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ᝰ things i wont write
↳ fics involving other peoples ocs
↳ incest/pedo/zoo/etc for obvious reasons, i hope
↳ romanticising domestic abuse, lgbt+ identities, mental health issues, rape, self-harm, etc
𓏲 extra notes
𖡼 if you send me a request, please be patient with me. ill get round to it eventually but, the more you pester me about it, the less likely ill be to actually write it
𖡼 im incredibly multifandom and i tend to bounce around from place to place. if you follow my main, im sure youll understand
𖡼 minors, this is not a safe space for you! also ableists, homophobes, transphobes, terfs, maps, racists, bigots, etc. you are not welcome here
𖡼 please dont copy, repost, translate or steal my works. reblogs are love! theft is not! please be respectful
𖡼 please please please make sure you read the tags and warnings before you read a fic. i put them there for you. please keep yourself safe
𖡼 sorry if im slow on updating fics or putting new stuff out; ive usually got a lot going on so it can be difficult to get in writing time
finally, thank you so much for reading my fics out of all the fics on the internet hellscape. i really do appreciate every last one of you ♡⊹ ࣪ ˖
explicit ✨ phileas fogg x reader✨ around the world in 80 days ✨ 5m
🔖 begging, caning, cumming untouched, dom/sub, established relationship, impact play, not beta read, pov second person, scratching, trauma.
✧ read below or on ao3 ✧
During his trip around the world, Phileas was wrongfully made victim to the lash by the British Hong Kong justice system. Thankfully, there was only one strike but it awoke something within him; a need to be restrained and beaten. Safely, of course.
You've bound him to your shared bed in his home, at 7 Savile Row, during a quick rest-stop on your travels. He's situated on his belly, completely bare. You trail the tip of the thin, rattan cane along the thin sliver of scar tissue that runs from one shoulder to the opposite hip. His lithe frame trembles with anticipation, his face pressed into the pillow.
"Where first, darling?" You ask, stopping a moment to card your fingers through his hair.
"The scar." He murmurs, voice half-muffled by the pillow. "Strike true, love." You straighten.
"You remember what to say if it becomes too much?"
"I remember." There's no hesitation. "I need it, my love. Please." His body is entirely surrendered, bound and waiting, craving the strike that will settle the restless ache born in Hong Kong. "I am yours."
After heaving a heavy sigh, you bring the cane down right on top of the scar. The impact is intense and immediate, a strangled cry tearing from his lips as he arches.
"Again?"
"Again." He confirms. The next stroke hits across his shoulder blades then another at the small of his back. The sounds leaving him are visceral, his voice cracking. "A-Again." You plant the next strike between the two red welts you've already left and he jerks violently against the restraints, his hips making a small rolling motion as he tries in vain to get some friction to his weeping erection, sandwiched between his stomach and the mattress. Tears finally run down his face to soak the pillow. "Yes— God, yes...!"
You lay a few more quick-fire blows across his shoulders and upper back, listening to the woosh of the cane as it whistles through the air and the satisfying crack as it meets pale, bare flesh. Each stroke drags a ragged, breathless cry from his lips and you relish the way it sends shivers down your spine.
More strikes land across his lower back, leaving more angry, red stripes across his skin. Then you stroke twice across the diagonal scar. Phileas throws his head back, throat bared, spine arched. You press the tip of the cane against one end of the aggravated scar, dragging it down along the length. His hips buck uselessly against the mattress, desperate for touch he'll never receive. Well, not yet, at least.
He's panting now, voice hoarse. "Love..."
"Yes, darling?"
"Please— Please, I..." The words dissolve into a sob as you lean over him, your hot breath fanning across the already-burning welts across his back. You lean down further, dragging your tongue along the scar, the usually soft, wet muscle like hot sandpaper against his raw nerves. He gasps and whines, toes curling, thighs shaking. "Please— Oh, God, please—"
"More?" You ask and he nods quickly.
"Yes, more. God, more." The fellows at the Reform Club would never recognise this side of Phileas; crying, begging, revelling in the sensation of chaos.
You lay the cane down and move onto the bed to straddle his thighs, making him feel even more helpless. The moment he sees you put the cane to one side, he whimpers; he hasn't yet had his fill of pain. Sweat beads across his skin, the salt stinging the reddened stripes across his back. You kiss a line along the dip of his spine. He's so close, you can feel it. He's trembling and sweaty and humping fruitlessly against the bed, a damp spot growing larger and larger as he's constantly pushed closer to that razor's edge. His body is a taut wire; every nerve ending screaming for sensation. You cage him in with your arms, whispering in his ear.
"Take a deep breath, darling." You tell him and he chokes on the air.
"I-I can't—"
"Deep breath." You command, firmer this time. His chest expands with a ragged inhale. "Good. Are you ready?" He nods quickly, taking shallow breaths through his nose and squeezing his eyes shut.
Straightening, you drag your nails down his shoulders and back, making sure to catch every single one of the red, swollen stripes across his skin. A scream tears from his throat as agony morphs and deforms into white-hot ecstacy. His spine bows and his toes curl so tight they cramp. You do it again; pinning him down with one hand as you rake your nails along the centre of his back.
The shock of sensation sends him spiralling into a climax so intense it borders on madness. His cock pulses violently against his stomach, his spend soaking into the fine sheets.
When he finally collapses back into the bed, drained and spent, you leave gentle, open-mouthed kisses at the nape of his neck, nuzzling into his hair adoringly. "Is that what you needed, darling?" You ask, listening to the way his breath comes in jagged, sobbing gasps.
"Y-Yes. God, yes..."
You dismount, carefully untie his hands and make sure to rub the circulation back into his wrists, treating him with such tenderness that it brings a tear to his eye. You hold his jaw, kiss him sweetly and he makes this little whimpering sound at the back of his throat.
"I'll get some ice for you." You tell him as he relaxes against the bed, his back throbbing, red-raw.
"Thank you, love." He murmurs softly and you smile, pressing a kiss to his temple.
"Of course."
if you got this far, it’d be lovely if you dropped me a kudos or a comment (whatever you have time for) on ao3. thanks for reading 💛✨
explicit ✨ kilgrave x ftm!reader✨ marvel: jessica jones ✨ 5m
🔖 blindfolds, cunnilingus, dom/sub, enthusiastic consent, established relationship, gentle sex, kilgrave is reformed, oral sex, praise kink, sensory deprivation, trans character, trans male character, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex.
✧ read below or on ao3 ✧
The penthouse is quiet, rain pattering against the floor-to-ceiling windows. You're sat in the middle of the large bed, naked and blindfolded.
Kilgrave has been different since he met you; using his powers more sparingly, using it more responsibly. And there's something he found that arouses him more than anything; your absolute honesty. He's learned quickly the addictive nature of enthusiastic consent, how good it feels to be really, truly, honestly wanted.
"You're completely still." His voice cuts through the quiet like a knife. "I want you to breathe in." He commands softly and you obey, his virus still floating in your veins. You feel his hot breath on the shell of your ear when he comes closer. "Take it all in, sweetheart. You're exactly where you want to be." He sits on the edge of the bed, just watching you. "Breathe out, slowly." You exhale and he lifts his hand to cradle your jaw, his thumb grazing your bottom lip. "Good... I'm going to touch you now. Remember; you are safe. You are in control." His hand slides from your cheek down to your neck, then your chest, mapping out your body.
He leans closer and you can feel the warmth of his breath on your face. You tilt your head, wanting to meet his lips. "Ask." He commands.
"Please kiss me." You manage and he rewards you immediately, capturing your lips in a slow, deep kiss. It isn't the kiss of a puppet master pulling your strings but the kiss of a man reborn and desperately in love. Long fingers slide into your hair, supporting the back of your head.
"Tell me." His voice is soft against your parted lips, so close. "Tell me what you want next." His fingers card through your hair, savouring the texture as it flows through his fingers. "What would you like me to do, sweetheart? Tell me the truth." He commands honesty now, using his ability to draw complete integrity from the depths of you, things you would never admit to or speak aloud.
"I want you to eat me out." The moment the words pass your lips, you feel your cheeks warm.
The old Kilgrave would already have you on your back, legs up, with his mouth between your legs. But this Kilgrave — this man in love — he pauses, his breath catching in his throat. He kisses you again, trailing slow, open-mouthed kisses along your neck and down your chest.
"Say it again." His hands slide under your hips as he lays you back into the pillows.
"I want you to eat me out." You repeat automatically, a bright, bashful pink flushing down your neck and across your chest.
You feel the mattress dip as he settles between your legs, peppering kisses along your inner thighs, his stubble rasping against the tender skin. The blindfold makes every touch a surprise, leaving you holding your breath in anticipation.
"Be honest; tell me what you think about when you touch yourself." He murmurs, barely audible, pulling a gasp from you as he lowers his mouth to your soaking-wet cunt.
"I-I think about...your fingers. I think about you kissing me all over. I think about your voice..." You admit, whining as he slides two fingers inside you, starting to pump and scissor them slowly.
"My voice?" His tongue moves in languid circles around your swollen clit. "What do I say?"
"You tell me how handsome I am. How I'm all yours. How much you love me." Each admission he pulls from you has your face burning brighter. He groans low and you can feel it as he sucks your clit between his lips.
"You're gorgeous." His fingers curl upward and you clutch onto the sheets. "And you're all mine. My gorgeous, beautiful boy." You soak up his praise, your skin breaking out in goosebumps as he handles you with such reverence.
His breath is warm against the sensitive flesh between your thighs. "And I love you." Another slow lick to your clit, tongue drawing circles over the hood.
"Love you too..." You breathe. He pulls his fingers free and you whine at the loss before he pushes his tongue inside you, probing gently. You reach down, searching blindly before finding the back of his head. Your fingers thread into his hair and he sighs.
"Tell me what you need."
"I need your dick in me." The words fall out and you bite your lip at the crudeness of them. He savours them.
"Then that's exactly what you're getting."
Kilgrave pulls away, your body feeling cold from the sudden lack of contact. You have to rely on your other senses; listening to the rustle of clothing, feeling the dip of the mattress as he settles between your legs and the heat of his cock as it rests against the crook of your thigh. You feel him guiding his cock between your lower lips, coating the crown in your slick. "Keep talking to me."
"About wh-what?"
"About anything." He applies just a little pressure, careful not to sink in despite his desperation. "What you're feeling, what you're thinking."
"I feel warm. And safe. Calm..." His hands slide up to grip your waist, hands gentle where they would be rough. "Thinking about how much I want to see you and touch you."
"God, yes." He whispers, letting out a soft groan as he pushes inside. He slides in slow, giving you all the time you need to adjust.
"Mmn... Thinking about...how good you feel..." You breathe and he leans forward, hands bracing either side of your head as he touches his forehead to yours.
"Keep talking, sweetheart. Tell me everything."
"I'm thinking about how lucky we are to have found each other, about how much you've grown since we first met. I'm thinking about how proud I am that we can have this." The honest truth; it makes him go still.
"And I'm thinking about how much I love you." He replies, honest and unchecked.
if you got this far, it’d be lovely if you dropped me a kudos or a comment (whatever you have time for) on ao3. thanks for reading 💛✨
explicit ✨ tony baddingham x ftm!reader✨ rivals ✨ 18m
🔖 age difference, boss/employee relationship, corruption kink, creampie, daddy kink, dirty talk, dirty thoughts, dom/sub undertones, established relationship, finger-sucking, food as foreplay(?), infidelity, not beta read, older man/younger man, outdoor sex, pov second person, tony is a sugar daddy (and a pervert), trans character, trans male character, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex.
✧ read below or on ao3 ✧
You're not equipped for this weather. And neither is the UK as a whole. Balmy 32°C temperatures outside? You've got to be joking.
Houses in the UK, particularly the sprawling estates in the Cotswolds, are largely made up of thick stone walls, tall windows and insulation. They were always built to keep heat in during cold winters, not out in sweltering heat. They become huge, greenhouse-like ovens, keeping warmth trapped inside and roasting the residents alive. The same is true, of course, of the small cottage Tony bought for you just a stones' throw away from the Falconry. You've spent the last two weeks, laying on top of the covers, still awake at two in the morning, drenched in sweat and incredibly irritable. You've barely touched Tony too, fearful that, if you so much as held his hand, you'd get clammy, damp, uncomfortable and have to call it quits anyway.
The oven analogy is also true of the Corinium office but, of course, Tony has never been one to halt or even slow down production because of an uptick in the national thermometer. 'The show must go on' and all that. So you find yourself in his office, with its large, magnifying glass windows, fanning yourself with today's newspaper.
Being Lord Tony Baddingham's valet, you're supposed to be the epitome of easy stoicism. That has been proved wrong on multiple occasions and on multiple fronts — usually under his desk or on the backseat of his Silver Spirit Mk1 — but, today, it's particularly evident given your loose tie, rolled-up sleeves and the sweat stains on your back and underarms. Even with the closest window thrown wide open, there's hardly a breath of air to counter the relentless, stagnant heat and humidity and you. Are. Suffering.
Tony, however, is looking as immaculate as ever, three-piece suit and all. A steaming cup of coffee (spiked with a couple shots of whiskey) rests on his desk as he looks over some paperwork and you shake your head incredulously.
"Christ, Tony. How're you even...?" You can't even finish the question, wiping the sweat from your forehead with the back of your hand.
"It's all about mindset." He replies simply, setting his mug back down on the desk. "If you let the heat get to you, it will." You slump against the window frame.
"I don't think it's necessarily about mental fortitude." You argue weakly and he chuckles lowly.
"Oh, it absolutely is." He stands and rounds his desk to stand in front of you, taking in your rumpled, sweaty state. Lifting a hand, he cups a large, cool palm to your cheek and your eyes flutter closed, grateful for the slight respite. His thumb follows the ridge of your jawline and he doesn't seem bothered by the sheen of sweat there. Frankly, he doesn't seem bothered by anything at all. "Look at you." He murmurs fondly and his scrutiny makes your cheeks flame.
"I'd rather you didn't; I look like death warmed up." You counter and he grins, shaking his head.
"You look like a man who's been working very hard." He corrects. "In this weather, that's quite an accomplishment." He shifts his weight slightly, leaning closer. "How about, at lunch, I treat you to some ice cream?" His hand slides down from your cheek to rest at the crook of your neck, the pad of his thumb brushing your pulse point. "Wouldn't want you to faint, would we?" Your head falls back; a silent statement of submission. Given your...inactivity lately, where there should be a wealth of bruises and love-bites, your neck is just smooth, sweat-damp flesh. "I'll take you out." Your breath catches as he shifts closer, sliding his leg between your own and pressing upward against your groin.
"Alright." You manage despite the lump in your throat.
"Good boy. Behave until lunch and I'll buy you whatever you like." He states and you nod, swallowing hard. You raise a hand to give him a casual half-salute.
"I'll be on my best behaviour."
"I know you will, pet." He pulls away and smooths down your damp shirt before adjusting his cufflinks and heading back to sit behind his desk.
Hours pass; the sun climbs higher and the office grows unbearably hotter but you stick to your guns and do your best. You answer any phone calls that come in for him, organise files, fetch coffee; anything he needs, all of it exponentially harder, given the sauna-like conditions.
By the time Tony finally catches you, delivering a note to the editing suite, your shirt is completely drenched, your hair is sticking up at odd angles and your face is sufficiently flushed.
"Come here." It's not a request. He steps into your path and pinches your jaw between forefinger and thumb.
"Lunchtime?" You ask hopefully and he glances at his watch before looking you over again. The conclusion is obvious; you're colour's poor and your movements are sluggish, the heat having taken a definite visible toll.
"Quarter past twelve." He states with a nod. "Let's go for a drive."
The air conditioning in Tony's Rolls is a Godsend; icy and powerful and near-instantly drying the sweat on your skin. He sits in the passenger seat, legs crossed, sunglasses on, looking like he just stepped out of Management Today, while you look like a wrung-out dishrag. He settles a hand on your thigh and you sag against the driver's seat. He's giving you directions and you've never been this way before but, wherever he's taking you, it's out of the oppressive heat-trap so you're more than willing to follow.
Eventually, you pull into a car park, noticing a quaint ice cream van at the entrance to a dusty, sun-dappled forest trail by a lake. It's significantly cooler thanks to the breeze off the water and the shade of the towering trees. The only thing that could make it better would be Tony telling you he packed swimming costumes in the boot.
"Here we are." He squeezes your thigh and nods toward the ice cream van with a slight tilt of his head. You turn off the engine and hand him the keys as he pulls out his wallet to hand you a crisp £5 note.
"What do you want?" You ask, pocketing the money.
"Mint chocolate chip, double scoop with a Flake." A small grin curls at the corner of his lips. "And get yourself whatever you want. My treat." The both of you pile out of the car and you start on your way to the van as Tony leans against the bonnet of his Rolls, eyes tracking your movement behind dark lenses.
He loves treating you. In fact, there's something to be said about the way this looks suspiciously domestic; like a doting father treating his son to an ice cream in the hot summer sun. It's deeply satisfying; providing for you, spoiling you, having you wrapped around his finger. He would never treat Archie like this. Actually, you've made him prouder in the last couple years in his employment than Archie has in almost two decades of life.
You step up to the window of the ice cream van and look over the menu, practically vibrating with eager-to-please energy. Tony lets his eyes linger on you, drinking you in quite conspicuously. There's a tightening in his lower belly and he sucks in a breath. He loves the way you carry yourself under his watch; constantly carrying that subtle weight of obedience. It's pathetic, really. And utterly, infuriatingly arousing.
Finally, you turn around, carrying two cones with two scoops and a Flake each; his a pale green with dark speckles, yours a pale cream with pink streaks. You make your way over, licking along the side of the scoops. His eyes hone in on the cream coating your tongue and it reminds him immediately of how you look with your mouth wrapped around his cock, lapping up his spend like a starving pup. He has to adjust his stance, clearing his throat in an attempt to distract himself from the images you're unwittingly projecting into his head. As you get closer, you hold out his cone.
"Here we go." You smile and he accepts the cone with a slow, deliberate nod. You dig your free hand into your trouser pocket and pull out the change, handing over the coins, and he takes your arm, leading you to the start of the lakeside forest trail. "We're going for a walk?" You ask and he gives you a brief, affirmative hum, taking a lick of his mint chocolate chip.
