Summary: After an unexpected encounter at the bar, a shared dance, and a kiss, the fire only grew the already ignited fire. Tony took Mia to the penthouse for a night they will never forget.
Warnings: cussing | age gap she's 25 and he's 45 | adult themes | Mia is a self-insert so she's a Latina mami | Spanish | Tony is a brooding guy | love at first sight maybe? | dry humping | tittie sucking | unprotected vaginal sex (wrap it before you tap it folks)|
Song Inspo: Do You Go Up - Khai
Word Count: 3K
Author's Note: I can't stop thinking or writing about these two so I'm making it y'all's problem too hehe I may or may not have the next part almost finished more filfth to come form sure
| Masterlist | The Wedding Planner | Meet The Starks | Tag List |
Previous
I heard you might be
Concerned you like me
Your turn just try me
I won't take lightly
Your heart in my hand
No lies, no sin
I know you can breathe
It's not air that you need
Mia felt goosebumps break out all over her body the second Tony’s heavy hand rested on her waist, effortlessly maneuvering her through the crowded room toward the exit.
She usually wasn’t the type of girl to go home with a guy she had just met. But after walking in on her now ex-boyfriend in bed with his coworker—the girl he told Mia not to worry about—all she wanted to do was forget. All she wanted tonight was to lose control. She just hadn’t expected to do it in the company of none other than Tony Stark.
Once they stepped outside, a sleek Audi was already idling at the curb. Happy Hogan stood waiting by the passenger door, his expression shifting to pure surprise the moment he caught sight of his boss and his companion.
When was the last time he’d seen Tony with a random girl instead of Pepper? Three, maybe four years? Did this mean Tony was crashing back into his old playboy habits? Happy was well aware of the brutal arguments that had been tearing Tony and Pepper apart lately, but he hadn't known if they’d officially called it quits. Looking at the way Tony was staring at Mia—like she was the only person in the world who mattered—it was clear there was serious trouble in paradise.
Guess I might have to get rid of that ring, Happy thought grimly, remembering the diamond he’d been carrying around since 2008 when Tony and Pepper first started dating. He really thought they would be the endgame.
“Happy, Tinkerbell, over here will be coming with us tonight. Mia, this is Happy Hogan—head of security and my personal driver,” Tony said, introducing them. Happy nodded politely as Mia extended her hand. At least this one has manners, Happy noted to himself.
“Nice to meet you, Happy,” Mia said with a playful smirk, sliding effortlessly into the backseat. The shimmery fabric of her dress caught the crisp interior lights of the car.
Tony climbed in right after her, pulling the door shut with a heavy, solid thud that instantly sealed out the noise of the city. The privacy glass tinted the world outside into a blur of passing neon lights.
“Where to, boss? The tower?” Happy asked as he hopped into the driver's seat, catching Tony’s gaze in the rearview mirror.
Tony just nodded. There wasn’t a single other place he wanted to be with her. As much as he wanted to devour her right then and there—especially with the way she was staring at him, biting her lip right next to him—he wanted her all to himself. No prying eyes. No distractions.
“Tower it is,” Happy said.
Tony reached over and pressed a button on the door panel, raising the black privacy partition and cutting them off from the front seat entirely.
Mia truly was in a reckless, dangerous mood tonight. Before the partition had even finished sealing, she slid across the leather and climbed right onto Tony’s lap, completely taking him by surprise. His breath hitched, but his hands instinctively found a home on her hips, gripping her tight.
She smiled down at him, her dark brown eyes gleaming in the dim cabin light. “I think you can touch more than just that by now, don’t you think?”
Tony’s eyes darkened, the last bit of his restraint snapping like a fragile wire. “Are you trying to push your luck, Mia? Because you are playing with fire right now.”
“Good thing I like getting burned,” she whispered, leaning down so her lips brushed against his jaw, her hands sliding into his hair.
Tony let out a low growl, his grip shifting from her hips to the bare skin of her lower back. His palms slid up over the inked flowers blooming across her skin, pulling her flush against his chest. The contrast of his tailored clothes against her shimmery, backless dress was intoxicating, and the sheer feeling of her weight on him drove him wild.
