners of his lips tug a little before settling it on a nearby table. You’re still not privy to the colour codes and their meanings, and something itches inside of you when you see this stranger turn to you with a knowing smirk on his face. Because he knows. 

He folds his arms, muscles defined in the tight squeeze of his blazer and stands stoically before you. “You’re looking a little lost, newbie.” 

“I’m just waiting on my friend Danny. He’s the one who brought me here. I don’t know why to be honest. I don’t really think this is my kind of scene.”

The stranger tilts his head curiously. “How so?” 

You snort. Isn’t it obvious? “I mean the mask thing is a little weird. And the segregation of cups? What the hell is that all about? Like, I’m always down for something different but the anti-religion cult vibes just isn’t doing it for me. I haven’t been here that long and already I’ve had so many daggers from people that I just can’t tell whether they want to kill me or eat me.”

“Oh my God, you really have no idea, do you? Tell me then, if this place doesn’t suit your majesty’s preferences, why are you still here?”

This stranger doesn’t need you to take off your mask to know that there’s a scowl taking over your features. Affronted, you decide to mirror him, folding your arms and delivering his own stinking attitude back to him. 

“Cut the sass. You asked me a question and I answered it. If you listened, you would’ve heard me say that my friend brought me here. Said that if I was looking for something exciting and adventurous I should come here, but I’m not seeing either. Anyway, what does it matter to you?” 

“Careful, newbie. Some people here don’t take too kindly towards being spoken to like that. It can get you into a lot of trouble, unless you’re searching for it, in which case, Danny was right to bring you here. And tell him he should’ve put a straw in your drink too.” 

You’re so fed up with these innuendos. “I don’t even know what that means!” 

The stranger takes a step forwards and brushes your shoulder with his. You hold your breath as he leans down close to your ear and murmurs words that sound like a threat. A shiver descends down your spine. “Ask him to explain it. Tell him that Tom told him too.”

Your stance stays strong as the stranger sweeps past you in an obtrusive manner without a word to spare. Finally out of sight, you give in to the urge to roll your eyes and scoff with as much conviction until satisfied, having suppressed it in front of that stranger. You’re never one to be so outwardly rude to someone, but unless it’s warranted, then by all means, give them hell. 

The interaction has somewhat soured your mood, and considering that this place has yet to prove any of Danny’s claims of what a ‘friendly, non judgemental’ place this is, you might make the move to leave. You’ve been here long enough and you doubt that the fun has yet to come.

Not three steps towards your leave, you’re stopped by Danny emerging from the smog like a phantom. “Oh hey! You’re alive! See? I told you’d be fine.” 

“Yeah, not fine, Danny. Don’t leave me ever again.” 

“Such a drama queen. Where’s your drink?”

“Spilled it almost falling over. By the way, what do the colours on the cups mean? Some guy ‘Tom’ said that you were to tell me what they mean.”

His smile drops and hangs ajar, eyes wide as he processes the words, the name you’ve just invoked. “Tom--did you just say Tom?” 

“Yes, why? He also said that you should’ve put a straw in my drink too. Danny, for the love of God, what the fuck does that mean?” 

Annoyingly, he ignores your last question. “What did you say to him?” 

Danny devotes all of his attention to you as you recount the interaction from beginning to end, sure not to leave any details out. As your friend, all of your expectations are placed on him taking your side in it all, but with each word you spill, he cringes further and further into himself. 

“Then I told him to cut the sass--he was being so rude to me!” 

“Oh you have got to be kidding me!” You’re struggling to understand why your friend has descended into a fit of laughter, creasing over until he can no longer catch his breath. It’s great that he’s finding it so hilarious that he can’t even seem to straighten himself up to give you an answer, but what’s even better is that you can’t even begin to imagine how many people are witness to Danny descending into mania while you stand with your arms folded, a slack jaw and a look that could kill. And even if some can’t see it, they can bloody well hear it. “I cannot believe you said that to him!” 

“Danny, I don’t have time for this. If you don’t tell me at least something, I’m leaving.”

“Wait, wait, wait, sorry, I’ll tell you, okay? I’ll tell you.” After wiping the tears from his eyes, he latches onto your arms and pulls you into his side, directing you to look out at the room before you. “Okay, so you remember the question I asked you before we came in? About being a sub or a dom?” You nod. “The cups are representative of that. White for sub, black for dom. Grey if you don’t particularly have a preference. They’re sometimes called switches.” 

“Okay, but what does sub and dom actually mean?”

“They’re just abbreviations. Submissive or Dominant if you want to be proper. They define what a person likes to be in the bedroom. Dominants are usually controlling, they like to manipulate and gain pleasure from using submissives in whatever way they like. Submissives gain pleasure from being controlled, from being told what to do and will usually go through extreme measures to satisfy their doms, and in lieu, themselves. For example, see over there?” Danny points to a booth of what looks like two guys sitting on either side of a girl. They are shadowing over her, running fingertips up and down her leg whilst she sits bashfully in the middle. “Two doms and a sub.” 

You look to another area of the room and in the corner you see a woman, dressed in the tightest latex corset you could imagine, and she looks fucking amazing in it. Full of luscious curves. Her confidence is striking as she walks with her head high like she owns everything in the room. She somehow makes picking up a black cup look sexy, drinking from it until it’s empty but inexplicably doesn’t swallow. With her puffed cheeks, she grabs the face of a man who kneels beside her, opening his mouth—“Oh my God!” The words spill from your lips as you watch the woman spit her drink into the man’s mouth, swallowing with glee in his eyes.

“Anyone can be sub or dom. That’s why the cups make it so much easier to identify who’s who and cuts out all the small chat bullshit in between.” 

Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit. This is a fucking sex club. “But how did you know I was going to be a sub?” 

“I just guessed. It takes a certain confidence and skill to know how to be a dom, and no offence honey, but I don’t think you’d be a good dom.”

“And the straw?” 

“Signifies a bratty sub. A sub who likes to be controlled but also loves the fight against it. Anything to piss their dom off.” 

“Hold on. A brat?! Who the fuck does this Tom guy think he is? He’s talked to me for no more than five minutes and he calls me a brat?” 

“Shhh!! Shut up!!! Oh my God!!” He hurriedly ushers you away from prying ears and you feel a sort of trepidation when he looks around cautiously. “Honey, you know I love you and I care for you but you have seriously fucked up to the point where I literally cannot protect you from what’s about to happen.” 

“What? How?” 

“Tom’s the owner of this place.” He’s trying to hold in his laughter again. “And you just stood there and insulted everything about his club to him--oh my GOD you are so dead. I’m weak just thinking about it.” Had he not been squealing and bouncing on his tip-toes in a nervous but weirdly excited way, you probably would’ve taken Danny’s warning a little more seriously. In Danny’s overly-dramatic fashion, his translation of ‘dead’ just means that you’re only slightly in trouble. 

“So what, he’ll probably just kick me out.” 

“You better wish that’s what he’ll do because Tom is a capital D-O-M and is a stickler for obedience. He has everyone, sub or dom, address him as sir. It’s like one of his rules.” 

“Sir? Really? Are we back in school?” 

Your own mocking laughter is the last thing you hear before a voice creeps up behind you, settling deep into the canals of your ear and shocking you into a small but powerful fright. “We can be if you like. At least then I can teach you a lesson or two about how to respect me, newbie.” The way his voice instantly scorches everything inside you is mildly terrifying. It’s the mixer in your soup of emotions; trepidation, anxiety, curiosity, exhilaration, anticipation, swirling together in the pit of your stomach.  

You and Danny’s eyes are locked in a stupor, both of you donning guilt-ridden, colourless faces. You think it wise to follow Danny’s lead in not speaking, not moving because only he knows the repercussions that you face. Besides, if you listened to what your brain initially told you to do, you would be in a lot more trouble.

A wordless plea twinkles in your eye and your heart plummets when you see your friend respond with tightly pursed lips and a subtle shake of the head. 

“Next time you bring your friends, Danny, I would expect you to inform them on how to conduct themselves around me. You should know better.”

“Sorry, sir.” Danny’s voice wobbles. Fucking wobbles. Loud and proud Danny, centre of attention on the worst of days, always one to speak his mind and is never afraid of judgement, and now he’s…scared. 

“Now go. Justin’s waiting for you.” The unfamiliar person Danny has become swiftly brushes past you with no more than a final apologetic look and disappears further into the centre of the room. A certain desperation keeps your eyes on him for as long as you possibly can until you eventually accept your defeat, standing here alone with Tom stalking very close behind you. You notice his shadow standing just on the coast of your peripheral, lurking. 

After an excruciating silence, Tom eventually murmurs into your ear, just the edges of his mask skimming the side of your hairline.

“Follow me to my office. We need to have a chat about rules.” 

“Okay,” you breathe. 

Sure enough the door you nearly fell through enters the hallway leading to his office. It’s well lit, spotlighting the framed memorabilia on the wall and you almost choke a gasp when you see what they contain. Whips, paddles, cuffs, chains, anything of an erotic nature is framed, dated and hung on these walls in plain sight. Tom catches a glance of your awestruck eyes from over his shoulder, smirking wickedly. Little do you know that that isn’t even half of his collection. 

He enters the office first leaving you to nervously trail in behind him. 

“Sit.” 

The tickle of velvet feathers your bare thighs, knees already knocking together while Tom takes a stand behind his desk, underneath the low-intensity spotlight that shines down on him from above. Your eyes skate over his features the second he unties his mask, shadows hugging every sharp angle from the crook of his brow bone to the contour of his cheeks. Holy fuck. Your knees lock tighter together.

“Mask off.” It falls to your lap. When you look back up at him, you see that he doesn’t bother hiding how he takes in every inch of you and it makes the burn of his stare even more obvious. “What do you know already?” 

“Um, not much. Danny told me about the masks, Doms and Subs, the thing about the cups, addressing you as ‘sir’ and…” you clear your throat, a previous anger returning, “having a straw in my cup.” 

“Ah, so he explained it to you, did he?” Fuck, even his grin is perfect. 

You bite your gums, eyes averting. “Wish he didn’t.” 

A piercing whistle rings in your ear, short and sharp in the small, panelled office causing an audible wince. “Oi, eyes up here.” Did he just whistle at you? “I’m going to handle this very delicately because you’re new, but if you keep testing my patience then I won’t even give you the chance to back out.”

What the fuck. 

“Since your friend failed to explain the rules, I’ll have to do it instead. This is my private establishment and I expect anyone who enters it to follow my rules, including newbies like you. Rule number one: respect. Respect for me, respect for others, respect for the property. Simple, yes?” 

“Yes.” His eyes widened slightly, “sir.” 

Tom begins to circle around his desk, nearing you. You tuck your feet in underneath the chair as he leans against the desk a foot in front of you. “Rule number two: boundaries. Boundaries must be set by every individual and must be adhered to by every individual. That includes things they consent to and things they don’t consent to, and safe-words should be agreed to and abided by also. Yes?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“And I know you know rule number three.” 

But does he know that you also hate rule number three? Grinding your teeth together, you bite back his answer. “Yes. Sir--” Before you’re able to utter another syllable from your lips, Tom has your cheeks in the pinch of his fingers, pulling you from your seat until you’re just a breath away from his own. Despite the circumstances of your racing heart and your throbbing cheeks, you come to realise that Tom has brown eyes, that his suit is really black, that he has one strand of hair that curls against the rest. Shit. You’re really dipping your toes into muddy water here. 

“See this fucking attitude of yours? Drop it. If you’re really so eager to talk, you’ll tell me what it is you want out of this. And know that before you start speaking, you’re on your last warning.” Thankfully, his grip loosens but it doesn’t disappear completely. Keeping you just as reigned in as before, his fingers sink to the curve of your chin and curl around it gently. It’s hypnotising enough that it coaxes you into spilling the truth.

“A little bit of excitement and adventure. Danny suggested I could find it here. So I came to find out for myself.” 

“And?” 

“I’m…not sure yet.” 

“We can certainly offer what you’re looking for, but it depends what kind of adventure you want to take. Do you want to explore or do you want to experience?” 

“What’s the difference?” 

Tom drinks in your curiosity, content with a quirk to his wet lips. All is silent in his sound-proof office, the beat of your own heart thundering in your ears and it’s the only thing you can tune into while the incredibly intimidating man in front of you sadistically drags out each and every second. “We can start off slow, test your endurance and your tolerances, discover your likes and dislikes, introduce new things one at a time, a soft start over a number of weeks.” 

“...Or?” 

His pupils dilate. “Everything all at once. A full session, right here, right now. Thrown in right at the deep end. No restrictions and I get full control. An experience to say the very least.”