The trail is gorgeous; shady, cool, the lake glittering through the trees, sun dappling the path through the canopy. It's perfect for a summer walk. And perfect for keeping you close.
You walk in comfortable silence, pulling the Flake out of your scoops and nibbling at it. You're in your happy place now; internal temperature dropping, your arm in Tony's, a cone with two scoops of raspberry ripple melting in your hand.
"Good?" He asks finally and you nod.
"So good. Thanks, Tony." You reply, licking and sucking at your ice cream. You're clearly enjoying it and looking frankly quite boyish as you do so. Behind his sunglasses, his gaze keeps snagging on your mouth, your tongue darting out to catch a stray drip, and his mind overlays the image of you, on your knees, servicing him with that same, eager tongue.
He notices how you look younger in this light; rays dappling through the trees and catching the colours in your hair, the flush of your skin accentuating your freckles, the icy treat making your lips look pink and plump. You could pass for an eighteen-year-old taking his lunch in the park, not an exhausted valet in his mid-twenties. You look devastatingly innocent and it makes his prick twitch.
You lick the ice cream down to the cone, dipping your tongue inside the wafer to lap at it a little more before you bite into the side of it. "Everything alright? Your ice cream's melting." You point out and he jolts slightly, realising that his mint chocolate chip is, indeed, dripping down the side of his cone. He quickly tongues it away but it does nothing to cool the heat in his groin.
"Just enjoying the scenery." He gives your arm a reassuring squeeze, the lie effortless behind his dark lenses. You nibble away at the cone until you suck the end of it into your mouth and hum in satisfaction. Your mouth is sticky, your cheeks are pink and you look so sweet and unknowingly sinful.
You suck the sweet stickiness off your fingers and lean into Tony's side, sleepy in the shade of the trees and satiated with a belly full of ice cream. He slides an arm around your waist, anchoring you against him. "There we go." He rubs your back and you find yourself purring.
When you look up, he's offering his cone to you. "Have some." He murmurs, extending his nearly finished cone toward your lips. It's an intimate gesture; sharing his treat, feeding you. You stop walking for a moment to run your tongue over the remaining ice cream, feeling the soft, cold streaks it leaves behind. The way it coats your lips in a slick, glossy sheen has him throbbing painfully in his trousers. When you pull away, you lick your lips and peer up at him with a smile.
"You should finish it before it gets on your suit." You suggest and he nods stiffly, taking your arm again.
Tony subtly leads you off the trail and into the woods but you go along trustingly. After all, it wouldn't be the first time he took you somewhere just out of sight for a quiet moment together.
The path disappears behind you, replaced by deeper shade and thicker greenery. He guides you behind a dense thicket, where a small clearing opens up in the dense brush. He hurries his cone with one final, unhurried lick and the last crunch of wafer seems as loud as a gunshot in the ambience of bird calls and rustling leaves. He takes off his sunglasses and tucks them into his breast pocket.
Easily, Tony presses you against the trunk of a nearby oak, offering his sticky fingers to your mouth. Your eyes fall closed as you accept them, trailing your tongue over his knuckles and the pads of his fingertips, cleaning them of the sweet, minty residue. You slip your tongue between his fingers, making sure to lick away any trace of the melted ice cream. His cock strains violently.
When he pulls away, his fingers are coated in saliva, fingertips connected to your bottom lip by a thin, shiny trail that breaks as he lowers his hand. Your eyes are hooded when you peek up at him again and his blood boils in his veins as the last few weeks of abstinence finally rear their ugly head.
Grabbing the collar of your shirt, he presses his mouth against yours, his tongue easily sweeping between your lips. Your arms instinctively, move to loop around his shoulders, holding onto him for support. He dominates your mouth easily, sandwiching you against the tree, pressing himself flush against you so you can feel just what you do to him.
One of his hands darts down to grab at your crotch, pulling a gasp from your mouth against his own. You're already wet for him — always wet for him — despite your innocent façade. The contrast between your boyish sweetness and the pathetic, immediate arousal makes him ache. He groans into your mouth, tongue plunging deeper.
His fingers slide along the centre seam of your trousers and you whine as he bites your lip, fingers quickly snapping open the button. Without wasting a beat, he slips his hand into your trousers and underwear, sliding down until his fingers find their way between your plump lower lips. "F-Fuck, Tony..." His fingers spread, testing your slickness, the contrast of his calloused skin against your warm, tender flesh. You press your forehead against his temple, breath coming in short, shallow pants. "Daddy, please..." His fingers circle your clit slowly, his breath fanning across your neck.
"That's right, sweetheart." He huffs, sliding two, long fingers inside you. You whine, already clenching around him like you've been waiting for this, waiting for him. "So wet." He murmurs, teeth grazing your pulse point. "All for Daddy, hm?" You nod weakly, tilting your head to the side to give him better access. You're everything he could ever want in a lover; so compliant, so sweet, so fucking his.
He starts to finger you in earnest; deep, slow strokes that curl just right against your sweet spot. Each push makes your body sag against the tree, arms tightening around his shoulders like you need him to stay upright. You didn't realise how much you'd missed him over these last few weeks, when you've been too warm or too sleep-deprived to have sex. He can feel it but it doesn't take a genius, not when you're shaking and whimpering against his shoulder, completely undone by just two digits. His prick throbs painfully, demanding attention, demanding to replace his fingers.
Suddenly, he pulls his fingers free and you rub your face against the curve of his jaw, whining at the loss.
"No, don't— Don't stop..." You manage and he smiles, kissing your sweaty forehead.
"It's alright. Daddy's just getting something better for you." Pulling his hand from inside your trousers, he unbuttons his own, pushing them down just enough to free himself. He catches the way your eyes fix on his cock, wrapping his fingers around it to stroke himself slowly, relieving some of the pressure. "There we go, sweetheart. Turn around, bend over."
You obey just as quick as you can, biting your lip when he pulls your trousers and underwear down over the swell of your arse and exposing your soaking cunt. You brace your hands against the tree trunk, nails digging into the rough bark. A large, cool hand closes around your bare hip and you tilt your pelvis up in a silent plea. He can smell your arousal, thick and sweet, in the musty damp of the thicket. He rubs his cockhead against your cunt, spreading the slick around, teasing you. You can't take it. He knows.
He slides on home in one smooth thrust and a groan tears from his throat as your body swallows him whole, the same tight, young body that's been welcoming him for months now. You're so wet, so fucking used to him being inside you, he doesn't even have to give you time to adjust. "Good boy. That's it." He praises breathlessly. The woods are eerily quiet; birdsong, rustling leaves, nothing else. No onlookers at all, just him and his pretty boy in the deep thicket, enjoying some alone time.
Tony starts moving in quick, deliberate thrusts, the sound unmistakable; wet and sloppy. Your nails bite into the bark as you arch your back, gasping as he resumes that perfect, familiar pace. He finds just the right angle on the third stroke and you grind back against him.
He leans over you, his chest to your back, arms wrapping around your belly. He's breathing hard in your ear, praising and cussing in equal measure. "That's it, sweetheart. Take every fucking inch for me... You like getting fucked out here like an animal, don't you? Such a nasty, little slut for my cock..." You nod quickly, toes curling in your oxfords.
"Mhmm... Yeah, I'm all— A-All yours..." You manage between gasps and he snarls against your ear.
"All mine." He punctuates the claim with a sharp jolt of his hips, turning your insides to jelly as he holds you up with his arm around your stomach. His free hand darts down between your thighs, fingers rubbing in quick circles over the hood of your swollen clit. Your head drops forward with a broken moan, your knees buckling as you take on the double assault. "Come on, sweetheart. Give it to Daddy. Make a fucking mess." He demands and your breath catches in your throat over and over as he nails your sweet spot with every thrust.
"T-Tony..." You whine like a puppy, bearing down around him rhythmically, milking him, dripping down your thighs. You're so close, teetering on the edge, and he can feel you getting closer and closer.
"That's it..."
Finally, you clench around him like a vice. Your mouth falls open but no sound comes out, just a choked-off whimper as you cum. Your body seizes up; back bowing, nails scoring the bark, eyes rolling. "There we go. Just like that..." He coos breathlessly. With a low, loud groan he barely manages to stifle against your shoulder, he buries himself to the hilt and empties himself deep into you. "Fucking...Christ!" Thick, hot ropes of cum fill your pulsing cunt and he holds you tight against his chest, his mouth finding the crook of your neck and leaving bruising, sucking kisses to the skin.
You both stay there for a moment; sweaty, panting, spent, locked together. He's sweating now too, the scent of his expensive cologne diluted by the warm musk of warm flesh. You sag against him, letting him take most of your weight, as he slowly begins to soften inside you. "Good boy... Good boy..."
Tony takes it upon himself to drive the both of you back to the office. You fall asleep in the passenger seat, your arms around his bicep. He keeps one hand on the wheel, the other on your thigh, rubbing and squeezing soothingly, as you snooze beside him. You're a dead weight against his shoulder now, breathing steady and slow. The scent of him clings to you and it makes his chest ache, eyes flicking over to take in your ruddy cheeks and mussed hair.
When you reach the car park at the Corinium office, he hesitates to wake you, just enjoying the honest look of satisfaction and comfort on your face. Eventually, he decides to park under a shady tree and roll down the windows. You obviously need the rest and there's still more paperwork on his desk that needs looking at. He'll drive you home tonight and make sure you're fully cared for.
Very few people would call Tony Baddingham a softie but you; you're one of those few people.
if you got this far, it’d be lovely if you dropped me a kudos or a comment (whatever you have time for) on ao3. thanks for reading 💛✨
explicit ✨ piers pomfrey x m!reader✨ st trinians ✨ 5m
🔖 age difference, breath play, cum swallowing, dirty talk, dom/sub, established relationship, face-fucking, not beta read, oral sex, pov second person, praise kink, rough oral sex.
✧ read below or on ao3 ✧
"This is stupid! What's wrong with a regular knot?"
"Because a regular knot is for salarymen and schoolboys, darling. I can't have you looking like you just got dragged out of a sixth-form common room. Perhaps I'll just have to dress you myself."
"I can dress myself."
"Can you? From where I'm standing, you look like you were on your way to school when you got dragged through a hedge backwards."
"Well, you can go to those stupid events on your own. If they're paying more attention to my tie than to what I'm saying, maybe I don't want to talk to them in the first place!"
If there's one thing Sir Piers Pomfrey hates, it's when you throw a tantrum. Still, he doesn't mind giving you a reminder of just who's in charge.
So, here you are, on your knees, his hand in your hair as he pushes his hips forward, his half-hard cock pulled through the open zipper of his tailored trousers. Long fingers curl, tight, against your scalp as he feels the first touch of your tongue against the underside of his cockhead.
"Good boy." Piers growls softly as he slides deeper into your mouth, using his grip on your hair to control the pace and depth. He sets a slow, steady rhythm, making sure you can breathe enough to not pass out but not enough to talk back. After all, your mouth is what got you into trouble in the first place.
You hold your head still as he fucks your face, these wet, little sounds escaping as he does it. His eyes are dark with satisfaction as he looks down on you. "That's it." Saliva coats your lips and drips down your chin as he hardens fully in your mouth and you feel the tell-tale bitterness of pre on your tongue. He groans at the sight of you; drooling, messy, submissive.
He presses forward until your nose nestles into the thick, dark curls at his base. "Swallow." He orders and you obey, the muscles in your throat pulsing around the crown. He huffs out a sigh and begins fucking your mouth in earnest now, his thrusts growing greedy, less controlled. The sounds you make are obscene; the slick slide of his cock against your tongue, the desperate gulping as you try to keep pace, your throat convulsing beautifully around him. "Good... So fucking good..."
Tears sting your eyes and make tracks down your flushed cheeks. He slides all the way in, his balls against your chin and his cock halfway down your throat. You'd never admit that you love it. Well, not unless he told you to.
He snaps his hips forward, holding your head at the perfect angle for you to take him as deep as possible. "Take it. Take my fucking prick... That's it... Choke on it. Look at you; so pathetic. So pretty like this..." He sighs, even as you cough and gag around him. Your body rebels, throat spasming as your gag reflex fires again and again. Still, he holds you in place; knuckles white where they've clenched in your hair.
Your eyes threaten to roll back in your head. "Look at me." He demands and, when you don't obey straight away, he pulls back just enough to give you a wet, choking gasp of air. "Look. At. Me." He punctuates every word with a violent thrust. Your red-rimmed eyes meet his own; unfocused pupils blown wide.
He watches with satisfaction — fascination, almost — as he drives his cock in and out of your slack mouth, holding you up by your hair, too overwhelmed to do anything but take it. "What a mess." He breathes, balls tightening painfully. "I bet you're hard too, aren't you, darling?" You manage a weak nod; you're always hard when he does this to you, treats you like this. "Of course you are." A low chuckle rumbles through him. "My pathetic husband who loves getting his face fucked. Loves being reminded who he belongs to." He pulls out to give you a deep gulp of air before he's plunging in hard again. He's close now, very close, and you can feel it in the way his cock throbs eagerly against your tongue.
He doesn't let up. If anything, he goes harder, faster, pounding into your mouth and completely disregarding your need for oxygen. "Almost there, darling." Your body is rebelling against you; stomach churning, your gagging growing increasingly wet and shallow. You try your best to stay upright, presentable, but there's tears and spit dripping down your chin and ruining the material of your frankly extortionate suit trousers.
There's the slightest pause. And you give him one last, weak swallow.
Piers's hips jerk forward one final time, burying himself completely, and then he fires. Rope after rope of hot cum hits the back of your throat as he milks every last drop into you. He empties himself into your belly with a low groan. You have no choice but to gulp it all down, eager to please him so he'll finally let you up for some air. "There we go; everything a growing boy needs." He grins lazily, finally pulling back.
Your chest burns and you collapse backward, sucking in air and willing your eyes to refocus. Thin strings of spit and cum connect your mouth to his spent cock, breaking as you fall back against the carpet of your shared bedroom. He's tucking himself away by the time you fully return to yourself, stepping between your splayed legs, lifting his foot to press the toe of his shoe against the straining zipper of your trousers. You whine as he applies the slightest pressure. "Get that knot right, this time, and I might let you finish yourself off before dinner."
if you got this far, it’d be lovely if you dropped me a kudos or a comment (whatever you have time for) on ao3. thanks for reading 💛✨
explicit ✨ aiden hoynes x afab!reader✨ the politician's husband ✨ 5m
🔖 biting, creampie, desk sex, established relationship, not beta read, office sex, post-canon, pov second person, vaginal sex.
✧ read below or on ao3 ✧
The high windows of the Cabinet Office offer a little privacy but there's a constant buzz just outside the door; people coming and going.
You slip in, lock the door, finding Deputy Prime Minister Aiden Hoynes staring out at the gloomy day outside. He doesn't turn when you come in, stepping up and tracing your fingers along the sharp angle of his shoulder blade.
"They're waiting for the briefing notes, Aiden." You say softly and he sighs, his shoulders lowering slightly at the familiar sound of your voice.
"They can wait." He replies and you wrap your arms around his waist, pressing your face against his back and sighing as his scent fills your nose; oak, red wine, printer paper and a hint of tobacco. "You're clingy today." He says.
"Do you want me to stop?" You go to pull away. The answer is immediate, long fingers coiling around your wrist to hold you there.
"No."
There's a pause.
"How long do you think we have?" You ask and he exhales slowly, his thumb drawing slow circles on the back of your wrist.
"Maybe half an hour before they send someone up." He replies, turning to face you. His fingertips find your jaw, lifting your head so you can find his gaze; tired yet adoring. He leans down, a brush of his mouth against your own. Instinctively, you part your lips and his tongue slides against your own with a satisfied sound. You can feel him thickening in his trousers as his hand slides into your hair, holding you close. "Missed you." He murmurs when he finally pulls away before pressing more pecks to your lips.
"Missed me?" You smile against his mouth. "You saw me this morning."
"Mm. Eight hours ago." He kisses you again, stealing the breath from your lungs. Turns out the DPM is also absurdly clingy too.
Your eyes dart to the door as your hands lift to his chest. "Don't." He knows what your thinking; there could be a knock on the door, the clock's ticking, there's a whole country outside that needs his attention. But, right now, he needs you more than he needs Westminster.
Aiden backs you against the solid oak desk, pinning your hips against it.
"Aiden—"
"Shh." He cuts you off with another kiss, lifting you onto the edge of the desk, pulling your legs around his waist. "Half an hour." He repeats, laying you back as his tongue sweeps between your lips. You push off his jacket and he tosses it aside. His mouth works against yours with an almost desperate hunger, claiming territory he already owns. You're breathing hard when he pulls away.
"Aiden... Don't tease..." You huff.
"Who's teasing?" His voice is low and rough. You reach down to unbutton your trousers, wriggling out of them and tossing them aside, along with your boxers. His name is breathless against your skin as he slides his hands along your thighs, spreading them open to expose you to his gaze. He undoes his belt and zipper, pushing them down with his boxers to free himself. He strokes himself once, spreading the bead of precum at the tip, dark eyes roaming over your body. You shouldn't be fucking in the Cabinet Offices but neither can stand to be apart.
Your fingers tighten in the fabric of his shirt. "Lift your hips." The command is gentle but absolute. He hooks his hands under your hips, tugging you closer until you're aligned with him. He doesn't wait, guiding the flushed crown of his cock toward your eager cunt and pushing forward just enough to slide inside. You let out a soft sound; half-moan, half-gasp, and he uses the opportunity to dart his tongue into your open mouth again. He sinks in deep, sending sparks through your body. Panting against your lips, he moves to your neck, teeth on the tendons, as his hips jam against yours. He's not fucking you properly yet but the heat is climbing as he loosens his tie and rolls his hips
Bucking your hips up, desperate for more, he moves a hand to your lower belly, pinning you down. The slow, deep rocking of his hips is grinding his pelvic bone against your clit and it's driving you mad. "Can't be loud." He reminds you and you nod.
"I-I'll try not to be..." You breathe against his shoulder. His hips pull back and then snap forward again, earning himself a sharp gasp from your lips.
"Liar."
You bite your lip, muffling yourself against his neck as he drives himself into you; shallow but fast, enough to make the desk creak. Your hands go to his hair, nails raking along his scalp and down the back of his neck. He finds that perfect spot inside you and keeps at that angle. His hand on your belly finds its way up to clamp over your mouth to muffle the sounds building in the back of your throat. He's cursing now, losing his rhythm, and neither of you could care if someone was listening in.