He didn't wait. He brought his mouth back to hers, capturing her lips in a kiss that was a hundred times more desperate and possessive than the one on the dance floor. Mia gasped into his mouth, shifting her hips against his lap, and Tony nearly lost his mind right there in the moving car.
His hands traveled lower, mapping the curves of her ass through the thin, sparkly fabric of her dress, lifting her up slightly just to anchor her harder against him. He wanted to leave marks. He wanted to make her forget whatever had driven her to the bar tonight, and he wanted to forget the ghost of Pepper completely.
Mia moaned against his lips, her fingers tightly gripping his shoulders as the Audi smoothly navigated the city streets, carrying them closer to the tower. Tony pulled away just an inch, his breathing ragged, his thumb tracing her lower lip, which was now swollen from his kisses.
“We’re almost at the penthouse,” Tony warned, his voice a gravelly, commanding whisper against her skin. “And once we’re behind closed doors, Tinkerbell… I’m not letting you go.”
“I need to see it to believe it, Stark,” she whispered, her voice a low, daring challenge that vibrated against his skin.
“I told you, Tinkerbell, be careful what you wish for,” Tony growled. He didn't wait for a rebuttal, burying his face in the crook of her neck. He breathed her in, completely intoxicated by her scent, losing himself in the sharp, frantic gasps escaping her lips. He couldn't stop the images flooding his mind: the sounds she’d make once he finally had her, the way her voice would break as she begged for more, and the way his name would sound falling from those plush lips.
He shifted her, urging her to grind against his lap. As if she could read his mind, she leaned into him, letting out a small, jagged moan that vibrated right through him. “Tony—”
Lucky for both of them, the car finally drifted to a smooth stop, the low hum of the engine echoing in the private silence of the Tower’s underground garage.
“Come on,” Tony rasped, palming her ass with a possessive squeeze that left no room for doubt. “I need you in my bed before I fuck you right here in these seats.”
Mia reluctantly slid off his lap, taking a quick second to smooth down the shimmery fabric of her dress and fix her hair before the door opened. Happy stood there, his expression a practiced, professional mask, as he held the door for them.
“Take the night off, Happy,” Tony said, not even looking back as he led Mia toward his private elevator.
The elevator doors slid shut with a silent, metallic hiss, sealing them into the mirrored box. The second the lift began its high-speed ascent to the penthouse, Tony was on her again. He pinned her against the handrail, his hands finding the bare skin of her back, his fingers tracing the inked lines of the flowers as if he were trying to memorize them through touch alone.
“The penthouse is seventy floors up,” Tony murmured against her ear, his teeth grazing the lobe. “It’s a long ride. You think you can wait that long, or should I start proving it to you now?”
Mia’s breath hitched, her hands tangling in his dark hair, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away. She looked at their reflection in the polished chrome—the billionaire in the expensive suit and the girl with the glitter and the tattoos, looking like absolute chaos together.
“I think the world’s smartest man can figure out how to multitask,” she challenged, her eyes dark and blown out with desire.
Tony let out a low, dark chuckle. He loved the fire in her, the way she didn't flinch under his gaze or his reputation. He moved his hand from her back to the hem of that tiny, sparkly dress, his knuckles brushing the soft skin of her thigh.
“You’re going to be the death of me, Mia,” he muttered, just as the elevator chimed, announcing their arrival at the top floor.
The doors opened to the sprawling, floor-to-ceiling glass view of the Manhattan skyline, but Tony didn't even glance at the view he usually took so much pride in. His eyes were only on her. He stepped out, pulling her with him into the dim, expansive living area.
“Welcome to the inner sanctum,” he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, velvet tone as he turned her around to face him. “No more audiences. No more distractions. Just me and you.”
“Just me and you,” she murmured against his lips before pulling him back into a breathless kiss.
Tony didn't waste another second. He scooped her up, letting out a low grunt of satisfaction as she automatically wrapped her legs around his waist. He carried her straight into the bedroom, lowering her carefully onto the center of his mattress.
Tony stood back for a fraction of a second just to admire the view. The flimsy, shimmery dress had ridden up completely, and her dark hair was sprawled wildly across his crisp sheets—looking so perfect it felt as if that was exactly where she belonged.