You gasp and the breath gets stuck in your throat. As the idea is spoken into words, you can’t help but picture everything you saw in the hallway, the whips, the paddles, the chains, the ludicrousy of them ever being used as sources of pleasure and begin to feel yourself being overwhelmed. Albeit, the rebellious side of you plagues you with the mentality of saying ‘fuck it’ and trying it anyway, its voice ringing with the sound of your youth; willing to try everything, to say that you were brave enough to try it, to run away from the boring life of always saying no because you just weren’t sure. You might even find that it’s something you like…

“What do you say?” He whispers with the small coaxing of his thumb gracing over your pout. “And don’t leave it up to me. I think you know what I would prefer.” 

You take a breath, cheeks already flushing knowing what’s to come. “I…I want the experience.” 

He doesn’t move aside from his lids opening a fraction wider. “Say it again. To be sure.” 

“I want the experience.” 

A slow, salacious moan sings through his sigh, his breath crashing against your skin like a wave. “Mmmm, I was so hoping you would say that. I’ve been wanting to put this brat back in her place all…night…long. Now I can. All. Night. Long.” Warmth encircles your neck and you realise that his hand has completely captured your throat, controlling every breath you breathe. You desperately try to whimper but even then, all your sounds are clamped down by him. Sensing danger, your own hands reach for his wrist as he pushes you back against the spine of the chair and shadows over you with fire in his eyes. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. 

“Safe word?” 

“Err…” You don’t have one. You’ll have to make one up. What did you have for dinner last night? “Pasta.” 

Tom chuckles but accepts it. “Pasta it is.” 

When your one and only chance to speak is taken, Tom quickly readjusts his grip on your throat again, closing it off until your skin is tinted red with exertion. He sinks low, invading your space until there’s nothing but him in your darkening sights, until his lips skim the tips of yours.

“I’ve been wanting to get my hands on you all night. Do you have any idea how hard it was to keep that urge at bay? So fucking hard. I knew you were a newbie, but fuck, you were so fucking rude. You know, you never even thanked me for helping you up earlier. Instead, you chose to insult my club and my customers, and when you do that, you insult me. That doesn’t fly with me and something will need to be done about that mouth of yours.” 

You gasp erratically, fighting for breath and his vendetta against you refuses to relent. Just as blackness consumes your vision, just as you're hanging on the precipice of consciousness, he finally relieves the tension and you gulp down air like it’s your drug, your lifeline. Almost simultaneously, Tom thrashes his lips against yours, seizing back whatever oxygen you just gained in a vicious attack. His tongue slips in almost too seamlessly, brushing against your own and tasting every inch he can reach.

From one method of suffocation to another. With his hand no longer occupied at the base of your throat, you find it clamped to the roots of your hair, keeping you detained as he forcefully kisses and licks every part of your mouth, barely leaving any time to breathe. It isn’t painful as such, but god damn it’s overwhelming. The small squeak of struggle easily gets swallowed up by him and he growls for more. In time, another is drawn out but this time it's the result of Tom’s other hand pulling down the neckline of your dress and finding your tits, pinching and squeezing with a passion that’s guaranteed to leave behind a bruise. To say you completely underestimated what the experience is and how little prepared you are for it, is under-statement of the fucking century.

He really isn’t shy, is he?

Minutes go by and you’re losing sensation in your swollen lips and Tom can sense that too; you become lethargic, sloppy and out of control but that’s exactly what Tom is waiting for. He can feel the plumpness of your lips as he drags them out slowly between his teeth, perfect to have wrapped around his cock. 

He stands to his tallest, your hair still tight in his grip. “Do you have anything to say to me?”

“I’m…I’m sorry, sir.”

“What else?” 

“Th-thank you for helping me up, sir.” 

“There’s actually one thing you should know about me,” he murmurs darkly. “If someone is apologising or thanking me, I expect them to show their regret or their gratitude to me. Usually on their knees. That way, I know they mean it.” 

“And if I don’t?” You are genuinely curious. 

A shadow casts over his face, eyes glowering at your words. He clenches his jaw so tightly that you have to remind yourself to unclench yours out of fear. In quiet, articulated words, he provides you with the first piece of insight of what kind of night lies ahead of you. “I will fuck you and edge you against this desk until you are spent of every piece of sanity that keeps your bratty brain together. Even if you beg, even if you are crying out for release, I will not stop until you are nothing but my cum-filled slut.” 

“Fucking hell,” you whimper quietly, but he hears it all the same. 

“I would think very carefully about your next words, newbie, or you’re going to become very familiar with my temper.” 

Hey, you said you were up for the experience…right? 

It takes just a fraction of your lips to curl into a smirk for Tom to realise your motives. Provoked by just the smallest of your smiles, he runs his tongue along the lining of his cheek. He can’t quite tell if he’s insulted or pleased, regardless, the result of either is the same; he will have you reduced to absolutely nothing if his life depends on it. After all, he doesn’t allow insults to run dry on him, he snuffs them out as soon as possible and that’s the lesson you need to learn. 

“Don’t fucking do it,” he warns one last time. How generous of him. 

The air is tight and feverish, and so very, very quiet. Until…”Fuck. You.” 

Your words trigger a pregnant pause, leaving just enough time to hear a pin drop before something sinister happens. A cacophony fills the room: the wooden scraping of the chair legs as Tom yanks you from it, the squeal and the grunt that marry together, the clutter of objects as they fall from the desk to the floor, the resounding thump as your body mercilessly collides with the wooden desk and subsequent the yelp of pain to be heard by no one other than Tom. 

The brute’s groping hands impatiently tug at your dress, whipping it up to sit around your torso and the moment your ass is exposed to him, he wastes no time to drill his hips into yours in a desperate bid to split your legs wider and keep you still. The sweltering heat of your cunt seeps onto his trousers and, even contained, his cock feels it all. The harder he pushes to force you down, the harder the edge of the desk cuts through your pelvis, and the longer you stay there, the louder your pleas become. And every second of it all is like heroin to him. This is his high. 

Tom rips your underwear from you, the thin material reduced to rags in seconds and just as quick, they become your bindings. With your hands now tied behind your back by the remains of your wet thong and your head smothered against the wooden surface, you are unequivocally oppressed. 

“Stay there, and don’t move.”

“Yes, sir.” 

“Don’t bother trying that shit with me. You’re too late. You’ve already made your decision to be a brat, so I’ll fuck you like one.” 

The recognisable sound of chain links clinking together stops your heart dead in your chest. “Wait, what are you doing?” You try to shimmy a look over your shoulder to take a peak, but you can’t see Tom crouching down behind you. 

“Extra precaution.” Cold metal tightly hugs your ankles, grinding away at your bone with every tug. There’s little room to move, you can barely bend your knee without causing yourself harm. You didn’t want to believe it, but the reality is true: he’s chaining you to his desk. 

“No fucking way.” 

“Yes way. This is what you asked for.” He leans down to leave a patronising kiss to the shell of your ear, unbinding your hands and placing them exactly where he wants them, gripped to the edge of the desk beside your head. Not chained, but the wordless warning to keep them there is evident in the squeeze to your wrists. You’re almost crucified to the desk. It’s enough to make your sweltering body shiver. “And I’ll gladly provide.” 

Without warning, he spits into your ass and stops to watch it trickle down to your clit with hunger ruining his patience. He collects it with deft fingers, spreading it through every lip of your cunt, all the way back to gloss your puckered hole. You can feel every movement of his whether feathered or anchored, following the path of his fingers from your asshole to your clit and back again, only stopping to teasingly circle your entrance. He repeats it over and over and over again until you’re leaking with your own slick, glistening underneath the singular spotlight and the fire of Tom’s eyes. It’s tantalising. Worse yet because you can’t move to stop him. You’re stuck with a burning cheek pressed against the desk and your hands trapped under what feels like Tom’s invisible reins. 

“Look over to my clock and tell me what time it is.” 

“It’s 11:57pm.” 

“Good to know.” 

By 11:59pm he has you teetering towards the edge of your first orgasm with as little as two fingers and a thumb violating your cunt. By the turn of a new day, he has you wishing you had just said sorry and meant it. 

“Such a tight little pussy.” He groans behind you, littering small kisses along the base of your spine and your ass. His two fingers enter you again, anchoring down on the spot that winds you up so perfectly, stroking it with the curl of his knuckle and just when you both sense the coil tightening, he picks up speed and power. Anxiety and excitement broil in your stomach. 

“Oh God, f-fuck, I’m gonna cum.” He already knows this. He doesn’t need you telling him. In fact, he’s familiarised himself with the quivering of your thighs, the shaking of your body and already, he knows exactly when to stop. “No! Fuck!” You grieve over the loss of your climax quietly with a small groan laced with heavy breaths. 

His gruff, irritated voice buzzes straight down your ear, vibrating with impatience. “You will take what I give you. And you will thank me for it.” 

The voice that spills from your lips is hardly recognisable. Whining, winging and moping, you don’t quite understand where the grovelling came from and how it took over, but you can’t find it in you to stop it. 

“Thank you, sir.” 

And just like that, the routine starts again and without a doubt, the result is the same. 

Muscles ache, bones shaking, you feel yourself teetering on the edge of liquifying here on his desk. Alas, Tom possesses the ability to keep you solid like no other man has, keeping you somewhat stable and conscious enough to make you feel every last drop of his torment. No matter what sweet relief you feel when he gently massages your cunt, it’s completely forgotten about the moment he slaps the back of your thighs for moving your hands one centimetre out of place. And just like that, you’re back in the room. 

When Tom painfully edges you for the sixth time, he asks you to read the time again. The digits of the numbers have blurred since the last time you checked, but you can just make them out. “It’s 12:32am” 

He smirks. “Good to know. Fuck, look at the mess you’re making on my floor.” A flat palm smacks against your cunt, seizing at the stimulation. Your thighs beg to squeeze together, anything to build up some friction to tame the urge but the chains rattle beneath you, keeping you contained.

He tames the fire with the lick of his fingers that curl eloquently onto your clit and swivels it around in circles in the same, insatiable manner as before. At first, you think he’s going to build you up again like he has done for the last thirty-something minutes and you’re not so sure that your mind and body can take the strain, but you feel the pressure of his other hand anchoring down onto your back, pressing your stomach flat against the wooden desk and eliminating any chance you have of escaping. Not that you had any before, but Tom’s a man of guarantee rather than possibilities. 

It’s new and the prospect that he might allow to cum reignites the exhilaration in your core. 

Effortlessly, he sets your nerves on fire, plucking every one with overstimulation and you're on the cusp of the well-desired orgasm that you’ve waited for for what seems like all night. You writhe so desperately for it that your pebbled nipples are starting to chafe underneath you. 

Tom’s maniacal laugh drifts into your ears, his lips pressing soft, tender kisses against your ear and your neck. “What do you want?” 

You open your mouth and moans spill out, not the words of an answer. He continues to ruin you anyway. “I want…I want to cum. Please!” 

“So you don’t want my forgiveness? You’d rather cum instead? So fucking selfish of you.” 

He rips his fingers from you and the sensation is lost. “NO!” 