His hips piston forward once, twice, three times, grinding against your clit until you're over the edge. He growls low against your ear as you bear down on him, gasping against his palm as his teeth find the join of your neck; hard enough to mark, not hard enough to draw blood. Your climax triggers his own and your legs tighten around his waist as he pumps you full.
Aiden collapses over you, chest heaving, hair mussed, dropping his forehead to your shoulder as he catches his breath. He readjusts slightly, comfortable seating himself inside you as he starts to soften, and you turn your head to claim his lips again, slow and languid, breathing in each other's heavy breaths. There's some soft 'I love you's murmured in-between kisses which you feel more than hear.
Thank God you'll see him tonight so you can do all this again but slower, softer and on a comfier surface.
if you got this far, it’d be lovely if you dropped me a kudos or a comment (whatever you have time for) on ao3. thanks for reading 💛✨
explicit ✨ edinburgh!crowley x ftm!reader ✨ good omens ✨ 12m
🔖 accents, chair sex, creampie, drugged sex, drunk sex, established relationship, marking, recreational drug use, trans character, trans male character, vaginal sex.
✧ read below or on ao3 ✧
🍒 author’s note: this was low-key rushed but i needed to get it out of my head.
Rain lashes against the windowpanes of the Edinburgh flat; a heavy, relentless Scottish deluge that turns the cobblestones below into slick, black mirrors. Inside, however, the world is reduced to the amber glow of a roaring hearth and a profound, unbothered warmth. Crowley is blissfully melting into his favourite armchair.
For the better part of twenty years, Scotland has been a sanctuary. Two decades of wandering through the Highlands, tracing the sharp lines of towering gothic architecture and drinking liquor that burns like fire in his throat. He loves all of it; the sweeping wools and dramatic tailoring of the current fashion, the moody landmarks, the wonderfully relaxed local drug laws, and, above all else, you.
Living here with you in this quiet, domestic slice of the 19th century has been some of the happiest decades of his agonisingly long existence. He loves this place so deeply that the sharp, lilting cadence of a Scottish accent has long since settled into his chest, becoming his default tongue whenever he speaks to the shopkeepers, the locals and to you. It's a habit of his — a tell, really — reserved only for the rare corners of the earth that manage to get into his good graces.
Right now, though, he isn't doing much speaking. He's simply waiting for you to get home.
The afternoon had brought a bit of a chill so he'd treated himself to his favourite remedy for a damp day; a heavy crystal glass of rich, ruby port, spiked with a generous splash of laudanum. By now, the concoction has done its beautiful, lazy work. Crowley is delightfully sluggish; a heavy warmth pooling in his limbs, leaving him loose and just a little bit giddy.
He's stripped down to his comforts; his heavy frock coat and waistcoat are tossed carelessly over a nearby settee. He sits, sprawling, in the armchair, wearing only his loose, dark poet shirt — which is unbuttoned nearly to his stomach, exposing the pale expanse of his chest and the sprinkling of dark hair across it — his tight breeches and his boots. His serpentine eyes are half-lidded, tracking the flames, a soft, dopey smile playing on his lips.
The rain outside can do what it likes. The world can spin how it pleases. In here, the fire is hot, the laudanum is humming sweetly in his veins and, any moment now, the lock on the front door will turn and you will walk through it.
The storm cracks outside as he traces the rim of his glass with a fingertip. The opium haze has his thoughts swimming in a fuzzy haze as his gaze flickers to the door, willing you to walk through it. You; his person, his love, his everything that has made this era worth living in.
Finally, the door-latch clicks open and you hurry in from the rain.
"Christ, it's chucking it down out there!" You call into the flat as you quickly close and lock the door behind you. Crowley's grin widens as you stumble in from the rain, soaked and shivering. He raises his glass in a lazy toast.
"Thir's mah handsome lad." He drawls, his voice thick with drink. "Come warm yersel' up afore ye catch pneumonia." With a tired but infinitely fond smile, you hang up your coat and turn to walk into the modest sitting room.
"Evening." You murmur as he reaches a hand out, beckoning. His gaze is soft, the firelight highlighting the sharp angles of his high cheekbones.
"Come 'ere." The adopted accent curls lazily around the words. You reach out to take his hand, noting his state of undress.
"You look comfortable." You observe as his long, slender fingers weave their way into yours. He tugs you closer, encouraging you to step closer, between his endlessly-long, sprawled limbs.
"Never better." He gives you that wide smile and you see a flash of his teeth, white in the firelight. Your eyes flick down to the half-empty glass in his other hand and you lift a brow, teasingly reprimanding.
"How much have you had to drink?" You ask and he holds up the glass, peering at it for a long moment before downing the contents and setting it down on the side-table with a thud.
"Enough tea tak' th' edge off." He replies and you laugh.
"And what 'edge' would that be?"
"Th' edge o' bein' apairt from ye all day, ye daft bastard." It takes you aback somewhat; Crowley isn't exactly known for being open and honest with his feelings. Unless, of course, he's terribly drunk. He pulls you down until you're perched on his knee.
"So about four bottles?" You assume and he presses his lips into a thoughtful pout, brows knitting.
"Aye. Maybe five. Or six. 'Tis a bit blurry. The laudanum helps wi' th'—"
"I thought you'd gotten rid of your stash." You sigh heavily, interrupting him.
"Well…" His expression turns almost sheepish. "Ah may hae kept a wee bit. For medicinal purposes." Your eyes soften in resignation as you lean over, lightly scratching your fingers through his chest hair.
"So long as you don't do yourself an injury." You want him and he arches contentedly into your touch, like a panther or tiger getting a belly rub.
"Ah'm fiiiine. Tis nae lik' Ah'm takin' it ev'ryday. Jist…whin Ah'm wantin' tae relax." His words are slightly slurred but, due to his nature, you know he'll be just fine. You lean down to press a kiss to his temple.
"Just don't overdo it." Large hands settle on your hips as he presses his cheek against your shoulder, breathing you in.
"Aye, aye…"
Reaching down, you unbutton your waistcoat and toss it over onto the settee opposite, joining his discarded clothes. You unbutton your shirt until the suffocating nature of the stiff collar is no longer strangling you.
He tracks your movements with hazy, slitted eyes, a sound rumbling in his chest; something between a groan and a purr. A hand slides under your shirt, his palm pressing against the small of your back. "Mmm… Bonnie lad…" He mumbles, his voice smooth and velvety. He leans in closer, nose brushing your neck as he drinks in the scent of you. You take him in as well; smelling the sweetness of the port and the earthiness of the opiate on his breath.
"Crowley…" At your sigh, he presses a kiss to the pulse throbbing in your neck, his hand sliding further up your shirt until his fingertips brush the curve of your shoulder blade. Wet, open-mouthed kisses are planted along your jawline and you shiver.
"Aye?"
"You really shouldn't… Not when you're like this." You say and he pouts again.
"Why no'?" A hand cups your cheek, his thumb moving to lightly press at your bottom lip. "Ah'm feelin' grand…"
"I don't…want to take advantage of you." You assert and he pulls back immediately, the earnest look in his eyes slicing through the daze of his stupor.
"Dinnae be daft. Ye couldnae tak' advantage o' me." He insists.
"But you're— You're drunk, you're vulnerable! I could do anything to you." It isn't a threat; you would never. It's a worry.
Crowley catches your face between his hands, amber eyes unblinking in the firelight.
"Ah'm drunk, no' helpless." He states firmly. "Ah trust ye."
With a sigh, you wrap your arms around his shoulders and press your face into his neck. He instantly melts against you, long arms looping around your waist to hold you steady. He smells like port, expensive opium, rain and something inherently ancient.
He pulls back slightly but doesn't release his hold on you. You go to speak but the words die in your throat as you feel the wet muscle of his tongue tracing the shell of your ear. A deep chuckle rumbles in his chest, his words coming out in a slurred, honeyed drawl. "Dinnae fash yersel', darlin'… Ye dinnae need tae worry aboot a thing…" He purrs.
That long, wet, serpentine tongue snakes into your ear and you can feel his hot breath fanning against the side of your face. Your breath stutters in your chest, your fingers curling into the loose fabric of his shirt.
"C-Crowley…" It comes out as more of a moan than a scolding. His hand slides along the length of your spine to hold you steady.
"Aye, tha's it…" He slurs against your ear. "Jist relax fur me. Wannae taste ev'ry inch o' ye…" You shudder, feeling the warmth of his body enveloping you, the slickness squirming in your ear, how deeply he can possess you. His movements become more deliberate, almost hypnotic, and it makes your blood run hot.
When it finally slithers back out again, he doesn't give you a moment to breathe before he presses his lips to yours, his tongue slipping between your lips to explore once again. "Ah want ye…" He hisses against your mouth, devouring any sounds that build in the back of your throat as you melt into him. "Git up and turn aroond."
You find yourself obeying before you even register it, standing from your perch on his thigh to face away from him, his long legs sliding between your own. A gasp leaves your throat as he hooks his fingers into your breeches and underthings, tugging them down to expose your rear as his other hand works the buttons on his own trousers. He admires the sight of you and strokes both palms over your soft, creamy flesh. "Absolutely perfect." He murmurs, trailing his fingers along your inner thighs to find you already wet, already wanting.
Straightening in his armchair, Crowley passes a hand through his red curls and wraps a tight fist around his cock, smearing pre over the crown. "C'mere, pet." He pats his thigh again. "Le's git tha' leakin' cunny filled up, aye?"
His free hand reaches up to grasp your hip, guiding you down. He positions you above him, your thighs bracketing his own, and notches the head of his cock into your cunt. "Easy…" He breathes. "Let it…sink in…" You bite your lip as he slowly pulls you down, filling you with that familiar heat that you've grown to adore and crave.
He groans low in his throat as if it physically hurts him to restrain himself to such a torturous pace but, when you finally bottom out and your feet are lifted from the floor, he's buried to the hilt and his head tips back to rest against the back of the armchair. "Thare ye are…"
You begin slowly rolling your hips down; difficult, given the fact that you have no purchase on the floor. The heat of the room is suddenly suffocating and you can feel sweat beading along your skin. "Ride it, pet…" He purrs, sitting up to wrap his arms around your stomach, his chest against your back.
There are more kisses on your neck, wet and heated, and, as you arch into him, the angle lets you take him deeper, pulling a soft whine from your mouth. "Spread yer legs wider, love." You do, letting him possess you completely as he leaves red, sucking bruises on your nape. "Tha's a guid lad…"
Your legs are spread obscenely wide over his thighs, trapping your feet off the floor and leaving you effectively suspended. He licks two fingers, slicking them with saliva, before slipping his hand between your legs to rub at the sensitive bundle of nerves there. You clench around him and he rocks his hips ever so slightly, grinding into you.
Tilting your head, you capture his lips in a messy, hungry kiss, letting him swallow your moans and whimpers as he throbs inside you. Every jerk, every tremor through your body; he feels them and you clench around him, every slow thrust bringing you closer to undoing. Neither of you can last long, not like this.
When he releases your lips, you bury your face in the side of his neck, your breaths coming in short bursts. His forehead presses to your temple, his fingers circling your clit in small, perfect circles. "Let go, pet. Ah'm right here. Cum fur me, let it go…"
You go completely still, pulsing violently around him. Your bud throbs under his fingers as you finish. You're gasping into his neck, grabbing the arms of the chair with white-knuckled intensity. You let out a breathless sob, milking him for all he has. He holds you up effortlessly, head pushing back into the cushion as he spends. Hot, thick spurts coat your tender inner walls and he hisses out a bitten-back curse against your temple as the excess oozes out around his cock.
You stay in his lap as you pass through, into the afterglow, feeling him soften pleasantly inside you. The both of you are breathing heavy but thoroughly satisfied, the chill of the evening long since chased away. His hands roam over your body, lips pressing endless kisses to your temple, hairline and cheek. "Thare ye go…" He sighs, resting his chin on your shoulder, hands rubbing slowly against your lower belly.
"I think I might need to lie down after that…" You huff out a breathless laugh and he nods.
"Aye, Ah think ye might be right." Your body has gone completely boneless in his arms. He drops one last, lingering kiss to your cheek and you return the favour with one to his temple. "C'mon, lad. Le's git ye intae bed."
and if you got this far, it'd be lovely if you dropped me a kudos or a comment (whatever you have time for) on ao3. thanks for reading 💛✨
⋆˚꩜｡ my growing collection of works surrounding mister david john tennant and his many wonderful characters
adjournment — 18+ | 3.2k+ | aiden hoynes x afab!reader — aiden's used to fighting fires in the public eye but the only sanctuary he craves is the quiet sanctuary of home, of you. after years of chaos and solitude, he finally found a love that doesn't demand a political price. in the silence of the bedroom, the world finally fades away.
off the record — 18+ | 1k+ | aiden hoynes x afab!reader — between the locked doors and the ticking clock, aiden hoynes finds the only solace he can trust before the world demands its deputy prime minister back. ⦅part 1 of tennant bingo, round 1⦆
taking the edge off — 18+ | 2.2k+ | edinburgh!crowley x ftm!reader — two decades of domestic sanctuary in the highlands have been the only thing making an agonising existence bearable. in a world ever-changing, some loves are the only thing worth holding onto.
forced honesty — 18+ | 1k+ | kilgrave x ftm!reader — kilgrave has spent a lifetime commanding the world but he finds the truth far more addictive than mindless obedience. ⦅part 3 of tennant bingo, round 1⦆
no commands necessary — 18+ | 3.2k+ | kilgrave x ftm!reader — the restaurant empties with a single command because, when kilgrave wants a private father's day dinner, the world obeys. you're the exception, of course. you don't obey. you indulge.
unbecoming for a gentleman — 18+ | 0.9k+ | phileas fogg x reader — a single strike in hong kong awoke a hunger within phileas. now, bound and breathless at 7 savile row, he surrenders his dignity to the only person he trusts. ⦅part 4 of tennant bingo, round 1⦆
a gentleman's education — 18+ | 0.9k+ | piers pomfrey x m!reader — sir piers pomfrey has a very particular way of handling tantrums. ⦅part 2 of tennant bingo, round 1⦆
a grand day out — 18+ | 3.4k+ | tony baddingham x ftm!reader — being the valet to lord tony baddingham requires a certain level of stoicism; especially when the summer heat turns the office into an oven. but, as the temperature rises, so does the tension as tony takes you out for ice cream as a treat.
blood in the water — 18+ | 3k+ | tony baddingham x ftm!reader — a period isn't enough to stop lord baddingham from getting exactly what he wants from his favourite office pet.
roughing it — 18+ | 3.4k+ | walt jodell x genderless!reader — you swore you'd never see kathryn again. until her dm lights up your phone with an invitation to walt's birthday retreat. a weekend trapped in the woods with her. it's a horrible idea… you go anyway.
explicit ✨ aiden hoynes x afab!reader ✨ the politician's husband ✨ 17m
🔖 age difference, biting, creampie, cum swallowing, established relationship, hand jobs, marking, not beta read, oral sex, pov second person, rough sex, scratching, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex.
✧ read below or on ao3 ✧
Eighteen months. It took nearly two years for Aiden to really find his footing again after stepping down as Secretary of State for Business. After Freya took the limelight, the scandal with Dita, his father's death and then becoming Deputy PM only six months later, there was a whole lot of shit to sift through before he could even think about getting back into dating.
He missed having someone to hold when he came home from work, he missed having a glass of wine and watching shit TV in bed and he absolutely missed the sex. That eighteen month-long dry spell was the longest he'd had in a while and it really took a toll on him. Still, he wasn't about to rush into things, like a bull in a china shop, and cock up his career yet again.
Honestly, just thank God he found you.
You never really had an interest in politics. Of course, you had your views on things — the cost-of-living crisis, 'heat or eat', immigration and the like — but it was never something you wanted to pursue as a career. You're more than happy to do your bit out of the public eye and that suits Aiden just fine.
It's late when Aiden finally gets home, another long day at the office; plenty of fires to put out and plenty of fires to start. You're already cozied up in bed, reading, when you hear the front door open and the telltale sound of his keys clattering into the dish on the console table. You hear his footsteps on the carpet, growing closer, as he flicks the light off in the hallway. When the bedroom door swings open, he's already loosening his tie and loosening the top button of his shirt.
You always thought it unfair that he was so handsome. Even when you saw him on TV, it was upsetting that a politician, of all things, could have such kind eyes, such a disarming smile. Long legs, broad shoulders, perfectly combed hair in shades of blonde, brown and silver, ever-kissable lips and those eyes... God, those eyes of his; pools of deep hickory that shine amber in the light. It was unfair. You had to have him, one way or another.
He's still wearing that look — that 'all business, all the time' expression he wears when he leaves the bedroom — but it softens as he lays his eyes on you, inky-black in the low light. You're curled up in bed with a book, illuminated by the soft glow of the lamp on the bedside table. It's peaceful, domestic. He's missed this. Missed you.
"Long day." He tells you simply, his voice a weary murmur. You close your book, put it down and climb out of bed, your feet whispering on the carpet as you go. When you reach him, you tilt your head to meet his gaze. He's a full head taller than you; an attribute he very much uses to his advantage. You reach out, sliding your hands along his shirt, feeling the warmth of him through his clothes, the soft rustle of his chest hair under cotton.
"You had dinner with Marcus?" You ask as he leans into your touch, his head drifting slightly to the side as your hands slowly make their way along his torso.
"Mm. Marcus's being difficult about the immigration policy. Wants to harden it before the next by-election." His jaw tightens slightly, frustration lingering at the edge of his exhausted tone. Your fingers find the buttons of his shirt, slowly popping them open to reveal the pale, freckled skin beneath, decorated by a scattering of dark hair.
"It's good you've had dinner though." You tell him and he catches one of your wrists, long fingers curling so he can bring your hand to his lips and press kisses to your knuckles.
"Mhm. He insisted on a full three-course meal though so I'm stuffed." His other hand finds the small of your back and you can feel the warmth of his skin through your pyjama shirt. "Did you eat?" He asks and a warm smile curves the corners of your mouth. So sweet, so considerate; always worrying about you. There's no doubt he takes care of you to the best of his ability. You nod, tucking your head under your chin as you wrap your arms around his chest, pulling him into a tight hug. He smells so good; like the old wood of the cabinet, the leather of the seats and his cologne; lemon, cedar and amber.