He hovered over her, his mouth instantly reclaiming hers while his hands blindly traced the hem of her dress. He slid his palms upward until his fingers brushed against the damp, thin fabric of her thong, finding her already slick and burning for him.
“I need you naked,” he rasped against her lips, his hands shifting to her waist to guide her up and maneuver her until she was on top of him.
Mia sat back, straddling his lap with her hair wonderfully wild and the club glitter catching the dim light across her face. She smirked down at him, a dangerous glint in her eyes. “Your wish is my command, Mr. Stark.”
Tony’s gaze was locked on her as her hands traveled up to the delicate straps holding her dress together. With one smooth tug, she undone the knots. She grabbed the fabric at her hips and pulled the dress completely up and over her head, tossing it aside and leaving herself fully exposed to him.
Tony’s eyes flared with pure delight, but then his gaze anchored on a detail he hadn't expected at all. Her breasts were perfect, her nipples perked beautifully, and each one was pierced with a sleek metal bar. Once again, he found himself internally thanking whatever gods were looking out for him for putting this absolute masterpiece of a woman in his lap.
“See something you like?” her voice purred, snapping him out of his trance.
Tony sat up, the ache in his pants growing entirely unbearable, but he wasn't going to rush this. “Like? Oh, sweetheart, mark me as completely obsessed.”
He cupped her breasts in his palms, his thumbs flicking over the cool metal of her piercings before he leaned in and took one swollen peak into his mouth. Mia let out a loud, ragged moan, her fingers digging into his shoulders as he sucked and teased her, driving her straight into cloud nine.
“You are the hottest little thing that has ever crossed my path,” he muttered against her skin.
“I think… you’re way too overdressed now,” Mia gasped out between shallow, ragged breaths.
Tony let out a low, dark laugh, his hands anchoring her hips as he leaned back. “You’re entirely right. An oversight on my part. Let’s fix that.”
Working with a frantic, practiced speed, Tony ripped at his tie and tossed it blindly over the edge of the bed. Mia watched him with hungry, heavy-lidded eyes, her hands eagerly moving to pop the buttons of his dress shirt, pulling the fabric off his shoulders to reveal his chest.
Her eyes immediately traced the arc reactor embedded in his chest. Its bright, hypnotic blue glow flared to life, illuminating her face to absolute perfection as her fingers lightly brushed over the glass casing. There was no judgment in her gaze, no heavy, suffocating worry like Pepper always had—just pure, unadulterated desire.
The cool touch of her fingertips tracing the edge of the glowing reactor sent a jolt straight to his core. Any remaining ghost of his past, any lingering bitterness from the argument with Pepper, burned away entirely under the heat of Mia’s stare. She wasn't afraid of the mechanic, and she wasn't trying to change the hero; she just wanted the man.
“Beautiful,” Mia whispered, her voice dropping into a breathless hush as the blue light reflected in the dark depths of her eyes.
“That’s one word for it,” Tony murmured, his voice thick with a sudden rush of emotion he wasn't prepared for. He caught her hand, pressing his palm flat against hers, locking their fingers together right over the pulsing light of his chest. “But right now, you’re the only beautiful thing in this room.”
He didn't give her a chance to reply. Tony arched his hips, the friction of her bare skin against his zipper eliciting a sharp, needy gasp from her lips. He reached down, unbuckling his belt and discarding the rest of his clothes with a reckless impatience until there was nothing left between them.
When he settled back between her thighs, the sheer heat of her skin meeting his made his brain short-circuit. Mia arched into him, her arms wrapping securely around his neck, pulling him down until he was buried in the scent of her hair, her perfume, and her desire.
“Tony, please,” she begged, her confident demeanor finally fracturing into beautiful, raw desperation.
He smirked against her neck, his hands sliding underneath her thighs to lift her, aligning them perfectly. “I told you, Tinkerbell. I’m a very quick learner. Now let me show you exactly what happens when I lose control.”
Tony didn't hesitate. Guiding her hips down, he slid completely inside her, biting back a fierce, guttural groan. Sweet lord, she was tight—wrapping around him so perfectly it made his entire chest tighten.