“Yessss.” 

~~~~~

You still haven’t came yet. How the fuck have you not been allowed to cum in all the pleasure Tom’s fingers and teasing words have granted you? He hasn’t allowed you to move either leaving all of your muscles, joints and sanity aching against the stiff wood as you remain prisoner to his chains. And as his prisoner, all of your self-control has been stripped from you. With your eyes closed, voice gone, mind vacant, Tom decides to finally, finally, re-evaluate the situation. 

And by re-evaluate, you mean change position. 

Now unchained, he forces you to lie on your back and you’re thankful that the desk is long enough to support your head, because when you are being punished with extremities, the littlest things can be a saving grace. 

“Tell me the time.” 

You look over, Tom catching a glint of your red cheeks and the imprints of the wooden grain etched into your skin. “It’s…it’s 1:23am.” 

He grins wickedly, licking his lips, and with a smooth wink, he replies. “Good to know.” 

“Please, Tom.” The crack is your voice is liquid gold in Tom’s ears and with his hands skating over your thighs, he hears what you have to say. “I’m so sorry about earlier. I am…so sorry. Please--I…I can’t take it anymore.” 

“What is it you want?” 

“I want your forgiveness. Please, sir.” 

He sees it. He really does; the desperation in the tear that leaves your eye, the look of absolute surrender donning your features in fear that he won’t accept your apology, and even in the way your body warms at his touch tells him that there’s nothing else that you desire. That’s the part he loves most and the main attraction for his dominant tendencies; the moment when the bad turn good. When they’re at such a loss with their original intentions that they have no other option but to surrender and submit. From brazen words to pitiful pleas. From bratty attitudes to willful compliance. From ‘fuck you’s to ‘thank you’s. When that switch is pulled, that’s when Tom knows he’s won. 

He holds your legs dearly in his hands, your swollen cunt perched directly in front of him as he crouches to the floor. It’s red, puffy and glistening in the light, screaming out to be touched, filled and ultimately freed of the orgasm that is running ragged inside. 

He eases the slight quiver in your thighs with a grounding kiss, powerful enough to emboss just the traces of teeth marks onto your skin. 

“What a good girl you’ve become.” The same kiss is planted on your other thigh, just a hint closer to your crying cunt. “I’ll tell you another thing about me,” he whispers, feeling the softness of your skin against his lips. “I don’t just dominate and manipulate people, I manipulate pleasure too. I control it. I can stop it from happening, but sometimes I can be in the mood to make sure it never stops happening.” 

You take a breath and hold it. The anticipation of what’s about to happen savagely ruins your mind that you just can’t settle your pulse, and even if you try to slowly release that breath, you realise that it is all in vain. Your heart still positively thunders in your chest. 

“And guess what, sweetheart?” 

Traces of your voice weakly spill out. “What?” 

“I’m in that exact mood.” 

Tom doesn’t waste a second before his tongue is licking a fat, wet strip up the centre of your cunt and completely destroys your sanity. It’s slow, meticulous in its travels as it covers every inch of you from your hole to your clit and your body involuntarily searches for more. It’s like a wave, rolling over your cunt before crashing into the bundle of nerves at the end. Your cries vibrate through your body, all to be felt by Tom when his lips tightly seal around your cunt, suffocating it with the heat of his mouth and the lashings of his tongue. It’s incredibly enthralling; being constantly aware of every small minuscule change in direction. From thrusting into your hole with tenacity to swirling tightly around your clit in a frenzy, there’s no telling what he’ll do next. 

Your body drips with sweat and you can’t decide if it’s from all the involuntary squirming upon the table or if it's the fire within, being fuelled by Tom’s uncontained lust. There’s a small explosion waiting to happen inside you, and Tom holds the detonation trigger.

“Holy fuck.” 

“Mmmmm.” 

With his head buried beneath your thighs, his hands blindly roam your body. They descend down your thighs and over the valleys of your hip bones, shaping the contours of your waist before feeling the grooves of your ribcage as they expand with each pant you breathe, until he finds your tits, groping and pinching where he can. In both of your minds though, his hands are an afterthought, especially when his gorgeous mouth is massaging your pussy so rhythmically, moving against you like a ship on a wave. 

“Ohhhh my God,” you whimper, feeling the burn in your abdomen descend deeper and deeper towards your cunt. You’re so close it hurts. Your legs start to twitch closer together.

“Legs open,” he mumbles. “And look at me. Look at who’s got you shaking.” 

You cast your eyes downward, unblinking as he sucks and pulls at your cunt with his lips, making what you think to be the most salacious, delicious sounds a man could make while eating you out. 

“F-fuck. Tom, please—.” 

Tom’s dark lashes lift, lids heavy as he stares at you with such forbidden intentions that it’s enough to make you shiver. Neither of you break the connection and you think it might just be the final nail in the coffin. With a deathly snarl, he claws at the back of your thighs, lifting them until they are pressed harshly against your chest and pans all of his attention, mind, body and soul into forcing you to cum. You sob as his tongue darts out, abusing your clit in all directions and it slingshots you directly towards the climax you have been aching for. 

“Tom!”

With a final flick of his tongue, you crash into your orgasm. It immediately wreaks havoc on your system and splinters your sanity completely, so much that you can’t tell whether you're ascending or crumbling right here on his desk. Your lips part to scream, but your consciousness is shattered into a million pieces and your voice is lost. Wood creaks as your nails dig into the edge of the desk, white-knuckled and numb with a grip so tight you swear you feel your bones begin to bend under the strain. 

Like he promises, Tom doesn’t stop. Despite being trapped between your thighs, despite the wriggling and writhing, your pleas and desperate whispers, Tom doesn’t stop. Not for one second. 

Every flick of his tongue is more intimate than the last, plucking at your nerves so harshly, nerves that are already pulsing and in need of mercy. Regardless, Tom remains kneeling, feasting on you like you are his last meal, last drink, last breath he’ll ever take. 

Swimming through the pain, you come out of the other side to find another climax already waiting, just seconds from bursting as drastically as the first one. With one final pleading look to Tom, his dark eyes swallow you whole, subliminally telling you that he’s more than ready to keep this cycle going for as long as he deems necessary. 

Mercilessly, his lips seal around your cunt, tongue slithering itself straight deep into your entrance, still not yet satisfied with what he’s tasted all ready. You’re so wet, and with Tom’s constant laving and licking he only just adds to the mess that he spreads with his hands to your thighs until the glossy sheen catches your eyes. The sparkle of it makes you truly realise for yourself just how aroused he has made you, the sight so alien from your own eyes. No man has ever worn you down like this before. It’s…unnerving. Only because you’re not sure if this is supposed to be what it’s like.

As another orgasm explodes, your body shudders violently on the table, his hands digging themselves into the crooks of your knees being the only thing to keep you from completely wriggling away. Your head collapses against the desk and gives way to a desperate whimper. It isn’t cute, it isn’t coy or coquettish like what you’ve heard before in porn or films. It’s raw, painful and very, very real. 

It never seems to end. You’ve lost the ability to determine when one climax ends and when the next starts. 

By the fifth time - at least, you think - he claims yet another, an hour later, you break. 

After his torture renders you thoughtless, mindless and perhaps a tad vacant, your instincts quickly take over. Your hands whip from the silent hold he had on them and swing down to push Tom’s head full of curls away from your aching cunt while it still throbs through the orgasm. He grabs your wrists, far too quickly for your liking. Tom watches your every movement through his brows, still latched onto your clit, giving nothing away of the disapproval you know he would be demonstrating had he not been so adamant in eating every particle of you. “Please,” your hoarse voice scratches your throat, sounding nothing like you. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll do anything, please--ah, fuck--it’s too much.” 

Slowly, deathly slowly, Tom’s lips detach from you, finally granting you freedom, salvation, relief. Yet he just can’t resist recoiling every other second for just one last taste, one last swift lap of his tongue from entrance to clit in one clean strip. The moment all touch detaches from you, your thighs swing close, nursing the pulse that squeezes at your abused clit, taming the orgasm as it flickers its last flame. 

“Fucking hell,” you pant. “You truly are a sadist.” 

Tom only chuckles, deep, dark, leaking from lips soaked in your slick. It rumbles straight to your core. “Tell me the time, sweetheart.” 

Bleary eyes lazily drag themselves over to the clock and after a few blinks, the numbers sharpen. “It’s 2:38am.” 

His fingers tickle up your shin, tracing circles around your knee. “So, so good--” you gasp, darting to catch his hand before it sinks between your thighs. He smirks, “--to know.” 

Your sadist allows you just one minute, you know because he counts it, to cool down and let your body reset; a glass of water, a clean rag and a comfy seat, unshackled and dressed. He also very calmly warns you as he sheds his blazer and unbuttons his cufflinks, rolling his sleeve up his tanned, muscular arm, that although it’s very late into the night, traipsing on the verge of closing, that you still have a long night ahead of you.

A small breath narrowly slips from your lips while you hold his stare. You can’t even dwell on the gravitas of the situation, not risking spending the valuable seconds of your - likely - only cool down. So you bite your lip, sit yourself down and quietly regain your energy.

Your heart beat doesn’t slow as quickly as you want it to. The exhilaration doesn’t leave your system either, stuck in a perpetual cycle of replaying all that had just unfolded.

You force your way through a breathing exercise sitting on the chair he originally placed you in, facing forward, blocking him out behind you because you know that one look at him and he would detonate all that you had worked to subdue. Once calm, the tether between mind and body reconnects and there’s one thing that screams down the line. 

Filled with pleasure, yet still feeling empty. Yet to be fucked. 

Tom alerts you that your cool down has come to an end as he saunters out of the dark corner behind you. It felt like barely a second. He had watched you the entire time, eyes roaming your figure, how it shook, how it quivered, how you barely managed to stand on your own two feet as you jumped from the desk, body scorching with the heat from your core. You were like a new-born deer learning to walk while he was a wolf waiting in the shadows.

Sat on the chair, you spin around to complain, attitude brimming, mouth open, words at the ready and…“Hmph!” His hand clamps down hard onto your mouth, pinching your nose with the other. Not a breath slips through. 

“Here’s me thinking you had learned to know better than to talk back to me.” His body arches over your head above you, tilting your head back to catch the panic glaze over your wide eyes. You think he’s going to do something rash, something to make you regret even thinking about turning around to answer him back; a slap to the face, a tug to your roots, something as evil as his wicked voice sounds in your ear. 

So you can't exactly blame your heart for tripping over itself when, as smooth as butter, he lowers his head, lips puckering to lay a slight kiss to your forehead. It feels like air, an offering that doesn’t conceal something malice behind it. A fragile dusting of comfort to your skin, gentle like a snowflake feathering down onto the ground. Your conscience arrows towards it.

When he lifts his hands from your mouth and nose, you don’t find yourself desperately sucking in the air you lost. Rather, you inhale slowly through your nose and out through your mouth. It had to be that small, insignificant little kiss that lay your nerves to rest. 

Tom is one hell of a manipulator. 

His lips remain lingering on your skin, skating over the surface, mirroring his hands as they trickle down your cheeks and hold your jaw in their embrace. He whispers…“Do you think you can behave like my good girl again?” A small hum of confirmation buzzes at your lips. It isn’t enough for him. “Take this as your warning. If you decide to be a brat, if you decide to not listen to every word I say from now on, know that I cannot be responsible for what happens to you.” 

The severity of his caution has your eyes opening just a fraction wider, able to read the same warning that traces his words in his eyes. He means it. Really means it. Danny’s words echo around your head. ‘He’s a stickler for obedience’. What is he about to do to you that it’s imperative you listen to what he says? 

You could say no. You could invoke upon your safe word and make it stop right now. But when you delve deeper into the part of you that made you agree to this in the first place, you find that it still roars with life, telling you that your need for adventure hasn’t quite been satiated. 

You swallow, throat bobbing under his digits. “I understand.” 

He scrunches his nose in delight. “Perfect.” 

You don’t turn to follow his movements to the back of his office, your ears tell you what you need to know. A cupboard door squeaks open, old, rickety, likely an antique. Then rustling. Objects hard, soft, textured, plastic, rubber, metal. A hum of satisfaction, then the closing squeak of the door, different to the first. His footsteps near you, perching directly behind you while you feel the soft sweep of his torso brush against your hair. 

Then darkness. Soft, pillowy darkness that floods your vision. Remnants of light trapped in your irises float around like shooting stars before fading completely. It’s the only thing you can hone in on as the knot tied behind your head tightens, confirming that he has indeed blindfolded you. 

“Remember your safe word.” He breathes into your ear in earnest. Pasta. “Don’t hesitate to use it.” 

“Yes, sir.” You don’t know if he’s still expecting you to say that, but you do it anyway to stay in good graces with him. You’re not entirely sure if it will make a difference to the impending danger Tom warned you of. Even if it doesn’t, Tom’s lip still curls anyway. 

“Good,” a quick kiss to the corner of your mouth has you blushing, “now don’t move.” 