"Figured you could use an early night." You tell him and he exhales slowly through his nose, the tension in his shoulders finally melting away as he holds you against him. His fingers thread into your hair and his lips press firmly to the top of your head.
"You know me too well." His thumb traces idle circles on the small of your back through your top. "Missed you today." He admits and it makes your chest swell with that warm, fuzzy feeling he's so good at giving you.
"I missed you too." You nuzzle into his chest, your nose brushing the dip of his bare sternum, lips brushing the collection of freckles there. Large, warm hands slide down to hold your hips, firmly holding you against him. His node buries into your hair and he breathes you in; you smell of him and the bath soak you use, a scent that never fails to calm his frayed nerves.
"There's a problem with the backbenchers." he murmurs and you pause for a long moment. He knows the rule. You pull back slightly to look up at him, your brows knitted.
"No work in the bedroom, remember?" You remind him and he cups your face, his expression softening further.
"Right. Sorry." He stoops slightly to press a kiss to your forehead, then your temple. "No work." You tilt your head to catch his lips and he sighs, his palm cradling the back of your head. His lips are soft and warm against your own, his thumb brushing your cheekbone as he gently parts your lips with his tongue. The kiss is slow and deep, full of something that feels an awful lot like gratitude. When you part, his eyes are clearer, the creases around them smoothing out somewhat. "You're good for my blood pressure." He smiles, running his hands along your sides.
"And your stamina." You tease and he grins, the boyish smile peeking through; like sunshine after a day of overcast gloom. He captures your wrists and lifts your hands to his chest again, kissing you again, but these are light, playful pecks that leave you wanting more.
"Is that right?" He teases right back.
From what you've gathered, you're much more fun in the bedroom than Freya was. You can handle his high sex drive and you actually enjoy the roughness he sometimes needs after a long day; the biting, the scratching, claiming you as his. You like waking up the next morning with bruises on your neck and hips, letting him trail his lips over every mark. You know who you belong to and it's a turn-on that he's not afraid to remind you. While Freya tended to be more reserved, preferring the slow, tender lovemaking he's more than capable of, you're passionate and frisky, largely due to you being significantly younger.
You push his shirt off his shoulders and run your hands over his bare chest, fingers combing through the hair there, leading down toward the trail that disappears under the waistband of his trousers. His breath catches, muscles tensing slightly. He's not lean or muscular. He has the body of a spurned, workaholic father, which you've always found devastatingly attractive. A low groan echoes through his chest and his fingers fold around your waist more firmly, pulling you flush against him. He's already thickening against you and you can feel the tingling heat building from the balls of your feet, creeping up your legs until it pools between your thighs.
His voice drops to this low, growling register, the one he knows drives you mad. "God, I've missed this." He walks you backward until your knees hit the edge of the mattress, pressing you down gently. Your knees buckle and you sit on the edge of the bed, peering up at him through your lashes. His chest is heaving already, his gaze borderline feral. He's not there just yet but you can see it in the way his jaw tightens and his breathing deepens; coiled like a fox stalking a rabbit.
His hands move to his belt, making quick work of it. "You're the only thing that keeps me sane sometimes." He murmurs and you smile warmly, pulling off your pyjama top and wiggling out of your sweatpants. His eyes darken almost straight away as they sweep over your naked body. You're eager to get started.
Honestly, Aiden getting home is the best part of the day; whether you're having dinner and talking about your days or making out on the settee between laughter and sips of wine or being pinned down on the kitchen counter with his hands and mouth all over you.
He drops his belt to the floor with a dull thud before he quickly unbuttons his trousers and pushes down his boxer-briefs, his half-hard cock slipping into view. Splaying your hand against the crest of his hipbone, you eye up the substantial length of him; thick, heavy, demanding. He brushes his fingertips over the back of your hand encouragingly. "Go ahead, sweetheart."
You move your hand to wrap your fingers around his cock, pulling a ragged groan from his throat as you pump your hand along the shaft. He's thickening up, pent-up all day from parliamentary proceedings and his wife's icy professionalism. All of it needs to be bled out.
One of his hands finds purchase in your hair, tilting your head up. "Faster." It's not a request. You pick up the pace, watching intently as the foreskin slides over the crown, making the pre thick and foamy at the slit. You lean in to kiss the tip, running your tongue along the slit and making him gasp.
"How do you want me?" You ask and the simple question almost unravels him. The hand in your hair tightens slightly and he tugs your head to the side, exposing the fading marks on your collarbone.
"On your back." Aiden's voice is a low and almost commanding; a tone he uses exclusively in the bedroom, when he's feeling particularly aggressive. "Been thinking about this all day."
You shuffle back on the bed and lay back, collapsing against the pillows. The musky, sleepy scent of him washes over you as your head lands on his pillow. You look so perfect to him; young, soft and entirely willing. It wouldn't be a jump to call you enthusiastic, even. It's exactly what he needs after nearly twelve hours of democratic bullshit. This is his kingdom and he reigns supreme.
Immediately, he's climbing over you, fitting his hips between your thighs and pinning your wrists either side of your head. In this headspace, he doesn't ask for permission, he just takes and takes and takes and you're more than willing to give him everything he wants and more. His cock is pressing against you, seeking entrance without preamble, and you arch under him, shifting your hips to press up against him even more.
"Aiden—"
"Shh..." He hushes you with another kiss, rougher this time, working his hips between your thighs and grinding the underside of his prick against your dripping-wet cunt. He pulls back just enough to see the flush of colour crawling up your neck before he slides inside you with a single deep thrust. You yelp and arch off the bed with a whine of relief, joining his own rumbling groan. "There."
He swallows your sounds with another kiss, one hand still holding your wrist as the other moves to close around your throat. He starts moving; deep, rough thrusts that bore into you relentlessly. Maybe Freya would consider this too rough but you only spur him on, wrapping your legs around his waist to pull him deeper, your heels digging into the the dips just above his pelvis. He snarls low in his throat, the hand around your neck tightening just enough to make your breath catch.
Suddenly, he straightens, sitting back on his toes. He pushes a pillow under your hips and pulls your legs from around him, laying them straight against his torso and changing the angle drastically. The new angle is merciless; deeper, more intense. He watches your body bow off the bed, your fingers tangling in the sheets. Large hands find your thighs and dig in, using them as leverage as he pounds into you. Blindly, you reach out for his hand, hooking your fingers into his and holding on for dear life.
"F-Fuck, Aiden..." Is all you can manage as he snaps his hips forward, punching the air from your chest with every stroke. The feeling of your hand in his alights something primal and possessive within him and he decides to change the angle again, pinning your thighs down as he leans down, pressing his forehead to yours.
You wrap your arms around his shoulders. You can feel the sweat beading on his brow, the heat of his panting breath on your lips and his cock spearing you open over and over again. You rake your nails along his back, leaving deep red lines along his shoulder blades, but he doesn't flinch. The sting of your nails across his back has him growing desperate, furious, his breathing ragged and sharp. Your name leaves his lips like a prayer when he's like this; too far gone to censor himself.
"Say my name." He demands breathily. "Just my name, darling." His lips brushed yours with every brutal thrust, teeth bared, chest heaving.
"A-Aiden..." His rhythm stutters for a moment.
"Again." One hand releases your hip to grip the headboard, knuckles paling. He doubles down in speed, driving into you with a punishing pace.
"Aiden!" Your nails dig into his shoulders, breaking the skin just enough to draw blood. The sudden pain has him spiralling; the sting, the moans and whines, the desperate way you cry his name. He tosses his head back with a sharp gasp as he teeters on the edge. He's swelling inside you, his balls drawing up tight.
"Fuck— Can't pull out." He warns between gritted teeth, hips slapping against yours almost painfully. "Gonna fill you up, sweetheart." His face presses into your neck. Hot, wet breath fans across your throat until he latches his mouth onto the join of your shoulder, sucking hard and bearing down with his teeth. You let out this little whimper as he marks you; his claim.
Finally, his hips lose all rhythm, slowing to deep, deep strokes as he spills inside you, his broken groan muffled against your skin. The feeling makes you whine and his teeth are still clamped around your shoulder, drinking in your needy sounds. Your nails are digging into his nape as he leaves a series of bites and sucking kisses along your neck, each one already a rich, bruised violet. They'll be impossible to hide tomorrow.
He's still buried deep, emptying himself completely with a low, ragged growl against your throat. He stays like that for a long moment, panting against your neck, as his energy shifts.
A gentle hand cups the side of your face and you nuzzle into his palm. When he pulls away to look at you, you surge up to kiss him and he melts into it, his mouth opening against your own, allowing your tongue to languidly explore. He kisses you back deeply, stealing the breath from your lungs. He pulls back and rests his brow against your own, breathing hard. He knows you haven't finished yet and, ever the attentive lover, he intends to rectify that.
With a wet sound, he pulls out and you let out a shaky sigh.
"Aiden..." His hand slowly inches along your body, only stopping between your thighs. Slowly, almost carefully, he slides his middle and ring ringer inside you, curling them deliberately to scoop out some of his spend mixed with your own slick. When he pulls his digits free, coated in a thick, creamy layer, he brings them to your lips and you obediently suck them clean. There's a sweetness from you and a familiar musky, salty-bitterness from him. Once his fingers are clean, he pulls them from your mouth, taking a moment to gaze down at you adoringly before he begins a slow descent down, his intent clear.
He spreads your thighs wide again and settles between them. You feel his breath on the tender flesh and shiver at the thought of what's to come. Then his tongue is there, lapping, swirling through the mess. His hands are tight on your thighs, keeping you spread wide open for him. Your fingers slide into his hair, brown-blonde locks breezing over your knuckles, as he seals his lips around your swollen clit. "F-Fuck..." He sucks, pulling the tender bundle between his lips and flicking his tongue over it with practiced motions. Your nails comb along his scalp. "Love you... Love you so... So much..." You sigh, voice airy and light. He pulls away for just a moment, laying a kiss on the hood of your clit.
"Love you too, darling." Then he's back to it, thumbs digging into your thighs, his tongue circling at that perfect, slow pace that makes your body burn like a furnace. He can feel your entire body tensing, coiling tighter and tighter, as you crest the peak. He pulls away and rests his cheek against your inner thigh, watching your expressions with lazy reverence. His fingers start to work in tight circles over your clit and he notices the way you're clenching down around nothing, more of his load oozing out and soaking into the sheets. "There you go." He murmurs, kissing your inseam. "Let go, darling."
Suddenly, you gasp and reach down to press his fingers flat against you. Your eyes roll and your mouth falls open but you go completely still, save for the way your muscles tense rhythmically as you finish. Under his fingers, he can feel your clit throb with each orgasmic shudder. Finally, you let out a string of gasps, like you've forgotten how to breathe.
"Ai— A-Aid— Aiden— F-F-Fuck..." You manage. He just holds you, one arm wrapped around your thigh and other keeping his fingers pressed, flat, between your legs.
Eventually, once you're eased into the afterglow, he climbs back up and collapses onto his back, pulling you against his side, your cheek pressed to his chest. Your limbs feel heavy and tired, a little sore from all the exertion, as you slide an arm over his chest to hug him close. His heartbeat thumps steadily against your ear and his fingers find your hair, threading through it. He drops a kiss to the top of your head, the other hand resting, heavy and warm, on the side of your ribcage.
"You alright?" He asks and you tilt your head to look at him with tired, glassy eyes.
"Mhmm... I'm great... So much for an early night, right?" You smile and he huffs out a laugh, leaning down to kiss your lips, slow and sweet.
if you got this far, it’d be lovely if you dropped me a kudos or a comment (whatever you have time for) on ao3. thanks for reading 💛✨
🔖 age difference, cum swallowing, infidelity, massage, not beta read, oral sex, pov second person, touch-starved.
✧ read below or on ao3 ✧
The notification on your phone lights up with a picture of Kathryn's face; flawless and aggressively filtered. You can't help but shudder; a kind of Pavlovian response at this point.
Before she became a micro-influencer peddling toxic positivity and flannel loungewear, Kathryn was the chiropractor from Hell. You know this because you were her clinical assistant for two agonising years. Back then, she controlled a cramped semi-medical suite with the terrifying efficiency of a military dictator. She ruled by clipboard; every bathroom break, every lukewarm review left by clients. But the worst part of the job hadn't been the scheduling nightmares or Kathryn's sharp, condescending 'reminders'. It had been the annual office mixers. That was where you met him.
He hadn't been introduced to you as 'Kathryn's husband'. In fact, when Kathryn gestured vaguely toward the corner of the restaurant during your first Christmas party, she barely used his name at all.
"And that..." She'd sighed, her voice dripping with exasperation. "That's just Walt." She said it like it was a medical diagnosis. Just Walt; as if it was universal shorthand for 'disappointment'.
But when you actually talked to Walt, you didn't see any disappointment at all. You saw a man who was desperately, quietly trying to keep the peace. When Kathryn snapped at the waitress, he apologetically left an extra twenty-dollar bill on the table. When she spent forty-five minutes lecturing a colleague about posture, he sat next to you, asked genuine questions about your life and laughed that soft, genuine laugh that made something in your chest ache.
Over the next two years, you watched her pick at him like a scab. You saw the way she dictated his diet, corrected his tone and publicly dismantled his dignity. You wanted to scream at her. More than that, you wanted to grab Walt by his sensible jacket, pull him away from her and tell him that he deserved to be someone's first choice, not an afterthought. You developed a massive crush on him. And it just wasn't fucking fair.
Eventually, you couldn't take her tyranny anymore and quit. But, in Kathryn's mind, no-one ever leaves her because they want to; she just assumed you needed to 'spread your wings'. She considered you a 'dear friend' and a loyal disciple.
Your phone buzzes again in your hand, pulling you back to the present; it's a DM from her official influencer account.
Kathryn_McSorley_Jobell: Hi! As you know, Walt's big 45 is coming up. I've planned a back-to-nature bonding retreat. Some other friends are coming but I want you there. You're single so you can't take one of the stationary tents (they're for couples and families LOL) but you can bring your own! Let me know by 5PM so I can finalise the itinerary.
You stare at the screen. A camping trip. A whole weekend trapped in the woods with Kathryn, surrounded by strangers, entirely on your own. It sounds like literally the worst thing you could ever think of. But then you read the words again; Walt's big 45. He was going to be trapped out there with her. She was going to spend the whole weekend humiliating him in front of an audience.
You look at the digital RSVP button and your heart does a dangerous, familiar flutter. You shouldn't go. It's a terrible idea.
Of course, you ended up saying yes. Between being a massive people-pleaser and not wanting to leave Walt stranded out there on his own, you couldn't say no.
Honestly, it's been a nightmare; Kathryn won't shut the Hell up (which you honestly should've expected), the other couples are in crisis constantly and the only notable person not 15 years older than you is some kid and she's a hormonal, little brat. Still, it feels a little bit worth it when you get a moment or two to talk to Walt about fishing or read a little of his poetry.
Tonight, everything's kicking off again around the campfire; the couples are bickering, the kid is off sulking somewhere and you're just sat there, wishing you hadn't come. Well, almost.
Off, on the outskirts of camp, but still in your peripheral, Walt is trying to drag a particularly heavy camping chair closer to the fire. He grunts and strains, feeling the leg of the chair caught on something, until suddenly—
Crack.
"Son of a—" Everyone goes quiet and turns around to look at Walt. You're already up and out of your seat. Kathryn looks up but just rolls her eyes impatiently and continues her incessant chatter at Nina-Joy. You lightly lay a hand between his shoulder blades as he stays, pitched over, hands on his knees.
"Hey, that didn't sound good." You murmur as he grits his teeth, sweat beading on his brow as he tries to force himself to stand. The sharp pain in his lower back radiates down his thighs and up his ribcage as he manages to half-stand.
"Honestly, Walt. It's just a chair." Kathryn sighs and you lean down slightly, voice low and soft.
"Can you walk?" You ask and his jaw tightens as he leans heavily against a cooler.
"Yeah." His hand shoots out to grab onto your arm for support, long fingers wrapping around your forearm. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just— Gimme a second." You don't move, taking some of his weight.
"I've got some Tylenol and ice packs in my tent?" You offer. You shouldn't be seeing this as an opportunity, an excuse to get him alone, but...
"That'd be... 'Ppreciate it." His voice is strained, breath coming in tight huffs as he lets you support him. You feel the warmth of him against your side and it makes a hot flush creep up the back of your neck. That and the scent of him, his cologne, washing over you; like pepper and sandalwood and cedar trees, fresh sweat and pine needles and the musk of a man scorned.
You hold onto him as you make your way to your tent on the other side of camp, a good ways away from the other couples' tents.
"Hey, take it slow. No rush." You reassure him. He nods but keeps his head down, eyes trained on the dirt.
When you finally make it inside your — considerably smaller tent — you help him down carefully onto your sleeping bag and he lets out a sharp hiss between his teeth. You quickly go about zipping the flap closed, flicking on the lantern and then reaching for your first aid bag, shaking out a couple Tylenol and grabbing your water bottle. You hold them in your palm, offering them to him. "Here."
He takes the pills, fingers steady despite the pain radiating down his hip. He pops them in his mouth and swallows, keeping his jaw tight. It's only now that he realises how small your tent is, intimate almost. His eyes slowly adjust to the dimness and he squints behind his thick glasses. Meanwhile, you're rummaging around in your cooler, pulling out a half-melted ice pack and wrapping it in a dishcloth. "Where does it hurt most?" You ask and he unbuttons his flannel without thinking. You try not to let your eyes dip to the pale skin of his bare chest or the dusting of hair across his pecs. he manages to point to the small of the back, where the muscles are all tightly knotted.
"Right here. Killing me." He manages and you move behind him, firmly but carefully pressing the ice pack against his back. He hisses again at the cold, his whole body jerking before he seems to melt into it, head dropping between his shoulders, hands braced, pale-knuckled, on his knees. "Jesus..." The knot of tension spasms and then slowly starts to loosen under the cool pressure. "That's... That's good." He breathes out a long, ragged breath.
After a moment, you move one hand to his shoulder, the other maintaining pressure on the ice pack.