Mia arched her back, her eyes snapping shut as she took the full length of him all at once. A loud, broken moan ripped from her lips, her fingers digging desperately into the muscles of his bare shoulders. “Tony… oh god, Tony.”
Hearing his name like that—completely unprompted, dripping with pure, unadulterated pleasure—was the final nail in the coffin for his restraint. He began to move, establishing a slow, punishingly deep rhythm. Mia gripped his chest, her nails scraping lightly against the skin right next to the glowing arc reactor. The stark blue light cast sharp, mesmerizing shadows over her face, catching the messy glitter around her eyes and illuminating the sheer ecstasy written across her features.
She met him stroke for stroke, her hips lifting in a desperate, sensual cadence. She wanted to drown out the memory of her cheating ex, and he wanted to escape the suffocating weight of his own life. Right here, wrapped in the dark of his penthouse, they were just two fractured people finding exactly what they needed to survive the night.
“Look at me,” Tony commanded softly, his voice thick with lust and utterly breathless.
Mia forced her eyes open, her gaze locking onto his, completely blown out and hazy with desire. He picked up the pace, his heavy hands gripping her plump ass, lifting her just enough to drive himself agonizingly deeper inside her. She cried out, her head tossing back as her wild, dark hair fanned over his chest, her ink-covered arm clinging to his neck for dear life.
Every friction of her skin, the soft, feeling of her nipple piercings against his bare chest, and the slick, friction-heavy heat of her body was driving him utterly insane. She was completely at his mercy, and he was completely, unapologetically obsessed.
“You’re so damn beautiful, Mia,” he growled.
In one swift, powerful motion, he flipped them, catching her completely off guard as he pinned her wrists above her head against the mattress. Hovering over her, he didn't miss a single beat as he drove into her harder, faster, wanting to fill her entire world until she couldn't possibly think of anyone else's name but his.
Mia gasped at the sudden shift in power, her chest heaving as she looked up at him through a heavy fringe of dark hair. Being pinned beneath his solid weight, completely surrendered to his strength, only added fuel to the fire raging inside her. She choked out another ragged sob of pleasure as he hit her deep, her hips instinctively tilting up to meet every relentless, heavy thrust.
“Tony—please, I can’t—” she cried out, her voice breaking as the friction built into an unbearable, blinding heat. The world outside the penthouse didn't exist anymore; there was no heartbreak, no betrayal, no looming expectations. There was only the weight of Tony Stark, the hypnotic blue glow of his chest, and the intoxicating pace he was forcing her body to keep.
“Yeah, you can,” Tony rasped, his eyes burning with a possessive intensity as he stared down at her. He released her wrists, his hands sliding down to frame her face, his thumbs wiping away the sweat and stray glitter on her cheeks. He leaned down, capturing her mouth in a chaotic, deep kiss that drank in her breathless moans. “Come on, sweetheart. Break with me.”
That was all it took. The raw command in his voice pushed her right over the edge. Mia shattered beneath him, her inner muscles clamping tightly around him as a high, breathless cry left her lips, her body trembling violently under the wave of her release.
Watching her come apart was the beautiful, chaotic distraction Tony had been begging for all night. The tight, pulsing friction of her climax tore the last shred of his control to pieces. With two more deep, desperate thrusts, Tony buried himself inside her as far as he could go, letting out a low, roaring groan as his own release hit him like a freight train, filling her completely.
He collapsed against her, his forehead resting in the crook of her neck as both of their chests heaved, trying to catch their breath in the quiet, echoing aftermath. The arc reactor hummed softly against her skin, casting a gentle, serene blue light over the tangled sheets, wrapping them both in a peaceful silence neither of them had expected to find.
Warning/Rating: 18+; explicit, graphic sexual activity (oral stimulation, manual stimulation, penetration, orgasms described in detail), unprotected sex, explicit language, power imbalance (professor-student romantic/sexual relationship), adult themes.
Word Count: 1.5 K
Tony Stark had been teaching at MIT for three years, and he’d thought he had seen it all. Overachievers trying to impress him. Slackers hoping to coast on his reputation. Students who are brilliant but lacked passion. Students who had passion but lacked the raw intellectual horsepower to keep up.