A single breath is all you have to prepare yourself before something cold eases across the skin of your arm. Insubstantial, almost weightless, it falls from the curve of your right shoulder and descends down until it reaches your hand, resting on the velvet arm. The sensation is ghostly but frigid, gliding but piercing. You can’t quite work out what it is…

The same icy coldness retraces its path back up your arm, floating and gliding along your clavicle and stops directly at the base of your throat, the pit where your collar bones meet. 

It knicks your skin. 

“Oh my God--”

“Don’t. Move.” 

Holy fuck. It’s a knife. It’s a knife. It’s a knife. It is a fucking knife.

That’s the metal object you heard. And its sharpest point is resting directly against your neck.

Your skin pales and your stomach swirls with nausea. All your efforts to stay still and keep calm drains very quickly and panic floods in. Any chills the knife aroused in its cold path is replaced by small beads of sweat, your entire body blazing, screaming danger. Surprisingly, among other things, your nipples begin pebbling, brushing harder against the silk slip of a dress that adorns your body the more the blade's sharpest edge tickles along your skin. Your heart pounds, the sound of panic-infused adrenaline thrumming in your ears, comparable to the time you went on that rickety, old roller coaster when you were younger. 

You guess the memory isn’t too dissimilar; forced to feel the thrill of having your own safety rest in someone else’s hands. You have no control here. 

It’s…intoxicating. 

A dark admission on your behalf, but you’re here for the experience, right? 

You dare not speak, dare not break his rules as the peak of the very sharp knife trails lightly up the column of your throat as its runway, bumping over your trachea, scraping the finest layer of your skin, commanding you to incline your head as it rises higher and higher. Your lungs expand and you can’t deflate them until the knife flicks off your chin. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! 

In the stone cold silence of his room, the resonating shwing of the knife rings in your ears. A small respite. 

From what you can hear, Tom moves behind you somewhere. The creak of the floorboard dances from the left to the right and back again, giving you not one hint of where he plans to strike next, subjecting you to the torment of crippling anticipation until he does.

Suddenly the blade comes into contact once more with your skin, laying its long, razor sharp edge against your neck. Your body freezes, your nails scratch the edge of the armchair. 

“Stand,” Tom commands sharply. The knife’s blade maintains the same pressure on you, even as you come to a stand, knees knocking beneath you. 

Seconds later, the chair clatters behind you, just the swiftest of touches of velvet to your calves before it crashes off to your left, and where four legs once sat now stand just two. Tom. The warmth of his breath flowing past your ear is a stark contrast to the cool blade on your throat. But it’s the low grumble bubbling against your back that plucks a chord deep in your stomach. You can feel yourself getting wetter…

“I can feel your heartbeat hammering against your ribcage, newbie. Worried?” 

Yes…

“Or is it more than that? Excitement? Anxiety? Lust? Desire? What is it? Tell me, a penny for your thoughts.” 

“Nerves. Mostly. But…exhilaration and curiosity. And confusion.” 

“About?” 

“Do people actually get off on this?” 

He chuckles at your naivety. “Lots of people do. It’s perfect for keeping any brat in their place. But you’ll find it’s mostly the sort that spend all day bossing people about. Whose jobs are to take on the burden of responsibility, leadership, authority. If it’s been a particularly long and hard day for them, they come here. This is their relief.”

“To be held at knife point?” 

“To relinquish control. To let someone else take the reins for once. To be controlled rather than being in control. The knife just adds that flare, the incentive to keep them in that headspace of receiving orders instead of being  the one to make them. It could be a gun if you’d like,” he jests. You’d shake your head, but you might slice your throat in the process.  

You take a constricted breath, feeling the weight of the knife’s edge becoming just that little bit heavier. “And…do you like it? Being the one in control?” 

He presses himself against you as if to mould the contours of your body into his, lips furrowing deep into the crook of your outstretched neck roaming where they please. His free hand anchors down onto your hip, slithering its way across the expanse of your abdomen where, if he held you long enough, would feel the flutter of butterflies wings coming from within. Alas, he spreads his fingers, sinking lower onto your pelvis, teasing the curve of your pubic bone and presses down hard, bending you into him. As if the knife he holds against your neck isn’t controlling enough. 

His erection pokes and prods at your backside. He’s so hard you release a whimper. What you would give to feel him inside you. 

Tom’s words speak directly onto your neck like he’s tattooing them onto you. “I love it.” A beat, then--“Tell me,” he says, low in tone and volume. “Your dress. Any sentimental attachment to it?” 

“No.” 

The knife’s blade glides to the strap of your dress on your shoulder and picks it up, pulling it taut. “Good.” 

One tug and the material snaps. 

A small yelp falls out and a flinch has your shoulders raising just an inch closer to your ear. The integrity of your dress now hangs precariously with just one strap holding on for dear life. If one thing is for certain, it won’t be holding on for much longer. You smother the urge to scold him for ruining your dress, your property, and lest you forget the threat of the very sharp knife he holds against you, it’s only the straps, you could tie them back together as a temporary solution. An easy fix. 

The knife repeats its actions on the other side until your dress hangs lifelessly around your hips. The cold air bites at your nipples and Tom doesn’t wait one second before he brings the tip to circle around the little bud. 

“Oh--” You can’t stop your head tilting back onto Tom’s shoulder when the slight overdose of adrenaline makes you dizzy. The tickling sensation refuses to relent, crossing over the valley between your tits to tease your other bud just as salaciously. 

Just when you find pleasure of the tip running rings around your nipples, when Tom’s hand sinks to cup your pantiless sex, when his scent rushes in through your nose, a harsh slap of the blade's flat edge to your tit whips you back to caution. It’s unexpected. Being blindfolded, every touch is. Any touch you feel, whether blade or not, makes you flinch. Quick as a bolt of lightning surging through your body. It’s torturous because in your darkness, in your paranoia, you’re permanently recoiled, shielding, flinching at nothing, waiting for the next hit.

He’ll strike. You know he will. Not knowing when is killing you. And he knows it. 

“You asked if I like what I do-” his finger sinks into you, skimming over your clit wet with your slick, “-from what I can feel, I think you like it too.” Your hips buck to gain more friction from both his fingers and from his hard cock pressed against your ass, desperate to feel that euphoria of pleasure again. A sick, twisted crack of satisfaction surges through you when you hear him moan. “Shame you’ve forgotten your manners.” 

The surface of the knife slaps you again, harsh against your nipple. “Ow! T-thank you, sir.” 

“Better. Now move.” 

A few blind steps clumsily place you facing a wall, palms resting flat against the wallpaper while Tom kicks your feet further apart. He makes sure that while he puppeteers you to never let you forget that the knife he holds is always within close proximity, that if you dare defy him, he wouldn’t hesitate to use it. Gentle scrapes, warning knicks, cold presses, even to go as far as break skin would he warn you. 

The audacity he has, though, when he takes the knife and slices his way through the remaining fabric of your dress, leaving you to stand stark naked before him. That’s going to be less easy to fix…

“You ripped my dress!” 

“Problem?” His voice is challenging, subliminally daring you to bite the bait.

“How the hell am I supposed to get home with no clothes?” 

The fiery attitude that tries to bloom inside dies the instant he presses the flat edge of the blade flush against your cunt. The cold surface lying against your heat causes a stutter in your breath. It pushes upwards, almost lifting you off from your feet and onto your tiptoes from fear that any slight movement of defiance would trigger excruciating pain. It’s dangerous, careless, and reckless, and you wish you could scream it, thrash around, push him away and yell in his face. The compulsion is overwhelming. If only you didn’t have a knife to your cunt…

“Telling me your problem isn’t going to make it my problem.” 

Your jaw slacks, away from his prying eyes and you suppose you could allow yourself just one moment of freedom. Just one moment of no restraint because releasing what you’re dying to say would just be as gratifying as the first time Tom allowed you to cum. You can easily feel the knot that’s dying to unwind, and saying what intransigent words would tease out the knot inside you, and also send him reeling. 

He wants to call you a bratty sub? Fine. That’s what he’ll get. 

“You are such a bastard, do you know that? I think you’ve spent too much time being told ‘yes, sir, of course, sir, thank you, sir’ that it’s all gotten to your head. Maybe you could do with being reminded that not everything you do deserves that.” 

Quick as a whip, the blade snaps to your neck, digging into your skin that you feel it tearing your skin. The wince is evidence of your pain, but Tom ignores it, settling on placing his focus not on the knife he holds against you, but how quickly he can undo his belt, his trousers, springing his hard cock free and lining it up with your sopping cunt. 

Without a warning, because you don’t deserve one, he thrusts into your core, holding your breath hostage under the knife. “So fucking tight,” he stutters to himself. Even for him, the sensation is immense. His next message is for you. “Cheeky little bitch. Think you’re clever? Think you’re funny? We’ll see who’s laughing when you’re begging me to stop.”

Your bodies clash as Tom begins rutting his hips against your ass, the staccato notes of skin on skin and the room swallows every snap, barely making out the door. He fills you, stretches you, and ruins you within seconds and you can’t explain how the pain you feel translates so quickly into pleasure. You feel yourself needing more of it. The stretch, the burn, the knife, it’s indescribable.

His relentless pace maintains, stopping every ten or so seconds to ensure he fills every inch of you, submerging himself to the hilt and mercilessly grinding his hips against you, rolling around your cunt. Without fail, your hands claw at the wallpaper when he does, begging for reprieve. 

“When I tell you,” he pants, lips pursed and eyes ablaze, still holding the knife firmly against your neck. “You are going to give me everything.” 

He drops himself, snatching a slab of flesh between your neck and shoulder between his teeth and bites viciously in his frustration and you howl. His thrusts only become faster and harsher.

“I need to feel you squeeze around my cock.” A hand slides between your bodies and starts toying with your clit. “I’m not going to stop until I feel you cum around me.” 

Tom effortlessly tugs at the elastic band in your stomach and you are about to snap. He overloads your senses, violating your sensitive cunt to the point where you can feel it pulse in anticipation of the orgasm that is threatening to spill. Under the knife that now trails down your body, a pressure builds and it clenches your muscles with its tight grip, and with each pounding Tom hits you with, it grows a little closer to letting go. 

Tom fucks you in phases, fast, slow, harsh, gentle, silent, loud, anything and everything thrown into his efforts to completely tear you apart. If it’s regret he’s after, he’s got it. If it’s an apology he wants, it’s there for the taking. If he desires to hear you begging, then it’s on the horizon. You’re willing to give because you’re not sure you know where your limits are, and with your legging threatening to crumble beneath you, you sense that you’re about to get a good idea. 

Tears brim your eyes only to be soaked up by the blindfold, a quiet plea for release. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, please! ” Tom denies relief, keeping you squirming on his cock until his needs are satisfied. He has no care for you writhing to get away, because he can easily drag you back where he wants you with just a swift reminder of the blade that pierces your skin. You’re certain by now that you have tiny little cuts littered over your body, accidental or not. 

“Tom, stop! I can’t! It’s too much. Fuck!” He doesn’t heed your cries because to him, they are the symphonies he is waiting to hear. 

Your entire body quivers and with the flick of his deft fingers and the thrust of his cock, you come undone. There’s no holding it in anymore. The elastic band snaps and a white-hot wash of pleasure convulses through your body. Blood pumping at your core but Tom isn’t relenting. 

The squeeze of your orgasm around his cock is suffocating, but yet just as painfully pleasurable as he needs it to be for the euphoric feeling to consume him. Finally, as the walls of your cunt contract once more, he cums inside you. But by this point, you are weak and Tom can clearly see just how destroyed you are. Nevertheless, his selfishness convinces him to pull away and sink into you over and over again, slower and with purpose. 

“Don’t you have something to say to me, sweetheart?” 

“I’m s-sorry, fuck, I’m sorry!”

“Taking me so well. My little cocksleeve, aren’t you?” He peels away the blindfold to find your eyes over your shoulder, but in your pain and exhaustion you can’t focus on much else and your eyes serve a very glazed-over look. “Look at me,” he spits, you obey. “You’re mine. This pussy is mine. Remember that any time you want to act like a brat.” He thrusts into you again as a testament to his words.

“Yes,” you meekly whisper. The word comes out of your mouth before your sex-inebriated mind can comprehend what he actually said. Once it does, you gulp. 

“Yes, what?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Good girl. Stay still.” Blinded by bliss, Tom pulls from you and with his size, it’s a feeling equivalent to an orgasm in itself and you hiss. Your pussy is hot, swollen, pulsing and leaking and yet somehow, as evident as it is for how sensitive it is, Tom can’t resist one more taste. The knife clatters to the ground. Salvation.

“No, no, no, no, it’s too much, Tom, please, I’m begging you.” The words drip with a desperation you don’t recognise. He simply hushes you, kneels behind you, splits you apart and continues to savour the taste of your arousal, meticulously circling his tongue around the small bundle of nerves once again. The warm, wet muscle glides from entrance to clit, cleaning you up of your wetness and replacing it with his own. For as excruciating as it is to endure so soon after an orgasm, you find yourself melting into the feeling and dizziness envelopes you in a warm hug. 