"God, you're so tense." You murmur and he stiffens slightly, noticing the way he stiffens slightly at the contact.
"Long day." He huffs but it sounds like an excuse. His shoulders slowly start to drop as his eyes drift closed, taking solace in the moment of quiet.
Behind him, you steel yourself, tucking the ice pack under his belt slightly to keep it in place as you reach for a tube of lotion in your backpack.
"The ice pack's not gonna do anything if you're still strung tighter than a librarian's miniskirt, Walt." You tell him, squeezing out a little lotion and rubbing it between your hands. A choked but genuine laugh escapes him but quickly dies in his throat as your slick hands land on his shoulders, slowly melting away the tension buried there.
You don't know he hasn't fucked in two years. You know his and Kathryn's sex life has to be pretty dire but you don't know it's been two years since he last had someone touch him remotely like this; gentle, competent, undemanding. You don't know he's barely had a kiss in that time. And you certainly don't know, especially from this angle, that he's already getting hard in his shorts.
You work your thumbs into the muscles on either side of his cervical. Thank God, all that time assisting in Kathryn's bogus chiropractic office is finally finding some use. A low groan tears out of his throat, completely unchecked, and his head drops forward heavily, surrendering to the pressure. He's got knots the size of walnuts under his skin, tight from years upon years of stress, and his breath catches in his chest as you find a particularly brutal one. "Sore?"
"Yeah." He exhales slowly. "Right there." His voice is somehow quieter now, less strained. The tent feels smaller, more private. You can vaguely hear the pop and crackle of the campfire but it seems worlds away. You've finally got him all to yourself, in your tent, and your heart is beating out of your chest.
His muscles finally give under your hands, releasing in waves of warm tension. His head falls back now, brows knitted, and you move just a little closer. Your voice is low and sweet, lips almost brushing the shell of his ear.
"How's that? Tylenol starting to kick in yet?" You ask and he gives a rumble of affirmation as he seems to melt under your touch. He hasn't been spoken to like this, touched like this, in years and it's wreaking havoc on his fried nerves.
You slowly make your way down his back, absently counting the freckles and leaving trails of heat over his skin. Eventually, you take away the softening ice pack, the dishcloth it's wrapped in wet with condensation, and replace it with the warmth of your lotion-slick hands. He shudders at the contact, hands gripping onto your sleeping bag tightly. His mouth opens then closes; it shouldn't be feeling this good.
Your voice — soft and lilting — brings him back to the present. "Y'know, it's not because you're old— Pulling a muscle, I mean." You press your palms all the way up his back, either side of his spine. "I once pulled my back while I was picking up a load of laundry when I was like twenty-one." He laughs breathily, his back arching slightly as the heel of your hands smooth out the muscles there. "You push yourself too hard." You comment, the words spilling out just to fill the silence.
"I'm fine." He says automatically but it's a script; one he's been parroting for years now. The lie feels thin now though, under your hands. The lotion is cooling and your thumbs are working lower, pressing just above his waistband again. "I just...don't stop. Can't afford to."
"Well, you should. You're gonna wear yourself out." You tell him though your tone isn't unkind. It could never be, not with him. He doesn't answer straight away, just lets out this long, shaky breath that rattles in his chest. You're pressing into the tissues near his kidneys and his nerves are screaming in relief as they slowly unbind and loosen.
"Yeah, well... Somebody has to do it." He replies simply though you can tell there's plenty under there he's not saying. You shift just a little closer, your hands sliding just that little bit lower, just under the waistband of his shorts, massaging the muscles at the base of his lumbar.
"She's too hard on you, y'know? Kathryn?" You offer and he stiffens again slightly.
"Don't." He warns, voice tight. Still, he's loosening up again, betraying him. "She's just..."
"She was kind of a hard-ass when she was my manager too." You continue and he's becoming acutely aware of the way he can feel your breath on the nape of his neck. "But I could quit." A painful, almost bitter, laugh makes his shoulders shake.
"Yeah." He pauses for a long moment. "I can't." You work your hands up yet again, just busying yourself now as you talk, almost an excuse to keep him here, in this moment, with you.
"And you're so devoted and caring and capable and... I mean, if I was married to a guy like that, I'd let him know how much I loved him, y'know?" His breathing stops for a moment, his fingers still curled into the material of your sleeping bag.
"... Yeah?" He forces the syllable out.
"Mhm. In any way I could." You leave the statement hanging.
"Just...stop talking." He breathes and you pull your hands away.
"Sorry. Am I annoying you?" It's an honest question; you don't want to drive him away, not because of this, because of her. But the absence of your touch is cold and violent and he aches. He's staring at the lantern glowing dimly in the tent.
"No." He finally manages.
"I'm just saying..." You decide to shoot your shot. Now or never. You can tell he's on the ropes. You slowly wrap your arms around his middle, resting your cheek between his shoulder blades. "You deserve better."
There's a very still few beats and then you can almost feel something cracking open in his chest; a chasm yawning wide and deep. Large hands cover yours on his stomach, gripping hard. "Walt, if you were my husband? God, I'd never let you forget it." You pull back just a little to press your lips to the nape of his neck. He shivers but doesn't pull away. Your lips are on him and it's unravelling him, top to bottom.
"Yeah, you'd— You'd..." He can't bring himself to say much more.
"I'd wanna show you..." One of your hands slips down his stomach and abdomen, fingers brushing the buckle of his belt, dangerously close to his crotch. His Adam's apple bobs in his throat. "I want to show you." Your hand slides just a little further until you're cupping the front of his shorts, lightly squeezing.
A desperate groan tears out of his throat and his hips buck instinctively against your palm. His head drops back against your shoulder, dark hair flopping in front of his eyes.
"You can't." He rasps, grasping your wrist but not pulling your hand away. You hold it there, the pressure light. You nuzzle into the hollow just bellow his ear.
"Tell me stop and I'll stop." You say simply. His breaths are coming in sharp, heavy pants, his chest heaving You're still holding him, whispering in his ear, and it's too much, too good. He's leaking into his boxer-briefs, a wet spot spreading on the cotton.
"I-I... Fuck..." He swallows hard.
"Do you want me to stop?" You ask again.
"No." The truth immediately slips out. He's shaking, head resting back against your shoulder, back against your chest, hands blindly covering yours against his zipper. You nod and kiss under his ear, pulling your hand away.
"Lie back."
Walt's obedience is instant and automatic; a lifetime of conditioning, even now. He shifts carefully, wincing as his back protests, and lies back on your sleeping bag. You move to sit between his thighs, hands rubbing along the tense muscles there. He looks fucked out already; pupils blown wide behind his glasses, chest heaving, the bulge in his shorts unmistakable. He grips the edges of the sleeping bag again, knuckles white.
Finally, your hands reach his belt and unbuckle it, popping the button on his shorts and lightly tugging them open. He's practically begging for freedom in those boxers and you bite your lip, your gaze finally meeting his from under your lashes. A groan builds in the back of his throat as your fingertips ghost over the outline of his cock through the cotton. You slip your fingers into the waistband and pull them down slowly until he bobs free and your breath hitches.
He's thick, heavy, leaking beautifully from the tip, his balls full and tight. He's ridiculously responsive too; hips jerking helplessly as the cool air hits his skin. His cheeks flame brightly.
"Don't— Don't look." He starts but he doesn't move his hands from clutching the edge of the sleeping bag. You brace your hands on his thighs as you lay down on your belly, eying the cock that his wife is so foolishly wasting.
"You need to take care of this thing every once in a while, Walt, or it'll go bad." You tease and a strangled sound punches its way out of him, half-laugh, half-moan. He twitches, another bead of pre forming at the slit and then rolling down the shaft to pool at the base.
"I do...when I can..." You're closer now and he can feel your hot, wet breath on the crown.
"Can I take care of it this time?" You ask and his whole body locks up.
"Yes."
Wrapping your fingers slowly around the shaft, you inch down the foreskin and a choked moan tears from his throat. His head falls back against the pillow and he basks in your scent as you reveal the flushed, hypersensitive head. One hand flies up to cover his mouth, muffling curses, especially when you lean in to run the flat of your tongue over the slit, lapping up the fresh pearl of pre forming there. Salty, musky, bitter, warm. His back arches clean off the sleeping back despite the ache at the base of his spine. And he's leaking more almost instantly, his free hand moving to your hair, not pushing or pulling but holding on for dear life.
With a soft hum, you close your lips around the head, suckling gently and swirling your tongue around the glans. He can feel himself swelling further, impossibly hard, as you surround him in hot, silky suction. His hips make these tiny, helpless bucking motions as he gasps, long fingers tightening in your hair. You both know he won't last long, not after the dry spell he's had.
You take him down further, relishing the way his eyes roll back in his head and his hips jerk upward, pushing another inch or so into your mouth. You don't mind; you're loving this. You take him down just a little more before moving your free hand to cup his heavy sac, squeezing and massaging rhythmically, as you suck.
A broken yelp escapes between his fingers. God, it's so fucking good. He's trembling, toes curling in his boots, thighs tight around your head. "I-I'm gonna—" He chokes out, every muscle in his body drawn tight with want. "Should I—" You don't answer, just take more of him into your mouth, sliding down until your face nestles into the sparse happy trail along the softness of his belly.
That's it. His back arches completely off the floor, a guttural whine tearing from his throat, muffled by his own hand. Hot ropes of white paint your tongue, more than he's cum in years. You go still, letting him ride it out. Occasionally, you swallow but you stay put, your face pressed into his crotch as he finishes in your mouth.
Finally, the fingers in your hair slowly start to loosen and he goes completely slack, staring up at the roof of the tent, glazed eyes behind skewed glasses. You sit up, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.
"Better?" You ask, as if you just got him a beer after a long day.
"'Better'?" He echoes incredulously, lifting his head just enough to look at you. He's sweaty and flushed, hair sticking up in all different directions. He collapses back. "Jesus Christ..." You climb on top of him, leaning down to brush your lips to his; chaste, barely there.
"Well, do you?" He blinks up at you owlishly as you straighten his glasses.
"Yeah... So much better."
if you got this far, it’d be lovely if you dropped me a kudos or a comment (whatever you have time for) on ao3. thanks for reading 💛✨
explicit ✨ kevin 'kilgrave' thompson x ftm!reader✨ marvel: jessica jones ✨ 17m
🔖 canon divergence, canon-typical violence, cock-warming, daddy kink, dom/sub undertones, finger-sucking, fix-it, food play, kilgrave is a warning in himself, not beta read, past abuse, pov second person, praise kink, reader has powers, semi-public sex, stalking, vaginal sex.
✧ read below or on ao3 ✧
🍒 author’s note: okay so i know kilgrave is certainly a…character and one that not a lot of people get on with. i want to preface this fic by saying that i absolutely don't condone his canon actions (i don't know anyone decent who would) but i'm not writing him as canon!kilgrave. i'm removing jessica from his story as well as most sa (apart from like once when he was a teenager and didn't know better). he still hurts people, kills people, all that jazz, but i'm not writing him as a rapist. i'm writing him as a more self-aware, slightly less reprehensible character.
the mc isn't immune to his powers but he doesn't need to use them because mc sees a side of him that they fall for and they give themselves to him willingly; what he's always wanted. mc isn't a great person either as they don't try to stop him using his powers but they will step in and stop him from being so rash with his powers aka killing people, forcing them to torture themselves. he still does it, just not in front of mc. i hope this made sense.
with that being said, please take care of yourself and don't read if you're still uncomfortable. love y'all. happy fathers' day! 💛💛
There was a kind of static in the air, buzzing in the damp autumn air. Inside a lavish penthouse apartment, the bluish glow of a laptop lit up his face, casting sharp shadows across features that anyone, who had seen them, associated with pure horror.
Kevin Thompson — Kilgrave, these days — couldn't care less about the world outside; his gaze fixed entirely on his screens. One hand rests on his laptop as the other scrolls through his phone. The camera roll is filled to the brim with files, thousands of photographs; candid photos taken from across a busy street, a soft smile in a grocery store, screenshots of tracking data from a program he'd had installed on a particular phone months ago.
To those who encountered him, heard about him, he was some kind of psychic boogeyman who took whatever he wanted and, in many ways, they were right. He'd carved a path for himself in this world, leaving piles of ruined people in his wake. Under his thrall, men had broken their own bones, walked into traffic, jumped from multi-storey buildings. He was a creature of pure coercion. He'd done all these things and much, much more. But he never raped anyone; not knowingly and certainly not intentionally. The mere idea of using his powers to force someone into his bed was repulsive. Granted; this wasn't because he actually upheld a kind of moral code. No, it was because sex with someone under his thrall was so incredibly boring. Boring and lonely, though he'd never admit it. It was like puppetry and, at that point, he might as well have just bought a sex doll. He despised it and so, in the end, he'd resigned himself to a life of absolute power and absolute emptiness because he craved the one thing his power could never manufacture; loyalty and affection born entirely of free will.
Until there was a string of odd news stories coming from just out of town.
They called them freak accidents and public disturbances; localised EMP-like events that shattered city block's worth of electronics. There were multiple across the city but never too far. The police said it was likely a faulty transformer. But he'd seen the footage, the photos. Always, there was a figure huddled on the pavement or tucked away in a dark corner that the cameras had managed to catch before they were fried; small, timid, terrified of their own shadow and holding back a great deal of power. Kilgrave had been entirely captivated.
And the hunt began.
He had you identified and the rest was easy from there; a whisper here and a whisper there and he'd managed to find all your socials, your address, your family. He'd gotten into your devices and, by extension, your diary. There were countless people mentioned in there alongside the things they'd done to you. People labelled him as evil but at least he was upfront with it. So he made a list.
For months, he'd been travelling, hopping from wet, grey, British streets to the stifling cities of Australia and everywhere in-between. He'd tracked down every single name you mentioned. Not out of a sense of justice but just because he was curious as to what kind of people could create a vision like you, what kind of abuse you'd suffered at the hands of others to make you the way you are. He didn't leave them unscathed though, that wouldn't be fun.
There were old friends, employers and ex-lovers, which were his personal favourite. It made some possessive part of him sing when he forced one of your abusive ex-boyfriends to repeatedly crush his fingers under the fall-board of a piano, leaving his fingers mangled and his voice hoarse from all the pathetic screaming. He didn't use weapons; didn't have to. He just walked into their space, smiled that razor-sharp smile and pulled up a picture of you on his phone.
"Do you remember this face?" He'd ask. If they said no, he'd fill them in. If they said yes, all the better; he could get right to the fun part. He delivered his own twisted form of karma, making sure that the people who hurt you paid a permanent price, all while keeping his hands completely clean. Then, he'd watch your diary. You were...grateful. Sure, it was odd that all the names cropping up in the news reports were related to you but you weren't about to complain; they deserved it.
He began messaging you on your socials. You talked for weeks. Through text, obviously there was no way his virus could get to you, you were completely uninhibited by his voice and so he tested the waters. The chemistry was like a lightning strike and all so genuine. Without a single command, he was receiving the soft, vulnerable responses he had spent his entire life begging for. He was your guardian angel and he'd make sure that no-one would speak a crossed word to you again, never lay a finger on you again. You were all his.
But the distance grew unbearable. He'd spent days lurking in the shadows outside your apartment building, watched your window from across the street. He exercised a restraint he didn't know he was capable of, terrified that stepping into your space would ruin what you had, that his virus would infect the air and you would become just another puppet on a string. But he needed to see you, hold you, comfort you. He needed you to be his, not just in theory but in reality.
It's the third Sunday in June. It shouldn't have any significance but it has, ever since he met you, ever since he learned what he could be for you.
And, to his relief and delight, Kilgrave realised that his powers were completely unnecessary with you. You were so tired, so broken by the past, that even a word of comfort or a hand on your shoulder would have you as putty in his hands. Things took off from there.
You walk up the street, an arm looped into his. You're both dressed to the nines. It's a special night, after all; you have to make the most of it.
Kilgrave holds the door open for you. The restaurant is packed with people eating and chattering. When you come to a stop by the 'please wait here to be seated' sign, you glance up at him and see a muscle twitch in his jaw. He pushes past the line of people to be seated and you follow close behind, his fingers tight around your own. He stands at the head of the dining room, picks up a wine bottle from one of the tables and drops it on the floor. The crash echoes through the high-ceilinged room and the din of talking thins out to a murmur as everyone looks over.
"Everyone, out." He commands easily, voice steady, assured. Some of them look at each other but they all begin to pack their things, pick up their coats and file out without a single complaint.
Once the last of the patrons has left, leaving the two of you alone in the dining room, he leads you to a table at the back. It's small and intimate, a candle and a couple white roses in a small vase at the centre of the table. He pulls your chair out first — ever the gentleman — and you take a seat.
"Thank you." You tell him and large, warm hands rest on your shoulders, squeezing lightly before he rounds the table to take a seat. He watches you like a hawk, cataloging every movement, every breath, but his gaze is entirely adoring. You notice a waiter peek his head out from the kitchen and you smile, waving him over. He almost trips over himself, hurrying his way into the dining room and unwittingly stepping into the infected air that surrounds the man sitting across from you.
"Menus." Kilgrave announces, tapping a finger on the table. The waiter nods and rushes to place two menus on the table. He looks at the menus and then at the waiter. "Is that it?" He huffs and the waiter wrings his wrists slightly. "On Father's Day? I thought it was supposed to be all about appreciating the paternal figures in our lives, yes? Where's my appreciation?" You reach across the table, laying your hand on his larger one.
"I appreciate you, daddy." You give him a winning smile and his demeanour shifts in an instant as he turns his head to look at you. Long fingers curl into yours possessively, his thumb stroking across the back of your hand as a genuine, satisfied smile curls at his lips; hungry and adoring all at once.
"I know you do, sweetheart." He murmurs, lifting your hand to press a kiss to your knuckles. You take a glance at the menu.
"Hmm... Can I get a glass of the house red, please?" You ask and the waiter nods quickly, pulling out his notepad and scribbling down your order.
"Yes, of course. And for you, sir?" The waiter turns his attention to Kilgrave, who doesn't even look at him.
"Actually, we'll take a bottle of the 2018 Brunello di Montalcino." The waiter nods again and then turns to walk to the bar. "Oh, and lock the front doors; we don't want any interruptions."