But the girl in the third row? She was something else entirely.
He’d noticed her the moment he walked into the lecture hall - Advanced Quantum Mechanics, his favorite course to teach because it separated the wheat from the chaff within the first two weeks. She was sitting in the third row, center seat, with a laptop already open and her fingers already poised like she was ready to capture every word that came out of his mouth.
Pretty, he’d noted immediately. Dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, delicate features, and an expression of serious concentration that made her look younger than she probably was. She was wearing jeans and an MIT hoodie, nothing remarkable, but there was something about the way she held herself - a quiet confidence mixed with obvious nervousness - that caught his attention.
Tony launched into his opening lecture, the one he’d given dozens of times but still enjoyed. He paced the front of the room, gesturing animatedly as he broke down how particles can exist in multiple states at once, occasionally throwing in a joke or pop culture reference to keep things interesting.
Most of the students laughed at his jokes. A few took notes frantically. But the girl in the third row did both - she smiled at his humor, but her fingers never stopped moving. She was taking meticulous notes, her handwriting small and precise, and Tony found himself glancing at her more often than he should.
Forty minutes into the lecture, he posed a question to the class. “So, if we accept this theory, what does that tll us about the nature of reality before we observe something?”
Silence. A few students shifted uncomfortably. This was the kind of question that required actual thought, not just regurgitation of facts.
Then, slowly, a hand went up in the third row.
Tony’s pulse quickened. “Yes?”
She cleared her throat, and even from across the room, he could see the flush creeping up her neck. “Well,” she began, her voice soft but steady, “if reality only exists when we observe it, then before observation everything is just probability. But that raises the question of whether the universe is predetermined or if observation actually changes what happens.”
The room went quiet. Tony felt something shift in his chest.
“Go on,” he said, moving closer to her row, unable to help himself.
She bit her lip - a gesture he found inexplicably endearing - and continued. “The problem is that this theory doesn’t really explain what counts as observation. Is it consciousness? Is it any interaction? And if observation changes things, then are we back to a universe that’s both predictable and random?”
Tony stopped walking. He was standing at the end of her row now, and he could see her more clearly. Her eyes were bright with intelligence, her cheeks flushed with the nervousness of speaking up in front of a room full of her peers. She was gripping a pen tightly, and he noticed her hands were trembling slightly.
“That’s an excellent observation,” he said, and he meant it. “You’ve just identified one of the biggest problems in physics that experts have been debating for decades. What’s your name?”
“Um,” she said, and the flush deepened. “I’m… I’m in your class.”
A few students chuckled, and Tony grinned. “I gathered that. But I’d like to know your name.”
“Oh. Right. Sorry.” She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s… I mean, I’m -” She took a breath. “I’m a student here.”
More laugher, and now she looked mortified. Tony felt a surge of protectiveness that surprised him.
“How about this,” he said gently. “After class, come introduce yourself properly. I’d like to hear more of your thoughts on the measurement problems.”
She nodded, looking like she wanted to sink through the floor, and Tony forced himself to move on with the lecture. But for the remaining twenty minutes, he was acutely aware of her presence. Every time he glanced in her direction, she was focused on her notes, her fingers moving quickly across her keyboard.
When class ended, students filed out in the usual chaos of backpacks and conversations. Tony packed up his materials slowly, watching the third row out of the corner of his eyes. For a moment, he thought she might bolt - she’d gathered her things quickly and was heading for the door.
But then she stopped, took a visible breath, and turned back.
She approached his desk with the careful steps of someone walking into a lion's den, and Tony had to suppress a smile. Up close, she was even prettier than he'd realized. Her eyes were a warm brown, and there was an intelligence in them that made his pulse quicken.
"Hi," she said quietly. "I'm sorry about before. I got nervous and forgot how to introduce myself like a normal person."
Tony laughed. "Don't apologize. I've seen much worse first impressions. Although I have to say, forgetting your own name is a new one."
She smiled, and it transformed her face. "I didn't forget my name. I just... panicked."
"Understandable. I'm very intimidating." He said it with a straight face, and she laughed - a genuine, surprised sound that made something warm bloom in his chest.