~~~~

“Tell me the time,” he murmurs, turning you around. 

Your eyes peer to the clock. “Fuck, it’s…it’s 4:29am. When does this place close?” 

Tom sniggers, floating over you with a smirk. “It closed an hour and a half ago.”

“What?! Why am I still here?” 

“I’m the owner of this place. I decide who gets to stay and I promised you an experience did I not?” 

“You did,” you agree quietly. The slight stickiness between your thighs bears a reminder of the experience and suddenly you’re burning again. You bite your lip, trying to contain the coy giggle like a teenager with a crush. “Some experience that was.” 

“Sweetheart, that was child’s play,” he laughs.

“What?”

He pulls you close, skin to skin, soothing out your muscles in a gentle massage. “You didn’t actually think I was going to show you everything, did you?” 

Would it be stupid of you to admit that you did? “I don’t know, you did say--”

“That I would give you an experience. Something new, something outside your comfort zone, something you hadn’t done before, an adventure.”

“But--” But the paddles, the chains, the whips, all the things you saw outside…

Not another word lets slip before he cups your cheeks, holding your stare and wordlessly silencing you. “If I had shown you everything, there would be no incentive for you to come back again now would there?” You shake your head. “While you may think I’m a sadist, there are some things within BDSM that newbies like you just can’t be thrown into. Trust me. I wouldn’t put you through that. At least, not yet.”

“Like what? Tell me, I wanna know.”

Tom’s lip curls. He’ll definitely be seeing you around here soon enough given you’re so invested. “Voyeurism, roleplay, flogging, bondage, anal, wax play, primal, orgies, consensual non-consent--”

Your brain fumbles over his words. “Wait what? What’s that?” 

The way his eyes lit up so brightly. He brings you closer to brush his nose against yours. “Consensual non-consent or CNC. A fetish where people enjoy being either the victim with the extreme lack of control or the predator with extreme control. Sometimes called rape play--” your eyes widen, “--but it is thoroughly negotiated beforehand and varies from scene to scene. Consent, as well as safe words, are vital. But for some people, verbally communicating consent takes away from the mood. To overcome that, they assign consent to an object. It would be agreed beforehand, could be a red scrunchie that you tie in your hair. If you came here one night wearing a red scrunchie, I would know that you would consent to me taking control over you. Perhaps drag you away against your will, take you somewhere where no one would see, make you get on your knees, suck my cock…” his voice reduces to a whisper and lets you feel his words on your lips. “Would do things to you…”

“Oh…”

Tom sighs, pulling away and composing himself. “For another time.” He winks. “But for now, you need to clean up. There’s a bathroom through that door. Feel free.”

“Oh, uh, thanks.” 

~~~~

You don’t emerge from your bedroom until early afternoon the next day. In your true stubborn nature, you do anything you can to prolong the confrontation with Danny. He knows what prevailed between you and Tom, and munching away at a bowl of cereal, you find him smirking at the breakfast bar. All because he knows he was right, he knows that bringing you to the Hunting Ground was the ideal thing for you. You can’t deny him of it.

His eyes find the bite mark on your neck first, bruised and marked. Then to the large T-shirt that he’s certain isn’t yours. The memory of Tom dressing you in it last night has your heart thrashing against your ribs. 

“So how did the kinky-cultish-sex club turn out for you?” He grins, a smile stolen from the Cheshire cat. 

You click your tongue, deliberating the two ways you could go about this. Against your better character, you grin back at him, colour rushing to your cheeks. 

“When can we go back?” 

[youandtom2]

Request if you want it: Tom is playing at a golf event and reader is a journalist there. She absolutely can't stand him, because she finds out he is quite arrogant and full of himself. They go after each other throughout the whole day with sarcastic remarks. But somehow (you can fill in the details) Tom seduces her by the end and he gets her on her knees and he totally dominates her, making her choke and gag. And he embarrasses her by making her feel his muscles and beg to suck him off and he boasts about how easily he got her in the palm of his hand. :P

(14/07/22) brain go brrrrrrrrrrr THIS REQUEST!!!!

a/n (28/06/23): This was a request that was sent in and one that I had started last year that I really wanted to finish. Apologies to the anon who sent this in and waited for it whoops. This was supposed to be short but I clearly don't fucking know what short means so here's like 7k or something???

Anyway here's 'A Word for the Youth Diary?' Shitty title I know but I literally can't think of anything else.

MASTERLIST

"The weather is absolutely gorgeous here at St. Andrews' Castle Course, celebrating the first 'Pro Amateur' charity competition where a host of celebrities, socialites or anyone with a keen passion for golf can compete. A number of spectators have gathered around the course, eager to soak up the buzzing atmosphere, the scenic landscape and the presence of Hollywood stars, all in the views of the warm Scottish sun. Now that's something I never expected to say!"

The red light of your recorder dims as you press pause on your commentary. You made the switch to recorder a few years back when journalism became too close to drowning in a number of scribbled, illegible notes written far too quickly. Now it is a simple case of pressing record and pressing pause.

Of course, wherever there is a flock of celebrities congregating in the one area for the week, there will always be flock of paparazzi and journalists close by, each with the same agenda. It usually feels like mission impossible to get a word in with a celebrity or document anything of note or interest when there's a wall of other journalists blocking your way, but today those things won't be a problem. Because you’re not going after who may probably be the most coveted celebrity here. Tom Holland.

You don't quite don't know where it stemmed from; your strong dislike towards Tom Holland. In all honesty, your hatred towards him is very self-inflicted, but there's something about his ego that paints him in a very arrogant light. He knows he's hot shit with the press, he knows everyone fancies the man, he knows that his many talents has sky-rocketed him up the societal ladder and onto the throne of the rich and wealthy. What makes him double as frustrating than he is arrogant is that he hasn't done anything wrong. He's Hollywood's golden boy; ever the humble, handsome, kind, charity-giving actor that has claimed the hearts of many across the world. It's what makes your hatred towards him completely unjustified, so while no one shares the same view as you, there is some things you can do to quietly preach your opinions.

"First to arrive at the course is the notable Tom Holland, waving to the crowd with a smile, loving the attention as ever. Although I'm not sure that his mismatching colour-blocking golfing attire will receive the same compliments!"

The smirk on your lips lasts for the majority of the day as you talk incessantly into your recorder. Your goal isn't necessarily to shit on Tom, only when the opportunity presents itself of course, like when he swung the golf club at an awkward angle, sending the ball straight over the forest and into the sand bunker.

"Oooh, what a poor shot from Tom Holland. He'll be disappointed with that one. Perhaps leaning towards the 'amateur' side of the competition in comparison to some other competitors. Tom Holland yet again teaching us a valuable lesson in life; just because you're a pro at one thing doesn't mean you're a pro at everything else."

The crowd politely applauded and off he went with his caddie. While others followed, you choose to stay rooted while you wait for Mark Wahlberg to walk up to the tee. He's who you've been waiting for all afternoon. Getting a word in with him would set you up for the highlight of your career.

"Mark! Over here! Mr. Wahlberg! A word for the Youth Diary? Mr. Wahlberg!"

As it seems, Mark calmly maneuvers way past the wall of journalists, paying them, and you, no mind and strolls over to the starting point. Damn. You have to get a word with him somehow.

"Mark Wahlberg takes a mighty swing and thrashes the golf ball high into the air, and the crowd watches in astonishment as it sails its way over towards the green, a hair's breadth away from perfection as it rolls upon the hill. A round of applause circles around Mark as he proudly walks on with the confidence of a man who's set on winning this competition."

As the hours tick by, you find yourself without any luck. Those first few minutes of the competition were stuck in a loop, constantly experiencing deja vu of having to witness Tom Holland's unlucky shot followed by being ignored by Mark Wahlberg. You haven't had one decent interaction with anyone yet. Things are getting a little desperate.

You even begin to understand why the majority of journalists are following Tom Holland like a lost flock of sheep; he's very chatty. He stops at every turn to give his narration on his own playing, offers a brief insight to the projects he is currently working on, and if he likes you, even spill some of the secrets of his private life. It's a journalist's dream, one that you haven't even had the taste of yet since Mark Wahlberg is as accessible as the vaults of the Bank of England. Anyone with common sense would advise you to follow the crowd and ignore your bias towards him and just interview Tom Holland if it means you have something worth printing.

Oh no, no, no, no, no, no. Not a chance. He gets enough attention as it is.

"Mr Wahlberg! A word on your new film? Could you tell us about Uncharted! Mark! Over here!"

Not even a glance is spared your way in yet another attempt to get his attention. From your left, a voice emerges. A fellow reporter sidles himself next to you, away from the crowd that follows Tom Holland. You spot the Sky Sports label wrapped around his microphone.

"He doesn't like to speak much to the press. Thinks that he'll say something and they'll twist his words," he sympathies. It's genuine, obvious that he too has been caught up in the same frustration you've been facing all afternoon. At least he has a little more insight as to why you haven't gotten a word from Mark.

"Yeah, I figured. It wouldn't hurt just to say hello and have a small chat. What could the press twist about that? If anything, I think he's damaging his reputation by not saying anything. It's rude, y'know?"

He nods his head in agreement, but the sigh he blows doesn't seem to match. "You have to let it go though. They're not obliged to tell us anything. This is just a day out for them, they're not getting paid so why should they have to say anything about their work? It's just our luck whether they choose to talk to us."

"Ugh, I guess you're right, but I still need something for my article."

"Sky Sports has had lots from Tom. Why don't you try your luck with him? He seems to be a lot chattier than Mark. I don't know much about film journalism, only sports, so I don't know what it is you're looking for. But if you ask him anything, I'm sure he's willing to provide."

You look to him with contempt in your eyes, your lack of smile instantly shuts down his suggestion.

"I appreciate the suggestion but no. He's too easy. Think of how many journalists are here desperate to get a word in about sports, golf, acting, celebrity personal lives, all that show biz. If everyone shared the one source, audiences wouldn't bother reading them all because they all be the same, boring stuff. Think about it. If you, and 30 other journalists had the chance to interview Ronaldo, you would all take it because after all its Ronaldo. The only downside would be that you would then have 30 articles all saying the same thing and audience getting bored after reading 1. Now think about having the chance to interview Messi. It would be hard but total payout if you got it. Plus, you would stand out from the rest and that's what would gain audiences' attention."

Once again, the reporter sighs. "Look, kid. I've been in this job for 20 years and I've learned that sometimes you just have to cut your losses. If your objective is to get something to write about for your article, then you should do it however and whatever way you can, doesn't matter who the source is. If your objective is to get something from Mark Wahlberg specifically? Then you should scrap the whole article and try again. Something is better than nothing."

"I refuse to take anything from Tom Holland."

"Suit yourself. Good luck. Oh, by the way, I think you're still recording. Wouldn't want you to get your chance with Mark only to realise you have no storage left on your recorder."

You mumble a weak thanks and remember to press the pause button on your recorder. The reporter saunters away back towards the crowd, your only indication of knowing where Tom Holland is. You consider it for a second, but determination drives you away, following Mark to the next hole.

~~~~

It's all to play for in the final hole with only two possible candidates capable of winning the trophy. Currently sitting in the lead is the elusive, mysterious Mark Wahlberg, strolling casually along to the final hole with his team behind him. Ah, and of course, next in line is Tom Holland soaking up the attention as he strings along behind Mark Wahlberg like an apprentice would their mentor. It's not clear whether the confidence he walks with is a poorly executed imitation of his acting mentor ahead of him, or whether it is a man deluded with besting him. All will be revealed within the hour.

It's well into the evening of the Pro Amateur competition and the luck that reporter wished you earlier has yet to find you. With the final hole well underway, you're starting to think that it never will. So far, you've gotten a few short, curt answers from other celebrities here but nothing near the sustenance your article needs. If only Mark could stop being so stubborn.

"One at a time please guys, one at a time." Tom's smug, arrogant tone of voice emerges from behind you and not too soon after, tens of other voices asking him questions. As he makes his way nearer, so do the swarm of people and in an attempt to get out of the way, you're stampeded by the press. Bumped, shoved and pushed, you struggle to find your balance and fall precariously on your knees with your equipment tumbling from your bag. In all honesty it didn't hurt, but what an inconvenience picking up all your bits and bobs. Ugh it's all his fault.

Before you do anything irrational and say something you shouldn't, you pack up your stuff and walk away.

The competition concludes with a twist that no one was expecting. With a gust of wind getting the better of Mark Wahlberg, it earned him a double bogey and cost him the trophy, annoyingly snatched up by Tom who achieved victory with a birdie. You seethe at the sight of Tom holding up the golden trophy, soaking up the champagne that his teammates spray all over him and hearing the applause from everyone, even you as a slow, lethargic clap rings from your hands. All to just to keep up the pretence of 'liking him' of course. Ugh, why did he have to win?

After a day of being the lone ranger in a journalists mission, you concede to following the crowd into the conference room where many like you await behind a wall of microphones and a valley of cables to hear from today's competitors. And Mark Wahlberg is one of them. This might be your chance to get a question in. Quick! Where's your recorder?

Fuck. It's not in your bag. Where is it? You rummage through your bag again and it's definitely not there. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Where could it be? Did you lose it when you fell over? Has it been stolen? Fuck, you really need that!