You watch the waiter move out the corner of your eye but your focus stays rivet to the man opposite you, still holding your hand. He tilts his head, studying you with that familiar intensity, like he could just stare at you forever and never get tired of it. His free hand reaches up to brush a lock of hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear with almost unbearable tenderness. "God, you're so perfect." He whispers and you lightly grasp his wrist, holding his hand to your face and gazing at him through your lashes. His thumb draws slow circles on your cheekbone and you melt into the contact, perfectly comfortable under his gaze.
Soon enough, the waiter returns with the glasses and wine but Kilgrave pays him no mind, too entranced by you to acknowledge anything else. He's never met a person who makes him feel how he imagines others feel under his thrall. You kiss the inside of his wrist before releasing his hand.
"What do you want to eat?" You ask and he takes a breath, eyes flickering over the menu briefly.
"Mm... The filet mignon." He decides. The waiter pours two glasses of wine as the man across the table taps rhythmically on the table with his fingertips. "Still mooing." He holds up his menu as you scan yours.
"And I'll have..." Kilgrave plucks up his glass, taking a whiff of the wine before sipping, watching you over the rim of his glass as you consider your order. The rich burgundy in the glass has notes of raspberry, wild herbs and peach and it slips down his throat like liquid gold. "I'll just have the tiramisu, please." You hand the waiter your menu.
"Straight to dessert." Kilgrave purrs, amused.
"Tiramisu for the gentleman. And the filet mignon, blue." The waiter repeats then makes himself scarce as the man across the table waves him away dismissively.
Once you're alone again, he curls his fingers around the stem of his glass, lifting it toward you.
"To us." He murmurs softly and you take you glass, clinking it to his.
"Happy Fathers' Day." At your words, a smile curls at his lips, the rare sight making him look almost boyish.
"Thank you." He takes a long sip of his wine and then sets his glass down. "Come here, darling." You stand and he pushes his chair back slightly, patting his thigh. You move around the table to sit in his lap.
"Here?"
"Right here." One arm wraps securely around the small of your back as his other hand rests on your thigh, feeling the warmth of your skin through your dress pants, thumb lightly tracing your inseam.
He leans in, his nose brushing the side of your neck as he drinks in your scent; clean laundry, drugstore cologne, a warm body. His lips barely graze where your pulse flutters beneath the skin as his hand slides higher on your thigh, inching higher and higher. He drags the flat of his tongue along the column of your throat and you let out a shaky sigh. He's already getting hard, grinding up just enough to show you what you do to him. His mouth finds your ear, capturing the lobe between his teeth lightly. It pulls a gasp from you and your fingers tighten around his shoulder.
The chuckle he lets out; you feel more than hear. "That's it." He praises, his voice barely a whisper as he squeezes your thigh. "I can't wait to get home. I'm going to fuck you into the mattress. Would you like that?" You nod, pressing your brow to his temple.
"Yes... Yes, please..." Your voice is soft and breathy.
"Good boy." he murmurs approvingly, his lips following the curve of your jawline. He picks up his wine glass again and takes a long sip. You watch the muscles in his throat work as he swallows, the way his Adam's apple bobs, and you nuzzle your face into the crook of his neck.
He takes another sip but he doesn't swallow this time. Instead, he cups the back of your head, pressing his lips to yours and pushing the wine into your mouth as his tongue invades. The cool, rich liquid spills into your mouth as you part your lips on a gasp. His tongue dives in after it, claiming your mouth with deep possessive strokes.
When he finally pulls away, the both of you are breathing heavy and you can feel him straining against you from below.
The waiter soon returns with your tiramisu and his filet though you barely notice; too wrapped up in him to care about anything else. He meets your gaze, deep brown eyes swimming with hunger and adoration. He can feel you trembling. He can feel just how much you want him. "Feed me." He orders, though he still doesn't use his powers. You turn to grasp the cutlery but he stops you, warm fingers curling around your wrist. "Not yet. Stand up."
When you stand from his lap, his fingers find their way under the waistband of your dress pants and underwear, tugging them down to your mid-thigh. You flush deeply, eyes darting around the restaurant only to find it still empty, no prying eyes. Once you're exposed, he sinks back in his chair, trailing a hand down to unzip his own slacks, groping himself through his underwear before pulling those down too. Catching your bottom lip between your teeth, your eyes drop to his cock, already pulsing, leaking, eager for you. He wraps a hand around it, giving it a slow, deliberate stroke, as your mouth waters. "Look at what you do to me, sweetheart." He rasps, passing his thumb over the head to smear a bead of pre over the crown.
With his other hand, he taps his thigh again and you obey, whining softly as you feel his cock sliding between your soaking wet folds. One hand goes to grip your hip and keep you steady, the other still holding the base of his prick to guide him in.
"D-Daddy..." And a muscle jumps in his neck as he gasps, his head falling back against the chair as you sink down onto him, not yet inside you but sliding against you wetly, teasing you both.
"There we go." The hand on your hip squeezes tight as he lowers you down onto him so very, very slowly. A groan tears from his throat and his eyes drop shut as your tight heat swallows him inch by inch. Your body grips him tight as you fully seat him inside you, the familiar stretch making you mewl with pleasure. "That's my boy. Just keep me there, don't move..."
You stay there a moment before picking up the cutlery and cutting him a slice of the filet. The juices run out on the plate, bloody and rich. You hold the fork up to his mouth.
"Here." You offer and he opens his mouth, letting you feed him the tender, bloody meat. It ments on his tongue and he savours it, his hands tight on your hip and your thigh, keeping you still. "Is it good?" You lean into rub your face against the hinge of his jaw. The simple, tender gesture makes him throb inside you.
"Mmhmm." You turn and hold up another slice of meat. He accepts it, leaning forward to take the offering, his tongue curling around the fork to catch the juices. He chews slowly, massaging your thigh while his cock sits heavy and deep inside you, unmoving. "Delicious."
You take your time feeding him and holding his wine glass to let him drink, all while he throbs and twitches inside you. You know he has no intention of taking it further thank this; it's only a promise of what's to come when you get home.
Kilgrave lets you spoil him, allowing you to feed him bite after bloody bite and tilt the glass to his lips. He relishes the food but, more than that, he relishes your company, your genuine care and affection. His heavy, aching presence inside you is a constant reminder; you're filled and owned and loved.
Once he finishes the steak, you give him another drink of wine before switching the plate for the tiramisu. You go to pick up the spoon but he takes it from your fingers. "Let me." He murmurs and you relax against him. He scoops up a generous spoon of mascarpone and coffee-soaked ladyfingers, bringing it to your lips. "Open." Immediately, you part your lips and he feed you the sweet, creamy bite, watching intently as your lips close around the spoon. He smiles and it's dark, predatory but painfully fond. He lifts a hand to wipe a smudge of cocoa power from the corner of your mouth. "Good boy." He praises again, feeding you another spoonful as you feel his cock pulse inside you, grounding you in his presence. Every few bites, he leans in to kiss the sweetness from your lips and your eyes are riveted to him the entire time.
Once he finishes feeding you, he drags a finger along the plate, gathering the last traces of cocoa powder and coffee liqueur. He brings his finger to your lips, offering it to you expectantly. You open your mouth and wrap your lips around his finger, eyes fluttering closed as your tongue grazes his skin. He shudders, his cock jerking hard inside you. You lick and suckle at his finger until he pulls it away, your lips connected to his fingertip with a thin string of saliva. "That's right."
You finish your wine as his hand returns to your thigh. The silence is heavy but comfortable; the air thick with ownership and obsessive, deep-seated love. When you set your wine glass down again, he lays a kiss just below your ear, scenting the tender flesh there. "Time for home, love?" He asks and you nod.
You can't wait to show daddy just how much you truly appreciate him.
if you got this far, it’d be lovely if you dropped me a kudos or a comment (whatever you have time for) on ao3. thanks for reading 💛✨
💬 it's time for your massage and you're getting just a little more than you bargained for.
✧ read below or on ao3 ✧
The morning light in the Martín kitchen is almost clinical, bouncing off the Carrara marble with a sharpness that makes Josh's head ache. He's sat, nursing a double espresso, his thumb hovering over his phone screen, a Pavlovian itch blooming in his crotch. He shouldn't. He's already jerked off twice since waking up — once in the shower and once while Lindsay was downstairs turning on the coffee machine — but the mental loop of you...is a high-definition haunting. Fuck, maybe this is what those young, dumb interns mean when they say they're 'down bad'.
For the first time since his mid-twenties, he's waking up with his heart pounding in his chest and his boxers sticking to his skin; the kind of visceral, teenage hunger that makes his expensive life feel like a cardboard set.
The silence is broken by the sharp clack of a ceramic mug. Lindsay is standing across the island, her workout gear pristine, her face set in a mask of exhausted disappointment. She doesn't look like a woman whose marriage is failing; she looks like a forensic accountant about to deliver an audit.
"You still have your Cloud sync on." She says, her voice is terrifyingly level. He freezes. The espresso suddenly tastes like battery acid. He goes to stand.
"Listen, I'm running late for the greens committee—"
"I saw the folder. 'Site Inspections'?" She lets out a jagged, mocking laugh. She slides her iPad across the marble. On the screen is a familiar set of pictures of you. You, making your way to the jacuzzi in that slutty, little bikini. You, enjoying the bubbles in said jacuzzi, your tits gloriously buoyant. "You're stalking a client's daughter. In between jerking off in the bathroom like a degenerate. It's pathetic."
The shame should hit him but instead it's a hot, prickly defensiveness. The poison in his blood bubbles to the surface. He looks at the photos of you and, instead of guilt, he feels this frantic possessiveness.
"It's not stalking, Linds." He snaps. "I'm managing the atmosphere. I'm aware of who's on the property, doing my Goddamn job."
"You're vibrating, Josh. I can practically smell the desperation on you from across the room. It's embarrassing. If the Phipps find out their golden boy GM is taking creep-shots of their daughter, we lose everything." She hisses and Josh stands up, the chair screeching against the tile.
"Everything? You mean the house you barely sleep in? The sex life you've been 'outsourcing' for the last eighteen months?" He bites back and Lindsay flinches, then narrows her eyes.
"Don't you dare make this about me."
"Why not? We're playing the 'honesty' game now, yeah?" Josh steps closer, his pulse thrumming in his throat. "I've stayed civil. I've signed the papers for the mediation. I've ignored the fact that you smell like Versace Pour Homme every time you come back from 'tennis', which is funny because I've never worn that cologne in my fucking life." The air in the kitchen turns static. The score is finally on the scoreboard, the numbers glowing neon.
He stalks toward her. "I stayed for the optics." He spits, his voice dropping to a hiss. "Because the club needs a GM with a stable home life. But, if I'm a 'degenerate' for just looking at someone who actually does something to me, then what're you?" She just stares at him, her lip curling in a mix of fury and genuine shock. She hasn't seen him this unhinged, this hungry, in years.
"You're losing it, Josh. This girl... She's gonna be the thing that finally breaks you."
"God, I hope so." Josh whispers, grabbing his blazer from the counter.
He doesn't look back as he storms out to the Audi. Slowly, he sinks into the drivers seat. The anger is still hot in his throat but, beneath it, the obsession is still there, humming like a live wire. He looks down at his phone. The screen's timed out and gone black. He taps it. You appear again. Sitting by the pool; untouchable and gorgeous and all his. A slow, dark smile creeps onto his face. The bridges are burned. The masks are off. There's no civil marriage left to protect, no reputation to gingerly balance.
Lindsay can go to hell; the marriage is dead wood anyway. But, looking down at his phone, he feels this terrifying, electric sense of life. He knows the score now and he's fucking ready to play the back nine.
When you finally reach Monte Vista, it's a balmy 86°. The sun is out and you've just driven over from having brunch and catching up with your girlfriends. You haven't seen them for a few months so it was nice to find out what they've been up to and get up to date on the latest scandals in town.
You sweep past reception, wearing this breezy sundress which feels just right for the temperature today. Tapping your membership card, you practically float past the barriers and into the clubhouse itself, turning the corner into the spa. Instantly, the sound of running water and soothing piano music drifts through the air and the tension begins to seep from your bones.
Stopping in the changing room, you pull on your swimsuit — making sure to shut your bag and clothes away in one of the lockers — wrap yourself in a complimentary robe and head toward the spa lounge. You stop by lounge reception to check in. A girl, with a name tag reading 'Christine', is manning the desk and you give her a smile.
"Hi. I was just wondering if you could let me know when I'm booked in for my massage?" You ask her and she nods, turning her eyes to the screen and clicking her mouse a couple times.
"Could I take your name?" She asks and you give it to her. She nods and her long nails tap away at her keyboard. "Let me just have a looook..." She pauses and her brows knit for a moment before she looks back up at you with a smile. "You're booked in for 3PM. Please, feel free to pass the time in the pool, steam-room and sauna. I'll let you know when we're ready for you." You give her a polite smile and a nod before continuing on; getting a mimosa from the bar, situating yourself in a comfortable lounger and scrolling through your phone.
You spend the next few hours milling between the sauna, the steam-room and the indoor pool, patiently awaiting your allotted slot. You've been really looking forward to this.
Josh adjusts the collar of his polo as he stands by the reception desk. Of course, someone was going to check the Goddamn schedule and suss him out.
Note to self; mistakes get made, when you think with your dick.
"Mister Martín, maybe we shouldn't—"
"Shut it, Christine. I'll give you a raise if you keep this quiet." He whispers and she hastily turns her eyes back to the screen, uneasy but not about to turn down the prospect of extra money. Christine stands, smooths out her uniform and walks primly into the lounge, approaching you.
"The therapist is ready to see you." She tells you, her voice somewhat tight, and you turn off your phone, following her out of the lounge and down the hall. She directs you to a room a few doors down and opens it for you. The lights are dim and the sound of Tibetan singing bowls rings through the small space. "If you'd just like to take off your clothes and lay down on your stomach." She gestures to the padded massage table in the centre of the room. "There's a towel on the bed to cover you." You thank her and she takes her leave, shutting the door behind her.
Christine stops as she closes the door, finding Josh right outside, breath coming hard and fast, cheeks a little flushed. She walks past him to make her way back toward the reception area. And Josh is just giddy with excitement; all alone with you, no-one around, no-one to stop him if he does something incredibly, incredibly stupid.
In the therapy room, you untie your robe and hang it on the hook before pulling off your swimsuit and toeing off your sandals. With a sigh, you pick up the towel from the massage table and lay down on your front, draping the towel over your backside as instructed.
And there's a knock at the door.
"Hey there. Are we ready in here?" Josh is praying you don't remember his voice from when you first spoke to him a few weeks ago.
"Mhmm." You respond, face comfortably wedged into the circular pillow at the head of the table. He slips into the room, closing the door silently behind him. His throat grows tight when he sees the silhouette of your body on the table even in the low ambient light; the curve of your waist, the dip of your lower back... He clears his throat, trying to keep at least his voice professional.
"Great. I'll be your therapist today. Just — uhh... — lie still and relax, yeah?" You give a hum of approval and he steps closer.
Your body is just laid out for him, like a feast; your hair loose and pulled over one shoulder to expose your smooth back. His eyes trace along the soft lines of your body until they're blocked by the towel and he curses the thing mentally. He walks around to the side of the table, blindly picking up something he assumes is massage oil and pouring some into his hands.
As he starts to warm the oil, his eyes linger on the towel covering your rear. He imagines sliding his hands underneath, gripping your ass, spreading your cheeks... His mind is completely blank except for processing just how good your skin looks in this light; like silk and satin. He's already hard in his pants again and he hasn't even touched you yet. Fuck. "So what're we looking at here? Lower back pain, high stress or just...general maintenance?" He knows jackshit about massages. Well, outside of those cheesy pornos he watched in college.
"I get a lot of tension at the base of my neck and between my shoulders if you can help with that?" You ask and Josh nods, humming in the back of his throat.
"Mhm. Definitely." His hands hover over your shoulders for a moment before he places them down gently, slowly working his way up your neck.
Oh, he's touching you now. Actually physically touching you and your skin is just so warm and soft, like velvet in the sun. He gingerly presses his thumbs into the knots at the base of your neck, working in slow circles. He leans down slightly, close enough to catch your scent; floral, light, sensual. His cock strains in his tailored chinos, begging for attention. He's just glad you can't see it. "You're holding a lot of tension here." He murmurs, voice dropping lower than intended. He's absolutely bullshitting his way through this but it's the best he can do.
"Yeah, I've never been the same since college." You laugh softly, almost musically, and it makes his chest flutter with warmth. "All that sitting and staring at textbooks."
"Mm... I can tell." He rumbles in return, his hands moving slowly across your upper back, kneading the muscles between your shoulders. His hands are ever so slightly rough, unlike most massage therapists you've experienced in your time. It's not unpleasant though; large, warm hands working across your skin, thumbs grazing a tender spot between your shoulder blades and making you melt under his touch.
"Mmnnn... There... Just there..." You moan softly and a shiver rushes through him. He presses harder, feeling the tension give way beneath his fingertips.
"That's the spot, huh?" He rasps. He shouldn't be enjoying this so much; noticing how your breathing's gotten heavier or how your body sinks deeper into the table with each passing second. But he is. He's enjoying this so fucking much.
"Mhmm..." Josh continues to work that spot, his fingers digging deeper into the muscles. He can feel himself getting lost in the moment, hands moving lower and lower until he's pressing into the small of your back, where the towel lies.
"What were you studying?" He asks. Anything to keep you talking, to hear that pretty European lilt from your lips that sends electric shocks up and down his spine.
"I was at Intituto Marangoni? In Milan?"
"Fashion school?" His fingers trace along your spine and he watches the way your skin pebbles slightly under his touch, goosebumps rising. "Guess that explains everything." His palm slides down deliberately, pressing into the soft flesh of your lower back. He doesn't move to slide back up. Just...leaves it there.
Dark eyes sweep down the length of your legs; starting at your dainty ankles and slowly tracing up your shapely calves and delightfully supple thighs. He can see the slight muscle definition from years of wearing heels and walking around city high-streets. His hands move down to your calves, feeling the muscle there, encased in sleek, silken skin.
There's a lull in conversation now and he's torn. He wants to know everything about you; every moment of creating this wonderful, sirenical creature which has captured him. But he also wants to draw more of those lewd, filthy moans from your mouth, sounds that make his balls swollen and heavy...