"You're really not," she said, then immediately looked horrified. "I mean… not that you're not impressive, because you are, you're brilliant, everyone knows that, I just meant -"
"Relax," Tony said, leaning against his desk. "I'm teasing. And you still haven't told me your name."
"Right. Sorry." She took a breath. "I'm -" She told him her name, and Tony committed it to memory immediately.
"Well," he said, "it's nice to officially meet you. That was a really insightful question you raised. Have you studied quantum mechanics before?"
"A little," she said, her nervousness easing slightly as they moved to academic territory. "I took an intro course last year, but I've been reading on my own. I find it fascinating."
"What specifically interests you?"
And just like that, they were off. She started talking about how particles can be connected and affect each other from far away, and Tony found himself genuinely engaged. She was brilliant - not just smart, but truly brilliant, with an intuitive grasp of complex concepts that most students took years to develop. But more than that, she was passionate. Her eyes lit up when she talked about physics, and her nervousness faded into enthusiasm.
Tony asked questions, challenged her assumptions, and watched her think through problems in real-time. She bit her lip when she was concentrating, and she had a habit of tucking her hair behind her ear when she was excited about an idea. Every gesture was unconscious and utterly charming.
They talked for twenty minutes before she glanced at her phone and gasped. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry. I have another class in five minutes across campus."
"Don't apologize," Tony said. "This was the most interesting conversation I've had all week."
She blushed again - that same pink flush creeping up her neck - and Tony realized he was already addicted to making her do that.
"Thank you, Professor Stark," she said, gathering her bag. "I really enjoyed it."
"Tony," he said. "Call me Tony."
She blinked. "I... is that appropriate?"
"Probably not," he admitted with a grin. "But I'm not big on formality. At least not in office hours."
"Okay," she said softly. "Tony."
Hearing his name in her voice did something to him. Something he absolutely should not be feeling about a student.
"I'll see you next class," he said, forcing himself to maintain professional distance.
"Yes. Definitely. Thank you again." She gave him one more shy smile and then hurried out of the lecture hall.
Tony watched her go, then sat down at his desk and ran a hand through his hair.
Well, fuck.
He was in trouble. Serious trouble. Because that girl - brilliant, shy, passionate, with a mind that could keep up with his and a blush that made him want to do very unprofessional things - was going to be a problem.
He'd spent three years at MIT maintaining perfect professional boundaries. He'd never so much as looked twice at a student, no matter how attractive or intelligent. It was a line he didn't cross.
But as he packed up his materials and headed to his office, Tony couldn't stop thinking about her. The way she'd challenged his lecture. The way she'd forgotten how to introduce herself because she was nervous. The way her eyes had lit up when they talked about quantum mechanics.
He needed to know her better. Needed to understand what made that brilliant mind tick. Needed to see her blush again.
And that, Tony thought as he unlocked his office door, was definitely going to be a problem.
And as you drifted off to sleep in his arms, you knew that this - whatever this was between you - was just beginning. And you couldn't wait to see where it would lead. - it'll lead to beautiful things, I just know that
Absolutely loved Checkmate, I'm still thinking about it and I'm here to request a second part with Sherlock returning the favor, making her beg for his mouth, his fingers and his big cock... he has such a big cock energy 😍 and he'll fuck her senseless in all fours. Thank you for your service.
Retribution
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x F!Reader
Warning/Rating: 18+; explicit, graphic sexual activity (manual/oral stimulation, penetration, orgasm described in detail), unprotected sex, language,
Parts 1/2
Word Count: 3.1 K
Two days.
Two days of increasingly charged notes delivered by messenger. Two days of innuendo-laden conversations that left you flushed and aching. Two days of Sherlock Holmes reminding you, in exquisite detail, exactly what he planned to do to you when he got his hands on you again.
I’ve been thinking about the sounds you made, one note had read in his precise handwriting. I intend to make you produce an entirely new repertoire. Louder. More desperate.
Another, delivered just that morning: Wear something with many buttons. I want the pleasure of undoing every single one before I make you forget your own name.