You have no other option but to record from your phone and in your quiet, subdued panic, you try your best to catch anything he has to say. The quality isn't great and it's picking up outside noise to the point that articulation has no place on your recording. Sweating at the loss of some expensive equipment and valuable content, your phone drops and the clatter of it paints a mountain on its waveform, rendering the recording useless. Fuck, if you hadn't lost your recorder.

People start to look at you in your fluster and your legs starts bobbing erratically. The attention is too much and it's exactly why you prefer to stay behind the microphone and not in front of it. You have to leave. At the next possible opportunity, you end your recording and begin to make your way through the aisle, apologising profusely to the other journalists who wait for Tom Holland to make an appearance.

You just about make the double doors of the conference room when you hear Tom's voice welcoming the room.

"Before I start, I wanted to check to see if this was anyone's recorder..."

Everything about you stops dead in its tracks; your feet, your heart, your breathing, your entire existence. Nervously, you spin around to spot Tom Holland holding your recorder in his hands, fingers fluttering around its buttons. How the hell did he get his thieving hands on it?!

A pit opens up in your stomach at the dreaded thought of having to announce yourself in front of everyone to claim it. But damn, you really need your recorder back.

Braving the nightmare, your hand raises half-heartedly into the air. "Uh...it's mine. Sorry, I must've dropped it."

Tom's deep brown eyes lock onto yours from the stage and he throws, what you think, a sickly smile before he offers up the most ridiculous idea. "I can set to record if you want. I can sit it riiiiight here." He sits it directly in front of him and sends you a sly wink. It's a spot any journalist would dream of having their microphone; right under their nose on the off-chance that anything muttered under their breaths or whispered discreetly would be picked up. Journalists are a sucker for secrets. Quite frankly, you don't care for his secrets, you don't care for his thoughts on today's events, and you really don't care for what he has to say at all.

But the only reason why you end up saying yes is because you care more about what people would think of you if you gave up an opportunity like that.

"Sure. Thanks."

You proceed to endure 15 minutes of Tom glorifying himself in front of the press. God, it's embarrassing. You could plainly hear the snide tone underneath the guise of 'self-evaluation'. Everyone seems to soak it up like a sponge, praising him for his insightful words and self awareness, writing nothing but positive words about the actor. Whatever. You wish you could drown him out but your paranoia is rooted to your recorder at his table, thinking the worst outcome as his fingers toying with its external case. What if he doesn't know how to work it and accidentally erases all you had from today? One slip up and it's gone. Your eyes constantly flicker from your recorder to him and no matter who he's speaking to or where he's looking, he always manages to catch your gaze.

Already outside your comfort zone, you audibly whimper when you see him lightly tap the little trash button at the end of the recorder, miles away from the stop, pause and play buttons that you would regularly use. You would only ever press that button with intention, it’s pretty to hard to press it accidentally. Even without knowing how to work the recorder, it doesn't take an idiot to know what that means, so watching Tom play with it tells you that he is whole-heartedly toying with you, enjoying the view of you panicking from his throne of sadism.