Eventually, he choses the former, fingers inching higher and higher. "So what did you study?" It's a fucking FASHION SCHOOL, dumbass! What else is she going to study?!
"I got my BA in fashion and design." You tell him easily as his thumbs press into the yielding flesh in the back of your thighs.
"Impressive. Milan must've been beautiful." His voice is low, almost too low, as his hands work their way higher on your legs. The towel is shifting with each stroke and he can see the faint outline of your ass beneath it. That ass which left that Goddamn imprint on the bench in the squash court. Sit on my face. Sit on my face. Sit on my face. Sit on my— "You still design?"
"A couple sketches here and there but I'm taking a break for a while."
"A break's good." He murmurs as he continues his slow, deliberate journey up tour thighs. He can feel the heat radiating from your skin and sinking into his fingers. His thumbs are dangerously close to the towel now. "You deserve it." The words slip out before he can process them but he has to cut himself some slack; his restraint is dangling by a thread here. "Hey, you a little warm under there? The towel, I mean?" You make a noncommittal sound.
"A little, I guess."
"Let me get that for you." He says too quickly, eager hands grabbing the edge of the towel and pulling it away.
His breath catches in his throat.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
Your ass is just...perfect; round and firm but with just enough give to make a man want to sink his teeth into it. The low lighting casts shadows that highlight every curve, every dip. He's leaking in his pants now, soaking them really. "Okay, just gonna focus on your lower back now. Your — uhh... — glutes gotta be a little sore after all that sitting and studying, right?" And you let out this soft, airy laugh that tickles the base of his tailbone.
"I suppose."
You're totally onto his game... Aren't you? No-one can be this oblivious... Right?
Doesn't matter. Either way, he's getting his hands on that perfect fucking ass of yours.
"I'll take care of it for you. Don't you worry your pretty, little head about it." His hands hover for only a second before he finally — finally — lets them land on your ass. Ohhh, fuck, yes...
He squeezes gently at first, feeling the firm muscle and the softness that lies above it. He's never been more turned on in his life. He presses the pads of his thumbs into the dimples just above your ass and you sink deeper into the table, sighing softly. And he's creeping lower and lower, fingers brushing the creases where your ass meets your pillowy thighs. He spreads his fingers wide, thumbs brushing the very edge of your cheeks. He's trying so hard to keep this professional but, fuck, he's failing miserably. "Spread your legs a little for me..." You actually fucking do it and—
Right. Okay.
He can see everything, even in the low light; the perfect pink between your thighs, the way your plump pussy lips are slightly pouting. He swallows hard, oil-slick fingers tracing along the outer curve of your ass., getting closer and closer to that perfect glistening view. "Told you; lots of tension here..." He manages, voice thick. "Gotta work it out..."
He's so close to where he wants to bury himself; his face or his dick first? He isn't sure which. God, having your tight, fucking pussy all over his face sounds like a dream but pushing his cock right in there — raw, no condom — is almost enough to get him to cum on the spot.
Thumbs press into the soft fold where your ass meets your thighs, spreading you open just slightly. His palms are slick with oil, yes, but his hands are trembling now. He's been thinking about this for weeks, dreaming about getting just this view, waking up sweaty and covered in his own cum. And now he's here and he's touching you and you're so soft and warm and your pussy is right there and it's taking everything in him not to dive right in.
Maybe Lindsay was right; maybe he is a degenerate. But, fuck, if being a huge pervert hasn't been the best thing he's done since he turned thirty.
Josh tries to catch his breath. "Breathe for me." He orders softly, voice dropping to something darker, hungrier. You take a slow breath and he curls his fingers around the soft meat of your ass. "That's it..." He murmurs, more to himself than to you. "Just relax. I'll take care of everything." Daddy's gotta take care of his princess. He digs his thumbs deeper, spreading you wider without actually touching that sweet, pink pussy. He's close though. So fucking close.
And you let out another relaxed sigh, then this cute moan, making heat prickle from his toes all the way up to his cockhead. "Shhh, baby." He coos. "Let me just...ease this tension for you." He's shaking with restraint, his cock aching, throbbing, fucking hurting at not being inside you right now.
Pull your hands away, man. You're so close to creaming your fucking pants. You either gotta go balls-to-the-wall with this; get up on that table and fuck that sweet, little cunt before your nuts explode or you gotta pull away NOW because, if you did a single bit of what you're imagining, you are in for a world of hurt. This is the TOP INVESTOR'S DAUGHTER, man.
His hands shake as he forces them away from your body, cursing under his breath. He's so hard and his balls are heavy, desperate to dump his load in you. But he can't do this. He shouldn't do this; not to a client, not to a woman half his age.
Humming curiously, if a little drowsily, you go to sit up, confused about the sudden lack of contact, but Josh lays a hand on your shoulder before you can turn and see his face. "Easy." He soothes. The last thing he needs is for you to turn around and see that feral look in his eyes. Or the huge bulge in his pants. You ease yourself back down onto the massage table. "Just relax, okay?" The words come out stilted and hurried. "You let all that oil sink in. I'm gonna go get the— The stuff for— For your face." He manages eventually.
Josh practically stumbles out of the room, his hard cock leaving a visible wet spot at the front of his pants. Once he's outside, he leans against the wall for support, light-headed. It's like every ounce of blood has pooled right between his legs and there's nothing going to his lungs. Or his brain, for that matter. "Fuck, fuck, fuck..." He hears a sound to his left and his eyes dart to the end of the corridor. The supplies closest. It's not much but it'll have to do.
He slips inside and closes the door behind him. It's certainly not the nicest place he's ever blown a load but, right now, it's the perfect place for him to shoot the massive amount of cum that's been building up in his balls for the past twenty minutes. He leans against the shelves, fumbling to open his pants. Finally, he gets himself free, his dick slapping up against his belly with a heavy thud. A low groan escapes him as he wraps a hand around the base, stroking slowly at first before giving in and picking up the pace.
He knows he won't last long — he never does when it comes to you — but he's certainly not winning any awards for stamina right now. He just spent the better half of an hour touching you, squeezing your ass, staring at your pretty pussy and— God, he can't stand it anymore. His hand flies over his cock in rough, eager strokes, precum oozing from the slit and dripping onto the floor. He's bucking up into his hand before he knows it, fingers coiled tight around the shaft.
He's red in the face, huffing like a bull, sweat beading at his hairline when his head jerks up. He needs napkins or towels or...something — fucking anything — to catch this when he blows. His eyes dart around the shelves; nothing, nothing, nothing. Before his gaze lands on a refill stack of paper cups to restock the water cooler by the reception desk. It'll have to do. He practically lunges for them, grabbing one with a shaking hand and positions it under his throbbing cock, his other hand quickly jerking up and down as he speeds towards release.
His cock pulses violently in his hand and then he's cumming ungodly hard. Thick, hot ropes of white splatter into the paper cup, each shot hitting the bottom with a wet slap. He rumbles out a low groan, hips bucking as he empties himself completely. One, two, three— His vision goes white and, for a moment, he think he might just pass out...
Somehow, he manages to hold on and now he's stood in a supplies closet with his dick in one hand and a cup of cum in the other. He stares at the cup, filled up a good way; an optimist might say it's half full. Jesus Christ. He needs to find someplace to get rid of it.
Then. Joshua Martín has an idea. He has an awful idea. He did tell you he was going to get the stuff for your facial, didn't he?
Back in the therapy room, Josh walks in, cup in hand, lips curled up into this evil, evil grin.
"I'm gonna dim the lights, okay? Turn over for me?" He turns the lights right down, until he can just about make out the silhouette of your body. He can't risk you seeing his face after what he's done, what he's about to do.
You lift yourself up, arching your spine, and flip over onto your back. Your naked body is just as gorgeous from the front, if not more so, as his eyes adjust to the low light. Your tits are soft, nipples pert, and there's the slightest little patch of downy hair on your mons, leading down between your thighs. His fingers tighten slightly around the cup. "Close your eyes for me." You nod, letting your eyes drift shut and resting your hands on your stomach, rising and falling slowly.
He moves to stand beside the table, staring down at your sweet face and innocent expression. He pours the warm, sticky contents of the cup onto his fingers. Hesitates for a moment, debating whether or not he's really going to do this.
Fuck it.
Josh takes a deep breath and starts spreading the cum all over your pretty face; over your forehead, your closed eyelids, down your soft cheeks, along your nose and across your lips. It's warm and thick, dripping slowly from your skin. Your features gleam in the light and his spent dick is already twitching weakly at the mere thought of doing this. It looks so damn good on you.
"What is this?" You ask curiously and he bites his lip for just a second.
"It's a... A protein mask." He tells you, thumb moving back and forth across your bottom lip. The smell is unmistakably masculine, musky. "All-natural ingredients. Super nourishing for the skin." You just hum in understanding.
The sight is almost hypnotising; watching his cum drip slowly down your temples toward your hairline. He spreads more and more until the cup's empty and he tosses it into the small garbage can in the corner. "Alright, now, you just sit back and let that soak in. I'll leave you to get dressed at your own pace, yeah? No rush." He tells you, a slight self-indulgent lilt to his voice. "You just take your time and check in with reception when you're ready."
Slowly, Josh backs away from the massage table and makes his way to the door, casting one last glance back at you — naked, oiled up, face covered in his cum — before he steps out into the hallway. His heart is racing and his dick is already throbbing again and there's this thrill buzzing through his body, like he just got away with doing something absolutely reprehensible. Well, he might have gotten away with it. He'll have to check in to make sure if he still has a job tomorrow.
Even if he doesn't? Worth it.
🍒 author's note: im honestly having a blast writing josh because, in my mind, hes just an absolutely unhinged pervert (as you can probably tell). but im honestly lost as to where to take things from here. and im obviously glad so many of you are liking these! id love to hear what people want to see from the next chapters to get the gears turning so please dump them in the comments or whatever!
and if you got this far, it'd be lovely if you dropped me a kudos or a comment (whatever you have time for) on ao3. thanks for reading 💛✨
an optimist might say it's half full. <- SNORTS . no stoppppp .
Then. Joshua Martín has an idea. He has an awful idea. <- NOOOO STOPPPP !!
can i just say that after reading your story , i’d actually hoped that the show is as unhinged as this — and i was slightly disappointed it wasn’t ? 🤣🤣🤣
glad you beat them to the punch !
some people don’t deserve fanfics, much less for free.
also even if authors didn’t tag any specific warnings but they used the “creator chose not to use archive warnings” tag, then that is your warning.
“omg you should’ve —” no one forced your entitled ass to read anything. fanfic writers write for themselves and their own enjoyment. if you don’t like what you’re reading, quietly leave. ao3 is not an airport. no one cares about your departure so no need to announce it.
explicit ✨ tony baddingham x ftm!reader✨ rivals ✨ 16m
🔖 age gap, boss/employee relationship, creampie, daddy kink, desk sex, established relationship, infidelity, not beta read, older man/younger man, period sex, period sex, pov second person, praise kink, tony is a freak, trans character, trans male character, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex.
✧ read below or on ao3 ✧
If you had any common sense, you might be the first one to call Lord Tony Baddingham a bastard. After all, what's redeemable about him? He cheats on his wife, he's short with his employees. He's scheming, conniving, Machiavellian, some might say evil. He's a liar, a manipulator, a hedonist, a tyrant, a shark. He's also your employer. And your lover.
You're his pet and you're glad to be because, on top of all the bad things the man is, he always knows just what to say when it comes to you. A little praise and a hand on the small of your back and you're just putty in his hands, melting like butter on a smoking-hot pan. He's experimental and he doesn't shy away from exploring that with you. Whatever he wants, you let him take. You're powerless; you could never deny him. He scares you. You love it.
It's a regular day in the Corinium office; nothing notable has happened and you've just gone about your job. Apprentice seems to translate to general dogsbody so you've been running messages throughout the building, sorting through scheduling timetables and keeping the pantry of the break-room fully-stocked with Bourbons. You sometimes catch a glimpse of Tony out of the corner of your eye and he'll give you that sly wink of his or a smirk and your cheeks flush pink. You hate how just the way he smokes his cigar makes heat pool between your legs, tobacco smoke curling from his lips like a serpent. He's awful, awful, awful but you'd crawl on your belly through broken glass if he'd just pet your hair and call you his 'good boy'.
As always, as the office empties out, Tony stands in the doorframe of his office, giving people nods as they leave for the night. But you know better; he's waiting for you. When he catches your eye, he gives you a knowing grin and slinks back into his office. And you follow him, despite yourself.
When you get into his office, dusk is settling. The blinds are drawn and he looks up from his desk, loosening his tie with deliberate casualness.
"There you are. Lock the door." You do and he leans back in his chair, crossing his legs and taking a long sip of his single malt. "Come here." It's not a request.
You seem hesitant today as you round his desk. You tell him so.
"It isn't a good day today, Tony." You wring your hands in front of you, the sleeves of your jumper almost covering your hands. Thank God for the high neckline of it or everyone would be able to see the myriad of dark hickeys he left on you last Friday.
Instead of pulling you into his lap as he usually does, he reaches out to grasp your wrist, long fingers coiling easily around it.
"What's wrong?" His tone softens ever so slightly, just that little bit, to give you the impression that he actually cares about you. But who really knows if Tony Baddingham is capable of such a thing.
"It's just...not a good day for this, that's all." You repeat vaguely, unable to meet his gaze as heat rises to your cheeks. His grip on your wrist doesn't loosen but his thumb follows the tendons and veins there, feeling your pulse fluttering under the skin. He gently pulls you sideways to lean on the edge of his desk, standing and coming to stand between your knees.
"Why?" His voice drops lower, fingers tilting your chin to meet his gaze. "Tell me everything, pet." His arms wrap around your shoulders and you're enveloped in the scent of bergamot, leather and expensive tobacco. The scent of his cologne permeates your sheets, your settee, every piece of clothing you own. You can't escape it. Or him. "Talk to me." He sounds stern, almost paternal. He knows just voice, the words, to crack you open.
You pause for a long moment.
"... I'm on my period." You relent and he makes a face; not disgusted or disappointed, more...offended?
"Is that all?" He asks hands dropping to your hips, slipping just under the hem of your jumper to rub his thumbs into the skin above your waistband. "Does it hurt?"
"No, not really." There's another long pause before he pulls you closer and presses a kiss to your forehead. You melt against him.
"Then what's the problem, pet?" Large hands roam across your body, you feel your tension dissipating but the anxiety still gnaws at the back of your mind.
"It's just messy." You reply and he let out a low, reassuring chuckle, arms tightening around you securely.
"And? You think I can't handle a bit of blood?" He pulls back just enough to look at you, cupping your jaw and lightly thumbing your cheekbone. Your eyes widen.
"It's not just 'a bit'!" His grip on your chin forces you to maintain eye contact as the other hand slides between your thighs, pressing firmly against the fabric of your trousers. Your breath catches in your throat.
"Show me." He commands. It's quiet but there's no room for refusal. He leans closer, lips grazing your ear, breath hot on your skin. "I want to see just how messy my special boy is." A shiver rattles down your spine.
"O-Okay..."
Tony steps back and gives you space to move. His eyes are dark with curiosity and...lust? He collapses back in his chair, taking another sip of whiskey.
"Don't be shy; over my desk, trousers down." He orders and you nod, turning around to pitch yourself over his desk. Your fingers fumble with the button and zip of your trousers but you manage to push them down, your cheeks burning with embarrassment and anticipation.
He notices first the fact that you're wearing women's underwear. He's never seen that from you before; only loose boxers. Next, he spies the wings of the sanitary pad curled clumsily around the gusset. You don't see it but a savage smirk curls at his lips as he rolls up his sleeves. "Christ... Pull them down." You swallow thickly and do as he says, hesitating a moment before pushing down your underwear. When he looks, there looks to be barely any blood but his eyes lock onto the string visible between your thighs. "So this is what all the fuss was about? A bit of blood and a tampon?" He asks and his warm hands slide down your thighs, making your knees buckle before you catch yourself, pushing your trousers and underwear down to your ankles. Your voice wavers as you speak, his touch distracting you from even the simplest of words.
"But it means we can't... We can't do it today." You repeat again.
"Can't do what exactly?" He asks, bracing his hands on the back of your thighs, thumbs inching dangerously close to your cunt. He stands slightly, pressing a kiss to your tailbone. "You think a little blood'll stop me from playing with what's mine?" He sounds almost amused by your assumption. You should've known that nothing stops Lord Baddingham from playing with his toys, especially not a pesky trick of nature like menses.
You can't help but let out a quiet moan. What's his... Yes, of course, who were you to assume that him, of all people, would be put off by blood. Of course not, the man's a pervert.
He spreads you open, inspecting you thoroughly. "Relax..." And his tone drops to that low, possessive hum he uses when he's educating you. "Step out of these." He lightly tugs at your trousers, pooled around your ankles. "And take off your shoes and socks."
You obey before you can think about it, stepping out of your trousers and underwear so he can move them out of the way before toeing off your shoes and socks so he can do the same with those. "Good boy." That familiar heat coils in the pit of your stomach and you press your face against his leather desk blotter, catching your lip between your teeth. His hands immediately resume their exploration, spreading you open again, gaze fixed on the white string, stark against the nest of hair between your legs.
One hand on the small of your back keeps you steady while the other reaches between your thighs, fingertips sliding either side of your cunt, teasing either side of where the string is nestled. "See?" He murmurs against your skin, peppering the back of your thighs with feather-light kisses. "Nothing to be frightened of, pet."
When you whine, he hushes you, a finger curling around the string and pulling it taut. You feel the tampon slowly inching out but his other hand remains a firm yet comforting weight on the bare curve of your lower back.
"Don't..." You whisper weakly but he ignores your protest, continuing to pull it out with agonising slowness. It drags against your sensitive nerves and your whole body tenses with anticipation.
When it finally comes free, Tony holds it up, a prize, drenched with deep red, dangling from a flimsy string. Somehow, the saturated cotton plug in his hand has his cock twitching in his tailored trousers. Just how much the thing has absorbed from your body makes him breathless with a kind of primordial lust. He groans, low and hungry, a sound you feel more than hear.
He drops the tampon in the bin beside his desk his hands return to your hips and thighs. You start to leak already, blood oozing out to coat your swollen clit and drip down your inner thighs in thin, crimson rivulets.