Which was why you now stood outside his flat in a deep emerald velvet dress with jet buttons running from throat to waist, your heart hammering against your ribs. The gown was one of your finest - rich green velvet bodice with black lace trim at the collar and cuffs, the skirt a cascade of burgundy silk with velvet panels. The bustle was smaller than the one you’d worn two nights ago, but still created that fashionable silhouette. Beneath it all, you’d chosen your most delicate undergarments: a black silk corset with emerald ribbons, stockings with lace garters, and drawers edged in fine lace.
You raised your hand to knock, but the door swung open before your knuckles made contact.
Sherlock stood there, still dressed in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, looking utterly composed except for the fire burning in his eyes. His gaze traveled over you slowly, deliberately, taking in every detail of your appearance with that analytical intensity that never failed to make your breath catch.
“You’re three minutes late,” he said, his voice low and dangerous.”
“I -”
He reached out, fingers closing around your wrist, and pulled you inside. The door shut behind you with a decisive click, and then you were pressed against it, his body pinning yours, his mouth claiming yours in a kiss that nothing like the tender ones you’d shared two nights ago. This was possession, dominance, a clear statement of intent.
When he pulled back, you were breathless, lips already swollen.
“Two days,” he murmured against your mouth, his hands bracketing your face. “Two days I’ve been thinking about this. About you. About all the things you did to me while I was helpless.” His thumb traced your lower lip. “Did you enjoy it? Having me at your mercy?”
“Yes,” you admitted, because there was no point in lying. Not when he could read you so easily.
“Good.” His smile was predatory. “Because now it’s my turn, and I intend to be far less merciful than you were.”
A shiver ran through you - anticipation mixed with ahint of delicious fear. You’d known this was coming, had been thinking about little else for two days, but the reality of having Sherlock Holmes looking at you like you were something to be devoured was overwhelming.
“I’m going to make you beg,” he continued, his voice a dark promise. “I’m going to use my mouth, my fingers, my cock…” the crude word sent heat pooling between your thighs, “and I’m going to make you scream my name so loudly that Mrs. Hudson will need to take a very long walk.”
“Confident, aren’t you?” You tried for your usual banter, but your voice came out breathier than intended.
“Always.” He stepped back slightly, giving you room to breathe but not to escape. “Now. let’s see about these buttons you’ve so thoughtfully provided.”
His fingers went to the top button at your throat, working it free with practiced ease. Then the next. And the next. He took his time, maintaining eye contact, watching your face as he slowly revealed more of your skin. The anticipation was excruciating.
“You wore green,” he observed, his fingers continuing their methodical work. “My favorite color. How did you know?”
“I deduced it,” you managed. “The way your eyes linger on the emerald decanter in your sitting room. The green silk lining of your favorite coat. The - ah -”
He’d reached the button just above your breasts and had leaned in to press a kiss to the newly exposed skin. “Go on,” he murmured against your collarbone. “I’m fascinated by your deductive process.”
But you couldn’t continue. His mouth was tracing patterns on your skin, following the path of each opened button, and coherent thought was becoming increasingly difficult. By the time he reached the last button at your waist, you were trembling.
The bodice fell open, revealing your corset beneath. He made a low sound of appreciation.
“Exquisite,” he breathed, fingers tracing the edge of the black silk, the emerald ribbons. “You wore this for me?”
“Yes.”
“Say it properly.” His eyes met yours, commanding. “Tell me who you dressed for.”
“I wore this for you, Sherlock.” Your voice was barely above a whisper. “Only for you.”
“That’s better.” he helped you shrug out of the bodice, letting it fall to the floor, then turned his attention to your skirt. The fastenings gave way under his skilled fingers, and soon the heavy fabric pooled at your feet. You stepped out of the pile of velvet and silk, standing before him in your corset, chemise, stockings, and drawers.
“Beautiful,” he said, circling you slowly, taking in every detail. “But still far too many clothes.”
He made quick work of the corset laces, the boning releasing its grip on your torso with a soft creak. The chemise followed, pulled over your head and discarded. Now you stood in only your stockings, garters, and drawers, and the hunge rin his eyes made you feel more exposed than complete nudity ever could.
“Bed,” he commanded. “Now.”