It's like he can sense your hatred towards him.

~~~~

"Thank you, thank you! Until next year!" Tom smiles as he walks off stage, your recorder in his clutch. The further he walks away, the faster you bob and weave through the crowd, feeling like you're fighting against the tide as it sweeps you out. Then, just as the room empties you reach the entrance to the backstage area in a relief, only to hit a brick wall that stands in your way between you and your highly coveted recorder.

"No press allowed backstage." A security guard towers over you.

"Tom Holland has my recorder. I'd like to get it back." You have no time for polite small chat, your request grumbling with agitation.

"Still can't allow you back--"

"You can let her through, Jim. It's alright." A young boy’s voice echoes from behind the wall.

The guard hesitantly lets you through, keeping you under his iron gaze while you slip through the narrow space he gives you. You are led out into a hallway with plaques decorating the hall, awards from winners of tournaments the venue has previously hosted, the newest addition being Tom's 'Pro-Amateur' plaque much to your distaste.

The boy you recognise as Tom's caddie leads you down this hallway, he hasn't said so much as a word to you as he confidently walks ahead. Now he's getting his assistant to fetch you? God, the arrogance!

"He's in here."

"Thanks," you quietly mutter. The door closes behind you, locking both you and the actor into the room. When you started the day bright and early this morning, you didn't think this was where you were going to end up. You couldn't have put money on it.

Although, you have to admit: despite putting your heart and soul into avoiding Tom Holland the entire day, this could be an exclusive for your article. Nobody else has had this opportunity, so why not take advantage of it?

Tom smiles as he greets you, carelessly tossing your recorder from hand to hand. You swallow nervously. "You are...?"

You respond with your name, who you report for, and make it abundantly clear that you would like to take back your recorder in one piece.

He approaches with a small, boyish chuckle like you just told a joke. "Sorry, I was just thinking," he casually says, "about how you once said you refuse to take anything from me."

What? Where did he hear...? Fuck. He listened to it. And that entire conversation you had with the Sky Sports reporter...

Your mouth drops. As does the anchor in your stomach.

"What was it you said again...?"

"You listened to it." He ignores you.

"Oh yeah, that my 'mismatching colour-blocking golfing attire wouldn't receive the same compliments'."

"You...listened to it all?" you reiterate once again. Your voice rings with all the inflections of a question, but you already know the answer. Unfortunately.

Tom's brows furrow inward.

"Honestly, I can overlook the fact you insulted my outfit, it doesn't bother me that much." There's a 'but' in his sentence. You're just waiting for it. You inwardly panic, trying to remember what else you said that would warrant that dreaded 'but'. Your shield of writer's anonymity has fallen; it's what protects you if you are to ever post negatively about a celebrity, but now that he knows your name and your face, you're left exposed.

"But..." There it is. And in a disbelief, he bites, "I'm too easy? Really?"

There's two ways you could go about this. Stand your ground and defend yourself, or dig yourself a grave and apologise.

Ha. Yeah right.

"I don't really think it was your place to listen to my recordings."

"Oh?"

"Mm-hm. Should've minded your business if you knew what was good for you."

"You--" He cuts himself off and takes a deep breath, almost to contain himself and tries again. "You," he points accusingly, "are very...very lucky that you look as attractive as your voice sounds."

Your cheeks flush angrily. Safe to say, you're not used to anyone calling you attractive let alone Tom Holland, so in your fluster you have no idea how to respond. You don't know how to tame the flutter in your heart nor the fire in your stomach. Instead, you ignore it all and revert back to your original goal.

"Can I have my recorder back? Please?"

"In a minute." He swats his hand away from yours. High above your reach, you stand helpless as you watch his thumb crash land onto the record button, resuming from where it last left off. "I think that what you have about me in your article is a little bit too harsh. Why don't we start putting some positivity back in. I think you have it in you to pay me just one compliment. I did win the competition after all, I think it's deserved."

You laugh hysterically. The nerve of this guy! So conceited. "You don't deserve anything from me."

"C'mon. Just one. It's not that hard. I promise I'll give you your recorder back straight after."

Succumbing to his torment, your eyes roll over his features, his hair, his outfit and his body, trying to identify possible compliments that would meet his demands but yet wouldn't inflate his ego too much. What you don't anticipate is you're spoiled for choice.

Defeated, you sigh. "You...smell nice."

"Aw, c'mon. I said you were attractive and all you could think of was that I smell nice? Try a little harder."

"Hey, you said the deal was that I give you one compliment then I get my recorder back. Cough up, Holland."

A smug grin pulls at his lips. "I'm not satisfied. And I will give it back when I am satisfied."

Given that your hatred towards Tom Holland is now at least justified and not just self-inflicted, it means that it's twice as hard to sacrifice it all and compliment him like he so desperately wants you to, a complete betrayal to your own beliefs. But you NEED your recorder.

"You look strong."

"Elaborate."

"You clearly work out."

"What in particular?"

"Your arms."

"How can you tell?" He's really pushing the mark, overstepping it by miles with the dirty smirk he has on his face because he knows he is. You audibly grumble at the sight. Losing patience...

"They just looked particularly...muscular when you were swinging the golf club."

"Why don't you give them a feel and you can tell your readers how strong they really are in detail? I know you want to."

Is it bad of you to admit that you do want to feel them? Absolutely. Are you going to announce that to him? Absolutely not.

You don't move for a couple of seconds, your own conscience making so much noise inside your head that you can't make a coherent thought. A spark of adrenaline twitches at your hands, enough to catch Tom's eyes but it's not enough to swing it into force.

Quietly, slowly, he reaches for your hand and envelopes his fingers around yours, manipulating them to wrap around his upper arm. He makes sure to mold your fingerprints into his skin while he tenses, just to feel the sheer density of his muscles. His skin is warm, soft to touch but yet firm to grasp. While you become instantly fascinated, his glistening smile brightens in the corner of your eye. It's so quiet in the room that Tom hears the softest stutter of breaths and he feels like a winner all over again.

"Well?" He nods towards the recorder, its red button flashing. For the readers...

"Definitely..." you clear your throat. Why has your mouth gone dry all of a sudden? You retract your hand. "Definitely toned. Sculpted."

"If that's what you like then I should show you this..."

He takes your hand once again, its warmth holding you captive, and drags it all the way down to his torso. You can't pull your eyes away from how he sensually slips your hand underneath the hem of his shirt and weaves your fingers between the valley of his abs. Your fingertips skate over every sculpted ab of his, feeling the way they almost shiver at your cold touch.

Your fingertips aren't enough. Tom takes a step closer and your whole palm presses against him, almost too intimately for strangers.

Tom's head quirks to the side to get a better view of you. "Thoughts?" he asks, even though he can read them so clearly on your face. You're becoming entranced.

"...Holy shit," you whisper. "Um, yeah. Strong."

"For a woman who had a lot to say about me, you're certainly lost for words now."

As the heat rises and things escalate, neither of you diffuse the tension and the string of long, uninterrupted silence continues. Every minute that passes by is a precarious step over crossing boundaries and breaking every rule you have in your moral bible.

It forces you to suck in a nervous breath and hold it for a few seconds while you deliberate what the end goal is. Of course, it was to leave with your recorder but given your current position and your change of opinions, you're not so sure anymore. To be clear, your change of opinion isn't necessarily about Tom; you still think he's conceited, arrogant and incredibly vain, but it is what you do with that opinion that has changed. Before, you avoided him, stopped yourself becoming another little lost sheep and following him at every opportunity. Now? You're giving him every drop of attention you have to give.

Tom watches you intently while he silently introduces himself to your shyer nature, definitely not the same person that walked in here in a fit of rage and demanding for their recorder. The minute he meets that side of you, he knows exactly what to do next.

He drops his head as he drops his voice into his lower register, your hand feeling all the rumblings from his chest. "Want to be completely speechless?"

Fuck it. Sure you do. "Mm-hm."

"Good girl."

You aren't actually sure what he's planning to do so you look for intention in his eyes, but you see nothing but darkened caverns and devilish features. In fact, it's because you're looking into his eyes that you don't realise that he's grown hard underneath his straight grey trousers. Like before, he guides your hand fluidly underneath the waistband where the button pops out easily, and navigates you under the elastic band where he desperately shapes your fingers around him. He pulses underneath you, shaking with relief that he has you exactly where he wants you.

You dare not pull your eyes away from his, even as they droop in his pleasure. More so now that you admit how seductive they look. You try to mirror that same seduction with a small smile, moving your hand up and down his shaft independently.

Fuck, the more you move your hand, the more you think it's never going to end. Bluntly put, he's huge.

As a journalist, you should be eloquent with your words, careful in your choice of vocabulary, definitive with your metaphors, but all those years of reading and writing falters the second the sheer size of him stuns you. It slightly pains you to be so tasteless but nevertheless, you don't think there's any other way to put it.

So caught up in the heat of it, your common sense finally comes to once again acknowledge your recorder in his hand. You forgot he had been recording this entire conversation...

He brings it closer to his lips, seductively whispering directly into it. "Just like that..." He keeps going. "Doing such a good job - fuck - don't stop."

Encouraged, and progressively feeling turned on, you tighten your hand around his cock and move faster.

"How do I feel, sweetheart?" The microphone tilts towards you. Detail. Although at this point, you don't think it's for your readers as much as it is for you and Tom.

"So big. I almost can't fit my hand around you."

He very nearly buckled. That voice of yours is like a siren to him. Little do you know that when he found your recorder and listened to all of your little angry ramblings about him, it had sparked up a fiery, unavoidable desire inside him. It was hell having to listen to your voice talk shit about him, he just couldn't stand it. He needed to hear you compliment him, worship him, adore him, and he spent every spare minute of his day replaying your recorder, instilling your voice in his memory until he could manipulate your words, imagining what they would say about him.

But now that he actually gets to hear you feed into his desire is twice the satisfaction than he initially thought.

As quick as lightning hits, an idea occurs to him and it completely devastates his entire system; if hearing you compliment him turns him on, how would having you beg for him make him feel? The idea becomes such an unstoppable craving he already knows his imagination won't be able to satiate it this time. He needs it for real and right now.

"You wanna taste?"

Doe-like eyes stare up at him - oh, you are so capable of begging him - and your movements come to a halt...all except your thumb sweeping over his tip. You didn't actually think this was going to go any further than a hand job.

"You want me to?"

Oh no, no, no. This isn't about Tom begging. "Because I know you want to. I can see how desperately you want to tell everyone how I allowed you to come backstage, meet me, get on your knees for me, how I allowed you to suck me off and how I allowed you to taste me." His hand slithers up your jawline and brings you close, leaving nothing but a hair's breadth to separate you. As you anticipate the feeling of his lips, you have but his breath fanning over yours and the anxiety bubbling at the pit of your stomach to feed from. "You just need to beg for it, sweetheart."

Beg. It was hard enough to lose one battle and compliment him, but to lose an even bigger one and beg? You would be absolutely humiliated.

Would be meaning if it was under any other circumstance, if you weren't so spellbound and seduced by him. But that simply isn't the case.

Not uttering another word, you slowly drop to your knees keeping Tom with the wicked grin within your sights. The zipper of his trousers comes undone and you pull him free, watching as his cock stands tall and bobs heavily with weight. Instinctively, your tongue rushes to wet your lips.

"Beg." Tom demands again. The recorder soon comes back into your view and your jaw clicks with frustration. He's capturing every single word much to his demented, power-hungry mind.

You chew through your irritation and instead tune into the feeling that's bubbling in and around your stomach, the one that's being powered by him. "Please," you breathe. "Please, Tom, I wanna suck you off so badly, I promise I'll be good."

"And do you promise to never write a bad word about me ever again?"

Oh, this fucker.

"I prom-"

"Say it like you mean it."

How you so wish you could lie through your teeth, but you know for a fact that from now on, any bad word you write about Tom Holland will forever be tied with this day. You'll think twice about writing badly because being on your knees for him will get in the way. You'll struggle to find the words to knock him because the compliment you paid him stain your lips. You'll hesitate to criticise him because you'll remember how you verbalised about his good looks.

"I promise. Just--just let me taste you." It's sad how desperate you sound. "Please?"

He doesn't respond. There's one last warning to give.

"If you break that promise, I will come for you."

Adrenaline rushes through your veins and your heart pounds. Despite being adamant in your dislike for Tom, you do somehow get the feeling that the threat that rings through his tone is not one to be taken lightly. It buzzes a little too seriously for you to brush over it. So you answer accordingly.

"Okay, I promise."

The threat dissipates and he looks at you approvingly, his empty hand dropping to cup your cheek. You aren't so unaware of the twitch of his cock in your hand. "I just want to make it clear and put on the record that out of the two of us..." Tom angles you closer, "it's you that's the easy one. Too easy. So easy that you're already on your knees and begging me."

How you would slap that grin clean from his face. The scowl on yours warns him of it, but he simply laughs, mocking you.

"C'mon, sweetheart. Admit it." His boyish chuckle continues to ring in the air and its contagious effect pulls at your lips despite trying to hide it. He sees clearly that it pains you to admit it, so as a small motivator, he crouches to your level, his hand still cradling your cheek. In quieter words, though still delivered through a smirk, he murmurs..."Be a good girl for me, yeah?" His lips melting onto yours stops you from getting the chance to reply. The surprise of it fogs up your brain, submitted into a dream-like state as he gently molds his lips onto yours. It's short and leaves you wanting more.

With a flutter of lashes, you nod. "Atta girl."

He stands up taller once again and you take that as your cue to fulfill your promise. Your lips wrap around him and your tongue darts to sweep over his tip. His groans can be heard above you and no doubt heard by the recorder, crescendoing the second your head starts bobbing. Your hand covers what your mouth can't reach, doing as much as you can to make him feel good. It seems to work; his hips begin thrusting. Slowly, at first, to swing into rhythm but the more you swallow him the less control he has of his own movements, and soon, with your hair wrapped tightly around his fist, he's rutting erratically, drinking in the sounds of your moans of pleasure and pain.

"Fuck, you're so good at that."

"Don't stop. Don't fucking stop."

"Taking me so well. Good girl."

"Just like that, shit."

"Look how easy you are, fuck. So willing, aren't you? You wanted a word for your precious Youth Diary? Here it is; you are so easy it's pitiful. Fuck--"

Tom's animalistic nature completely dominates to the point where your tears and gags are silently begging to slow down. Every part of you is screaming out: your throat is bruising, your lips are tearing, your eyes are streaming, your knees are cramping, but holy fuck hearing him talk about you like that fuels the fire inside you.

His thighs twitch underneath your hands and you think he might just cum down your throat. The red-hot grip he has of your roots is your only warning before that happens.

Warmth fills your mouth and you're quick to swallow it down before you choked, like it was instinct. He holds you hostage with his cock deep in your mouth as he uses you to string out the orgasm for as long as he can. Minutes later, you open your eyes to see Tom hunching over, still very much catching up to you in regaining his composure. He's hunched over, his white fist gripping the recorder while the other remains tangled through your locks, keeping you in place to prevent you teasing him any further.

When all seems settled, Tom lifts your chin once more - dabbing off the little drop you seemed to have missed - and catches your gaze from behind the tears forming in the corner of your eyes. You already know what he's going to ask of you and when he perches the recorder in front of you, he shoots you a wink.

"Detail." He simply says.

"Hmm, you taste so good, Tom. Best I've ever had. I could taste you all day."

At that moment, something snaps in Tom. The smirk drops and his jaw tenses. It's small, minute changes, but it dramatically changes the atmosphere in the room. You just don't know whether it's for good or for worse.

You find your answer when Tom's muscular arms promptly tuck themselves under your arms, yanking you up onto your feet. The clatter of your recorder steals your attention as Tom carelessly throws it onto a coffee table to his right; after all, he needs his hands to be free if he is planning on returning the favour. You should be complaining about his lack of regard for your equipment and how he could've broken it, but the red flashing light still shows sign of life, so you decide to overlook it for now. Besides, Tom doesn't give you long before he whips your head back to claim your lips, hungrily moaning into them as he forces his body weight against yours and slams you flat against the wall. The collision whips all the air out of your lungs but it isn't what claims the gasp from your throat. Tom's lips find your neck, suckling onto the supple skin with intentions to bruise, all to distract you from his hand slipping under your skirt. With ease, he palms your cunt, offering just enough of a tease to have you burning for more.

"I need to hear you say my name again with that voice of yours." Ah, so that's what triggered him.

"Tom," you mewl, almost purring.

"As sexy as that sounds, I think it will sound even better when you cumming for me."

Oh fuck.

It's frightening how quickly Tom is able to weaken you with just the deft touch of his fingers to your clit and punishing kisses to your neck. You try your best to soak it in and remain somewhat stable to remember every moment of it, but goddammit you can't keep yourself together. So much so that despite Tom claiming to adore the sound of your voice, for the sake of dignity, he keeps his hand clamped hard against your mouth to keep curious ears from overhearing the scandal coming from within.

Never did you think that Tom's all-round talents included making a girl cum so easily. It's kind of frustrating.

His fingers circle around your clit, dragging and pulling every nerve he can find and it winds you up perfectly. Legs shaking, breath faltering, you suspect you have mere seconds before he claims your orgasm.

Your whines and moans buzz from behind Tom's hand. He lets go, his lips once again claiming yours.

"You gonna cum for me?"

"Fuck, I--"

"Say my name. Beg me to let you cum."

"Tom, please, I want to cum. Please let me cum."

Two fingers slot themselves into you, his palm taking over pleasing your clit and you have to stop yourself from buckling. It is the last sign Tom needs to know that you're on the precipice of shattering. With a devilish twinkle to his eye and a crooked smile, he sinks closer to you, his lips narrowly brushing against the shell of your ear and whispers the word. "Cum."

In a similar fashion to Tom what seems like hours ago, you come undone. Your hands grip onto his shoulders for stability as he refuses to stop abusing your cunt. His fingers dig deeper, his hand moves faster, and the tight curl of his knuckle breaking you sends you spiralling.

Tension soon turns to bliss as he slows his movements, finally catching a breath to revel in the post-orgasm haze with a twitch or two catching you out.

For as egotistical as you believed Tom to be, with the grounding kisses he litters over your cheek, neck, lips, he completely negates that belief. He utterly dominated you, yet affection fuels his movements; something you don't expect a vain person to have. Maybe he isn't all you made him out to be...

Calmly, you both collect yourselves until you're presentable, standing apart within the room as if what just happened never happened. The heat of the room is all that's left to suggest otherwise.

Tom doesn't stop you from reaching for your recorder, the plastic rectangular object feeling like home in your hand. You firmly press the stop button, letting the audio file save before you address Tom again.

"Thanks for...y'know, keeping it safe. I genuinely don't know what I would've done if I lost it."

Tom smiles kindly. "It's no problem."

"Oh, and congratulations."

He nods humbly. "Thank you. I didn't actually think I was going to win it, but I guess luck was on my side." Huh. He's not bragging...

Settling your recorder into your bag, you begin to make your way out of the room. You hadn't realised how late it had gotten and how hungry you had became until your stomach grumbled loudly. As you take your cue to leave, Tom leads you out with a gentle hand to the small of your back and chills arise. Shit. Don't start liking him now...

Tom clears his throat before you completely disappear. "Will I be seeing you lurking about any other events this year?"

Something about his question makes you smile. "Maybe. I've got a few film premieres that I will be attending."

"Good. Well, if any of them include me, I'll make sure to review your work again." How his wink makes you weak.

"Hmm, we'll see, Tom Holland."

~~~~~

It takes you over a week after the golfing event to eventually find the courage to finish writing your article. Most of it is written from what you remember thinking throughout the day, but your work leaves much to be desired. All that's missing from the article can be found on your recorder that you have deliberately been ignoring knowing what filth it contains.

It takes a couple of glasses of wine on a Saturday night to find the bravery to listen to it once again. It all goes smoothly at first, words flow from your mind to your fingertips and your article slowly builds as your past self feeds you your own commentary from that day. You were going to stick with your original idea, deciding to keep in all your criticisms about Tom Holland because who's going to stop you?

But your valour is short lived. Because you've reach the end. When you think you have the finished product, a masterpiece of literacy for your readers to enjoy and you have nothing else to write. Just when you think you're about to press 'publish' that you reach that part of your recording that you just can't bring yourself to turn off.

Shit, it turns you on so much to hear Tom's voice once again demand that you promise to never write another criticism again and the way you so caved so easily in your lust-induced state. Even listening to it makes you resonate with it all over again, resurrecting the same excitement and anxiety to stir in your stomach. It's a reminder that persuades you that you don't necessarily agree with what you write about Tom. It makes you reconsider all that you've just written, your finger hovering over the backspace prepared to fix the promise you're about to break.

Fuck. It's such a good story. Probably one of the best articles you've written. Alas, with the disagreement going on in your head, you can't find it in yourself to commit to it There's also the problem that if you are to post it, the privilege of writers' anonymity will no longer be in your possession. Tom does, after all, know your name and your face, and you are damn sure he will take the time to find it and read it. What unnerves you is that you have no idea what actions he might take. How could you forget that warning?

"If you break that promise, I will come for you."

So there you sit with your empty glass of wine, chewing nervously on your nails while your eyes dry at the light of the screen you've been deliberating over for the last three hours. The question still remains.

What do you do?

[amethyst-silk]

This brought me back in my Tom era 😩

[webslingingslasher]

can i request frat peter comforting and taking care of reader on her period?

i wrote this at work, do not EVER question my loyalty to frat!peter

w: talks of blood/period (i’m on mobile and can’t add a read more tag)

“Hello?”

It’s daytime and you’re calling Peter, he almost didn’t answer but something told him it was important.

He didn’t leave the lunch table, instead crossing his arms over his chest as he answered, his chair tilted back on two legs. Eyebrows furrowed in focus mode, he heard a slight shuffle, he assumes it’s a buttdial but he hears a whisper.

“That you, trouble?”