"There's a good boy." He praises but you can feel the warmth running down your thighs, calves, ankles and seeping into the carpet.
"Tony..." You go to object but he grips your thighs firmly, brooking no argument.
"Stay still." His voice is thick with arousal, one hand moving down to spread the blood over your tender folds of your cunt with his thumb. "Let me see." He murmurs and you let out another quiet moan, trying to stay quiet as he works.
Eventually, he slides two long, slender fingers inside you and you stiffen slightly, taking in a sharp breath. Your walls are tender, swollen and slick with blood. "Christ..." He breathes. His fingers curl inside you as he begins to slide them in and out. He's unexpectedly gentle, almost testing to see if it's hurting you. It isn't. Honestly, you're halfway in shock that he'd even do this, that he'd want to do this.
His fingers make you squirm as more blood oozes out, swelling around his fingers and dripping down your thighs. You arch your back and he adds a third finger with surprising ease. "That's it." He praises again as you present yourself to him. You begin to grind back on his fingers subconsciously. "Greedy boy." He murmurs approvingly. He twists his fingers inside you, making you grab the opposite end of the desk. "Look at the mess you're making on my carpet. Absolutely filthy." He purrs, beginning to pump his fingers just that little bit faster, finding and deliberately targeting your sweet spot.
"Mmnn... Sorry, sir... Didn't want to...make a mess..." You pant out as he curls his fingers again, adjusting his techniques to draw only the lewdest of sounds from you.
"'Sorry'?" He chuckles darkly, fingers now moving in that perfect rhythm that has you gasping and moaning for him. "Don't be sorry, pup. This... This is exactly where you belong; spilling blood all over my expensive carpet because addy's got his fingers buried inside your messy. little cunt. Understand?" God, you love it when he's crass, when that proper, businessman façade falls away and you finally see the man — the devil – you're truly dealing with. He's old enough to be your father and he fucking loves it.
"Y-Yes, daddy..." You sigh but he's had enough.
He stands, jaw set, as he unbuttons his trousers. He pulls his fingers free with a wet pop, the digits stained and dripping with red. In one swift movement, he's stood and freed, lining up at your entrance and pressing the thick head of his cock against your blood-slick folds.
"Tell me you want it, boy." He demands, and you writhe on his desk, hips bucking back in an unsuccessful attempt to get him inside you.
"I want it. Want it so bad, daddy. Please..." You plead with him and he doesn't hesitate.
Tony pushes himself in with one, long trust, groaning deeply as your swollen walls immediately squeeze around him. You're impossibly tight and unbearably wet; the blood making every drag obscene, every inch of him coated in crimson.
"Jesus fucking Christ..." He gasps, hands folding around your hips and holding you bruisingly tight. You whimper in kind, nails digging into his desk blotter.
"Fuck...! Ahh... Mmmnn..." He's never heard you so vocal. He takes a moment to revel in the strange new sensation before he starts rocking his hips, moving in slow, deep thrusts.
"That's it. Looks like a fucking crime scene back here." The comment makes your cheeks burn but you can't find it in you to care anymore, not when he's keeping that same, deliberate pace. Every stroke has you pulsing around him, gripping him, drawing out lewd, wet sounds as blood coats his cock. A hand slides along your spine, pressing flat between your shoulder blades to keep you pinned beneath him. Then his eyes hone in on the sight of his cock coming out a deep red. It's filthy, hypnotising, and he's entranced. "Jesus..." He huffs, watching himself disappear inside you again.
Moving his hand from your back, he grabs a handful of your hair and twists your head to the side, sinking his teeth into the sensitive skin of your neck, leaving a deep, red mark that should be blue and purple by morning. He growls against your throat, rutting into you like an animal, sucking bruises into your skin. He's a fox and you're the rabbit caught between his jaws. "Good boy." He grits out again and it makes pleasure shoot from your toes, up your legs and along your spine.
"Thank you, daddy. F-Fuck... Ohhh, fuck..."
"Language, pet." He chuckles breathlessly, biting and sucking harder as he picks up the pace a little. The sensation is overwhelming; blood coating him liberally before dripping down onto the carpet. You're gripping him tighter with every pass and he's loving every second of it. "Look at this mess." You don't have a chance to reply because he's sucking another mark into the bend of your neck. He's claiming you as his, over and over.
His thrusts are getting faster again, lips just by your head, heavy breaths hot on the shell of your ear. "Getting close, pup?" He asks and you nod jerkily.
"Yes, daddy..."
"Good lad." His tongue snakes out to soothe the sting of the latest mark and he snaps his hips forward just that little bit harder, grinding deep against your swollen, bleeding cervix. It has you whimpering, begging to cum. "Give it to me. Fucking cum on my prick like a good, little boy." He snarls and you push yourself onto your toes, changing the angle slightly, until his cockhead jams against the side of your cervix and into your sweet spot. He reaches around, fingers sliding over the hood of your clit, coated in blood, making it sticky and wet. He rubs faster and faster and you can feel the tension building, coiling, boiling in the bit of your stomach. "That's it... Cum for daddy, pet."
Your nails leave crescent indents in his desk blotter as you push back against him. Your moth falls open. He takes advantage by twisting your head further to the side and sliding his tongue into your mouth. The kiss is filthy and desperate, his tongue fucking your mouth in the same rhythm his hips are pistoning at. You cum around his cock and swell around him, a rush of slickness as your whole body clenches, squeezing the blood from deeper within.
You whimper, shudder and whine as he fucks you through your climax, sending you into overstimulation that borders on pain. You chant his name over and over like a mantra and he doesn't let up, fucking your oversensitive cunt like his life depends on it. Your name becomes a curse on his lips as he groans into your mouth, hips stuttering. "Fuck— Going to— Fuck—" His thumb finds your clit again, rubbing in hard circles. It earns him a sob as you clench down around him again, gripping the other edge of the desk. "Going to fill you up, pup. Going to pump this ruined cunt full of—"
And his control snaps. He buries himself to the base and sinks his nails into the soft skin of your hips as he unloads inside you. Thick ropes of white paint your bleeding walls and he still doesn't stop. He grabs one of your thighs and hitches it up on the edge of the desk so he can get even deeper, fucking his load deeper into you. You manage a hoarse whisper of his name again and he shushes you, holding you open as he empties himself into you completely.
When he finally stills, chest heaving, he wraps an arm around your waist, keeping you bent over his desk, his softening cock still buried inside you. He's not ready to let you go just yet. You turn your head to face him again and he claims your mouth in a slow, deep, claiming kiss. His hips shift slightly and you moan into his mouth as he moves inside your messy, overstimulated hole. "Let's take a look at the damage."
Carefully pulling out, he inspects the mess he's made, watching blood and semen seep out to coat your clit. "God, look at this mess. You'll be sore tomorrow." He says though you can very clearly hear the smugness in his voice. He reaches for the box of tissues on his desk. "Now, let's get you cleaned up." You turn slightly to look at him.
"What're you going to tell the cleaner?" You ask and he laughs.
"I had a very violent nosebleed. That's all. Now, don't you worry your pretty, little head about a thing. Daddy's here to take care of everything."
if you got this far, it’d be lovely if you dropped me a kudos or a comment (whatever you have time for) on ao3. thanks for reading 💛✨
explicit ✨ simon 'ghost' riley x afab!reader✨ call of duty ✨ 11m
🔖 creampie, established relationship, not beta read, pov second person, shower sex, vaginal sex.
✧ read below or on ao3 ✧
He's supposed to be off-duty. Supposed to be at home. In bed. With you.
But he isn't. He's still in the gym on-base; running miles, doing crunches and burning the candle at both ends.
You walk quietly into the deserted gym, inwardly sighing. You hate to see him burying all his anger in this; in overworking himself.
You're still in your pyjamas. You waited up for him but he never came. You didn't care enough to change; you're only there to collect him.
"Simon?" You call out to him. He doesn't stop. He's at the functional trainer doing pull-ups, facing away from you. You see the muscles in his back through his sweat-soaked shirt; he's so tense, wound up tight.
"What do you want?" His voice is low, rough. He still doesn't turn but his rhythm falters just slightly. You hear the exhaustion in his breathing. Who knows how long he's been in here.
"I want you to come home." You tell him simply. "It's past 2AM." He does a final pull up and then just stands there, heavy arms falling by his sides.
"Can't." He replies. "'m not done yet." You slowly walk toward him and reach up to place your hand on his shoulder. His shirt is thoroughly wet through.
Simon jerks away from your touch and spins around to face you. His dark eyes are wild and dangerous. He's breathing heavy under his mask and the muscles in his shoulders and chest are tight, like a trapped animal preparing to fight tooth and nail. But you know that isn't meant for you. He'd never hurt you. Never.
You step forward and wrap your arms around his middle. His sweaty shirt presses to your cheek but you don't mind. He smells like gunmetal and gasoline and sweat.
He freezes, going rigid as you wrap yourself around him; a sun-drenched butterfly landing on cold rock.
For a moment, he just stands there. Then his arms wrap around you tight, one large hand going to your hair and tightening in it, like he's afraid you'll disappear. He presses you against his chest and you feel the way the tension slowly leaks from his body.
"Come home, honey. Have a shower and just...lie down, even if you don't sleep, alright?" You ask him. He lets out a sigh, heavy and bone-tired. Finally, he relents.
"Alright..." He leans down to rest his chin on the crown of your head. "Alright." You give him a moment before pulling back slightly to look up at him, your eyes meeting his.
"You've barely been home since you touched down. We only get so long together." You remind him and he looks away, guilty.
"I know." He should be at home with you and he knows it. Instead, he's working himself to the bone in here, punishing himself for something or other, like his life depends on it. He moves his hand from your hair to cup your cheek, skin rough but touch tender. "I'm sorry. I'm bein' selfish. I-" You suddenly roll up his mask and press your lips to his, arms wrapping around his neck. The kiss is desperate and well-earned. His large hands move down to your waist, cradling you like a precious artefact.
He only moves away when he has to breathe. "C'mon." You roll his mask back down and take his hand, leading him out of the gym and toward the car park. He trails behind you; a man who forgot how to move without you. His knuckles are bruised from the punching bag but his grip is iron, possessive.
In the empty car park, Simon finally stops you, just by the Jeep. You feel him stop and turn around to face him.
He doesn't say anything. Instead, he rolls up his mask again and pulls you into another kiss; a slower, deeper one. His tongue finds it's way into your mouth, learning the taste of you again. You sigh against his mouth as his large body presses you against the side of the car. The sound sends heat flooding between his legs and he groans; that low, rumbling sound that you feel more than hear. He needs to feel you pressed against him. He lifts you up onto the hood and you lift your hands to his face, fingertips tracing the scars there.
"Simon..." Your voice is muffled from his kisses. He can't get enough of you.
"Mm?"
"Let's...get home... You need a shower..." You manage between kisses.
"I'm tryin'." He huffs, despite not moving away. His hips rock forward instinctively and you feel him pressing against your thigh; hot, hard, insistent. "Just need..." Another kiss. "A minute." Your hands rest on his shoulders, squeezing, as you part your lips for him again. He takes the invitation, large hands gripping your thighs. He hooks one of your legs around his waist as he grinds against you. He's hard. So fucking hard. All for you.
Running your hands along his broad chest, you tilt your head so he can slide his tongue deeper. He does and you let out a shuddering moan into his mouth. His hips move against yours and you feel him through his shorts.
"Simon, home... Home." You manage and he breaks the kiss with a ragged breath, pulling away reluctantly.
"Home." He repeats and he sounds almost angry. Not at you, never at you. He just needs to feel your bare skin under his hands, needs to be inside you.
Finally, he releases you and sets you back down on the asphalt. He takes the car keys from your pocket — he drives faster, after all — and you trot around to the passenger side.
He doesn't speak for the entire drive home. One hand is pale-knuckled around the steering wheel and the other rests on your thigh. He's pushing the speed limit. He needs to get home.
And the second the engine kills in the driveway, he's out. You're two steps in front of him, unlocking and opening the door. You kick off your shoes and pull him inside. Simon doesn't complain; kicking the door shut behind him and thumbing the locks. The house is dark, exactly how you left it; light glowing down from the upstairs landing.
His hands are already on you, pushing your jacket off your shoulders as he walks you backwards.
"Shower." He mutters against your lips. You pull off his sweat-damp shirt and leave it in a pile on the floor. You run your tongue along the flat of his sternum, tasting the tang of sweat, as you reach up to pull off his mask. "Sweetheart..." And you're breathless, slipping out of his grip.
"Upstairs, c'mon." You turn and he watches your hips sway as you climb the stairs. He follows you up, taking the steps two at a time.
In the bedroom, you make quick work of your pyjamas, tossing them onto the bed and making your way into the ensuite. He enters the bedroom just as you disappear into the bathroom. He strips off quickly — trainers, socks, shorts, boxer-shorts, mask — and his cock throbs, jutting out dramatically from the thatch of dark hair between his thighs.
His large frame fills the doorway just as steam begins to curl around the shower door. He can see your silhouette through the frosted glass. His hand's already on his cock before he even steps in to join you. He strokes himself once, then again, just to ease some of the pressure. Then he pulls the shower door open.
You meet his eyes and then your gaze drops. You don't smile or frown but your eyes are filled with adoration for him and a need to make up for lost time. His gaze meets yours and he feels that familiar punch in his chest; love, desire and gratitude. He steps in and hot water beats down on his broad shoulders as he crowds you against the wall. Rough hands cradle your face as he just looks at you for a long moment.
"So fuckin' gorgeous." He rasps finally, leaning down to press his forehead to yours. You smile and laugh warmly.
"I could say the same thing." You retort. He doesn't reply, just grins.
"Missed you." His voice is muffled against your skin, breath hot. His cock is thick and heavy between you, resting against your abdomen. "What d'you want?" Looking up at him, you trail your hands down from his chest, down his stomach and abdomen until they wrap around his heavy cock.
"All of you. Always." You reply and he hisses through his teeth as you give him a slow pump. His head falls forward as he grinds his hips forward, fucking your loose fist.
"Need t' be inside you." He grits out and, the moment you nod, he's bending slightly to grab your thighs, pinning you to the wall as your legs wrap around his waist, heels digging into his lower back. He reaches between your bodies, grabbing his cock at the base and pressing the head against your wet, needy cunt. "Hold onto me, love." You loop your arms around his shoulders and he pushes in in one, deep stroke.
Your back arches as he splits you open again. You always forget what it feels like by the time he comes back but he never fails to show you just how good it is. He doesn't give you time to adjust — you don't need to; you're se wet for him — and he starts pounding immediately, hips rolling in that relentless rhythm he's perfected over the years of loving you time and time again. "Say my name, sweetheart." He grunts against your skin and you indulge him.
"S-Simon..." His name is punched from your lungs as he nails you hard against the shower wall.
"Fuck, yeah..." He snaps his hips forward, burying his cock deep. "Won't last long." He warns but you shake your head.
"Don't need to." You reassure him. He never lasts long the first time after he comes home; too many long hours alone, too many hours without you. He doubles down, one large hand supporting you on your hip, the other pressed flush to the shower wall for leverage.
"God- Fuck- Oh!" You gasp and whine as you bury your face in his shoulder. One hand moves to grip you hair, pulling your head back so he can claim your mouth in a brutal kiss. You pant against each other's open mouths, biting and sucking at each other's lips and tongues. The sound of the shower is overrun by the sound of his hips slapping against your own and his growls and rhythmic grunts as he fucks into you.
"Gonna cum inside." He warns and you cup the side of his neck, your nails digging into the short hairs down the nape of his neck.
"Do it... Do it..." You breathe.
The permission — no, demand — snaps the last of his self-restraint. Large, strong arms wrap around the small of your back and he buries his face in your neck, his hips pistoning harder, driving into you forcefully. You reach down between you, fingers finding the hood of your clit and rubbing in quick, tight circles as he bucks against you. Your eyes roll as you cry out his name.
"C'mon, sweetheart... Give it up for me..." He pants against your skin. His thrusts are erratic now, finding that perfect spot inside you and punching into it over and over until you're squeezing him for dear life. "Fuck!"
You squirt hard around his cock, bearing down as you jerk your head back against the wall, gasping for air. The feeling of your cunt locking down around him tips him over the edge. He cums with a low, rumbling growl, hips stuttering as thick ropes of cum paint your insides. His huge frame shudders against you, hips pitching forward as the aftershocks roll through his body in waves.
Simon stays buried inside you for what feels like forever, just holding you against the shower wall, feeling the heat of your body around him and the water pelting on his back. Finally, he pulls back, making you whine at the sudden emptiness. He catches your chin to tilt your face up, capturing your lips. The kiss is lazy and slow as his tongue explores your mouth, relearning your every taste and texture with contented sluggishness. When he eventually pulls away, you're both breathless and thoroughly exhausted.
"Mm... Love you." You murmur and that rare smile curves at his lips. He's not a soldier now, not a killer; just a man in love.
"Love you more, sweetheart."
if you got this far, it'd be lovely if you dropped me a kudos or a comment (whatever you have time for) on ao3. thanks for reading 💛✨
4, 9, and 20 for the fic writer ask game please!! Hi hi hi friend, hope you’re doing great!
hiiii!! thank you for the ask, hon 💛✨
im doing okay! its just getting super warm over here and its really messing with my body 🫠🫠 anyway i hope youre doing okay!
0️⃣4️⃣ is there an au or trope that you haven't written before, but would want to try?
a/b/o. i have written it before but its been a long long long while. also soulmate aus are super cute too but theres so many of them to choose from!
0️⃣9️⃣ tell us about a wip/idea that you're excited about!
its been shelved for a long while but i eventually want to write my victor frankenstein confessional sex fic because hes a little freak who would absolutely do that
2️⃣0️⃣ answer any one of the other questions that you want to! ➡️ how do you want your writing to feel to your readers?
barring some execptions, ive always wanted my fics to be deeper than just the sex? like the sex is great but i feel like, in my works, its almost a vehicle for the underlying 'message' of the piece be that; recovering from trauma, facing fears or finding a kind of safe space with the other person. i feel that i get that across pretty well but thats just me!
obviously some of my stuff is just shameless smut cough cough everything josh related cough cough but, for the most part, i try to make it more than just sex and i hope people get more out of it than just jerk off material lmao