You must not have heard him the first time, the audio becomes crystal clear. You speak so loud and clear he can see your mouth pressed against the edge of your phone in his mind while you talk low.

“Peter, I need you.”

Oh. Well that’s a nice lunch break.

“At school? You really are tro-“

“No! I need you to come do something. I need help.”

The last part is a mumble, you didn’t want to admit. Peter slammed his seat down, “what do you need from me?” Instantly in go mode.

“It’s embarrassing,” his chest doesn’t feel as tight, nothing life or death.

“Spit it out junior, you’re making me miss out on my sandwich.”

“igotmyper-bloodisever-help?”

You heard silence then loud chewing, Peter’s voice came out garbled, his bite stored in his cheek.

“I heard blood and help, did you stab someone?” You whine out on the other end, you said you needed his help but he’s taking the piss.

“No! I’m…” Peter’s heart races when you sniffle, it’s the first time he’s ever heard you cry. He speaks to you so softly it catches the attention of his friend across the table.

“Hey, trouble. Stop crying for me, okay? Just let me know what you need and I’ll be right there, alright?”

You nod and realize he can’t see, you take a deep breath to stop your tears.

“I got my period.”

“Yuck! Why are you calling me?”

“Because,” why did you? You didn’t even think, you were in panic mode and for whatever reason he was the one you thought of calling. “Can you please help?”

Peter groaned, “call one of your girl friends, they’re prepared for this.”

“Yeah, but you’re my-“ my… my what? He wasn’t your anything. “Never mind, I’ll call-“

“No, no. I’ll play hero for you, where are you?”

You looked down at your ruined pants and cringed, “um, the downstairs bathroom in the lab building.”

Peter takes a beat, his mind trying to connect the dots.

“Why are you in the… trouble, were you coming to see me?” He’s not even in the room and he makes you feel flushed, “no! I was just passing by and noticed.”

“Give me five minutes, don’t move.”

—————

“You can’t be in here.”

A straight to the point fact. You can imagine the hoity toity expression on the girl's face, you don’t blame her for questioning but if a guy comes into a woman’s bathroom you’d assume it’s for a reason.

“Excuse me! I said you can’t be in here!”

“Fuck off, my girlfriend got her period.”

Your breath hitched, you know he didn’t mean it like that but wow did it feel nice.

“Oh. Well, still. You shouldn’t be in here.”

“Yeah, noted. I ruined your day.” A two knuckle tap on the stall door, you heard the main door open and a few choice words directed at your boy. He didn’t acknowledge it, his only focus on you.

“Trouble, you doing alright?”

“Yeah,” you stare at his shoes under the door.

“Want me to come in?”

You look at your pants and wince, you didn’t expect it to come early. You didn’t leak through a tampon or pad, you freebled and the back of your thighs proved it.

“It’s bad,” because it was. Even for your standards.

“Yeah, you’re gross. Can I come in?”

You stand from the toilet, you’d never rest your jeans on the seat normally but they’re already trash. You slide the lock on the handicap stall and it slowly pushes open.

“Hi,” you look shy and embarrassed, Peter pushed past that entirely.

“Hi, c’mere.” You melt into his chest when his arms wrap tight around you, his mouth places a kiss on your hairline.

“Alright, shark week. Let’s see the damage,” you peer at the ground and turn slowly. “Ah shit, okay. Hold on.”

Peter tugged his backpack off his shoulder and unzipped it. A togo bag was folded up, he pulled it out and handed it to you, you held onto the cardboard handles.

“Put your nasty, hazardous material covered, underwear in here. And use one of these, or both, I dunno, I don’t have… one of those.”

Peter hands you a pad and a tampon, your eyes sparkle when you grab them. “Where did you get these from?” He rubbed at the back of his neck, “Matt’s girlfriend, I asked if she had something and she asked what you used, I didn’t know so I asked for both.”

You clutch the paper thin plastic to your chest, “thank you.”

He pauses then nods, as he backs out his hand holds the top of the stall door. You wait to make sure he’s not coming back in and you start stripping, you follow his instructions and pull your pants back up. It’s an uncomfortable sticky, you can’t wait to get home as soon as possible to shower.

The stain is still your biggest issue, there’s no way you’d face the entire campus with it.

“Peter-“

The door swung back out, your boy smiled. You clutched the bag shyly, you would have to walk back to your dorm, with a fat stain.

“Give me the biohazard,” you shake your head fast, there’s no way you’d let Peter see what’s in the bag.

“No, no way. It’s disgusting.”

“Trouble,” he gives you a look you haven’t seen before, “give me the damn bag,” you hold it out and he snatches it. Closing it carefully and stuffing it back in his backpack before zipping it closed.

“As for that,” Peter points at your red stain. He drops his bag to the ground and pulls off his outer layer. An open faced flannel, a plain white tee shirt underneath.

Peter pushes your elbows up, “arms up.”

You took a deep breath when he approached, he smelled so, so good. Peter tugged you closer by your hips and gave you a very light smile, his arms looped around you, his flannel in his hands.

You're brought closer when the arms of his shirt are tied tightly around your waist, he crouches in front of you to hang the sleeves just right, leveling them so they hide your crotch.

Peter’s fingers tap your knee, “spread for me,” you do as he asks and he looks you over before standing.

“I think I just helped you cover up a murder, we’re bonded for life now.”

Funny, he jumped right into action and guided you when you were too frazzled to think for yourself, yet you still feel shy.

“Thanks, I don’t know why I called you. It’s not your job.”

Peter’s hand cups your face, “hey,” you look into his eyes, he doesn’t seem so scary, and not in the slightest disgusted or bothered.

“You’re my girl, right?”

You nod into his touch, his thumb brushes your skin, proud you know the answer.

“That means you call whenever you want and I’ll come running.”

“Thank you, petey.”

He didn’t fight you on the nickname, his thumb rested over your bottom lip until he gave in. Peter gave you a bruising kiss, one that made him prove how much he actually cared for you, even if he couldn’t make the words leave his mouth.

You pulled back, not trying to makeout in a bathroom.

“Can you take me home?”

Your boy scoffs, “absolutely not. I have three quarters of a sandwich waiting for me, getting soggier by the second.”

When you frown at him his thumb catches it and tugs it back up. “But-“ Your eyes light up, he can’t help himself and places a chaste kiss to your mouth, “I’ll give you a key so you can hang out at mine?”

A key? A house key? He’d give you a house key?

“I would’ve thought hell would freeze over before you’d give me a key to your place.”

Peter shrugs, “eh, that’s before I knew I was dating a squirter.” He giggles when you smack at his arms, you grunt when a sudden cramp hits and you squeeze his arm in support instead.

“Alright, crampy. Go home, I’ll give you a cuddle when I get back.”

You nearly skip out of the bathroom with Peter behind you, he looks around before pressing a kiss to your temple.

“I’ll see you in a few hours, yeah?”

You can’t help but to sigh dreamily, “yeah.”

[amethyst-silk]

Y’all should send stuff to my ask box pretty please 🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼

[amethyst-silk]

I wanna make a hp au SO BAD 😩

[amethyst-silk]

Here is a playlist inspired by @blooming-violets series Creature Like Me. It is amazing and I highly recommend reading it. Happy listening !!

[spider-stark]

PLAY NICE

HARRY OSBORN X READER // PETER PARKER X READER

Summary - Peter and Harry both want a turn with you.

Warnings - 18+, smut, degrading, threesome, not proof-read

// masterlist //

YOUR LUNGS began to burn from the lack of oxygen, your vision turning hazy as tears welled up in your eyes. Occasionally a desperate sort of noise would manage to escape your lips, though your whines only seemed to encourage him to go harder. 

"Such a needy fucking slut."

The words were so demeaning in nature, yet they dripped from his tongue with a sickening sense of adoration, coming together to create a heavenly contrast that had wetness pooling between your thighs.

"One cock just isn't enough for you, is it?"

A rhetorical question that you couldn't have answered, your mouth rendered useless as Harry's grip on your hair tightened, forcing you to take his cock further down your throat.

You choked out another whimper around his length, palms pressed flat against his thighs as he relentlessly fucked your mouth. "Aw," he cooed at you, biting back his own heavy moans as he spoke, "can my little fuck-toy not breathe?"

It drove him mad—the glossy, doe-eyed expression you wore as you looked up at him through wet lashes, the tears now freely slipping down your cheeks. So sweet, so desperate, practically begging to be used. It made him regret his decision to share you with Peter; reminded of his best friends presence as he clamped a hand to his still-clothed shoulder, urging him to give you at least a moments peace. "C'mon, back off, Har."

You were grateful for Peter's distraction, taking advantage of the opportunity by momentarily pushing yourself away from Harry, nearly crumpling into the plush carpet as you gasped for air.

Compared to the two boys towering over you, you were drastically under-dressed. Peter was fully dressed still, whereas Harry had at least ditched the clothing that had covered the lower half of his body, too eager to feel your lips wrapped around him to bother with undressing fully. You, however, had been stripped down to nothing except the matching set Harry had so graciously bought for you a few days prior.

"Don't be such a prude, Parker." Harry remarked, jerking away from Peter's touch as he shot him a look that bordered on disgust. He turned his attention back to you, reaching down to let the pad of his thumb swipe at the drool that dripped down your chin, the remnants of his fevered assault on your mouth. "You can take it, can't you? Go on, tell him.”

You only blinked up at him, chest still heaving as your brain struggled to catch up with the situation, too far gone to remember how to form words.

Harry snorted, "Dumb baby is too cock-drunk to speak." His thumb moved from your chin, ghosting over your bottom lip as he smirked. "Pathetic."

Peter moved to your side, placing a hand under each of your arms and hoisting you up off the floor, effectively removing you from Harry's touch as he carefully guided you to the bed. "You're a dick." Peter spoke over his shoulder, blissfully unaware of the daggers the young Osborn was shooting into his back.

"I'm not fucking done with her!" Something close to a whine followed his words, a pitiful noise that he would have never made under different circumstances. Right now, though, he was far too frustrated to care about his tone.

He knew that you loved the way he was treating you, how rough and vulgar he was willing to get, satisfying all of the desires you would never speak aloud. Still, you were thankful that Peter was taking control, desperate for a break after Harry had essentially fucked your throat raw.

"So pretty." Peter's words were much softer than Harry, as was his touch as he laid you out against the mattress. Slender fingers grazed against your upper thigh, featherlight and leaving goosebumps in their wake. Your back arched at the sensation, the reaction eliciting a prideful grin from Peter as he repeated himself, "So fucking pretty."

His fingers dipped beneath the lace Harry had picked out for you, his thumb immediately pressing itself against your clit as his lips hovered over your inner thigh, placing wet kisses against the sensitive spot.

Another series of whimpers began to pour from your mouth, now less urgent but still just as desperate. You felt the mattress sink down beside you, Harry's tongue now swiping along the column of your throat, refusing to give Peter even a second alone with you—both of them wanting to be the one to take advantage of your body.

Eventually they'd learn to play nice—

you thought to yourself, Peter's nimble fingers now working their way inside of you as Harry's mouth worked its way south, his teeth grazing against your chest.

but for now, you'd enjoy this.

a/n - idk what this is, ok? i'm bored and depressed and this has zero plot and i just don't wanna leave it in my drafts lmao. enjoy.

[blooming-violets]

Creature Like Me || Chapter Four: Hard Truths

[TASM Peter Parker!Werewolf AU]

Summary: Kraven and his guild of hunters have been tracking and quelling the werewolf population for centuries. The time has come for Aylin to complete her first solo hunt to prove herself to the guild. It was supposed to be simple. One wolf, one death, one victory. She never expected to end up with a secret hostage on her hands.

Chapter Four Warnings: some brief suicidal talk and mentions of deceased older brother and father, a lot hate talk towards one group of people (werewolves) but the way its said is meant to replicate the way assholes talk about groups of people different from them throughout all of history - the same “these people are different from me so I hate them” kind of shit

[link to chapter index]

She woke up to the soft pitter patter of rain bouncing off the camper windshield. 

The peaceful scent of wet, earthy soil wafted in through the crack of the open window beside her. She was surrounded by lush green no matter which way she looked. Raindrops chased each other in jagged lines down the slick glass. For one beautiful, fleeting moment, everything was perfect. 

Until she remembered why she was even here in the first place. 

Keep reading

[blooming-violets]

Werewolf!AU, Enemies to Lovers, Star Crossed Lovers

(18+ smut, noncon male sex slave, depictions of torture, violence, gore)

[Pinterest Inspo]

Fic In Progress

Chapter Index:

Chapter One: Solo Hunt

Chapter Two: Not Friends

Chapter Three: All Kinds of Gray