You moved to the bed on shaking legs, climbing onto the mattress. He followed, still fully dressed except for his coat, and the contrast between your near-nakedness and his clothed state only heightened the power dynamic.
“Lie back,” he instructed, and you obeyed, your head sinking into the pillows. “Good girl.”
The praise sent a thrill through you. He positioned himself between your legs, hands running up your stocking-clad thighs, fingers tracing the lace trim of your garters.
“I’m going to remove these,” he said, indicating your drawers, “and then I’m going to taste you. And you’re not going to come until I give you permission. Do you understand?”
You nodded, not trusting your voice.
"I need to hear you say it."
"I understand," you breathed. "I won't come without permission."
"Excellent." He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your drawers and slowly, torturously slowly, pulled them down your legs. The cool air hit your heated flesh, and you couldn't suppress a gasp.
He settled between your thighs, his breath warm against your most intimate place, and looked up at you with those brown eyes. "I've been thinking about this for two days," he said conversationally, as if he weren't positioned exactly where you needed him most. "About how you'd taste. About what sounds you'd make. About how long I could keep you on the edge before you broke."
"Sherlock, please -"
"Oh, you're going to do much better than that before I'm through with you." And then his mouth was on you, and coherent thought became impossible.
His tongue traced through your folds with deliberate precision, learning your geography, cataloging what made you gasp and what made you moan. He was methodical, scientific even, testing different pressures and patterns until he found the combination that made your back arch off the bed.
"There," he murmured against you, the vibration of his voice adding another layer of sensation. "That's what you like."
He focused his attention on your clit then, circling it with his tongue, occasionally sucking gently, building a rhythm that had you fisting your hands in the sheets. The pleasure built steadily, inexorably, and you could feel your orgasm approaching.
"Sherlock," you gasped. "I'm going to… I need to -"
He pulled back immediately, leaving you trembling and desperate. "No," he said firmly. "Not yet."
A whimper escaped you, and his smile was wicked. "Remember what you did to me? How you brought me to the edge and denied me? Consider this payback."
He returned to his task, his tongue working you with devastating skill. He varied his approach now - long, slow licks followed by rapid flicks against your clit, then sucking gently before pulling back to trace patterns that had you writhing. He read your body like a text, knowing exactly when you were getting close and pulling back just before you could tip over the edge.
"Please," you begged, all pride abandoned. "Please, Sherlock."
"What do you need?" He looked up at you, his lips glistening with your arousal, and the sight was almost enough to undo you. "Be specific."
"I need to come," you admitted desperately. "Please let me come."
"Not yet." He pressed a kiss to your inner thigh. "I want you absolutely desperate first. I want you to understand exactly what you put me through."
His mouth returned to you, and this time he was relentless. His tongue worked your clit with perfect pressure, perfect rhythm, building you higher and higher. Your thighs began to shake, your breathing coming in short gasps, and just when you thought you couldn't take anymore.
He stopped.
A sob of frustration tore from your throat. "Sherlock, please, I can't."
"You can," he said calmly, though his eyes were dark with desire. "And you will. Because I'm not finished with you yet."
He brought his hand up, one long finger tracing through your wetness before slowly, slowly pushing inside. You clenched around him immediately, so desperate for any stimulation that even this single finger felt like heaven.
"So wet," he observed, adding a second finger and curling them upward. "So ready. Tell me, did you think about this? About me touching you like this?"
"Yes," you gasped as his fingers found that spot inside you that made your eyes clench tightly closed. "God, yes, I thought about it constantly."
"Good." He established a rhythm, his fingers working you with the same precision his tongue had shown. "I thought about it too. About how you'd feel around my fingers. Around my cock." He added a third finger, stretching you, and you moaned at the sensation. "About how I'd make you fall apart."
His thumb found your clit, circling it in time with the thrusts of his fingers, and the dual stimulation was almost too much. The pleasure built rapidly, your inner walls clenching around his fingers, your body drawing tight as a bowstring.
"Sherlock," you warned, your voice breaking. "Please, please let me!"
"No." He slowed his movements, keeping you hovering right on the edge but not allowing you to fall. "Not until I say so."
"I can't.” Tears of frustration were gathering in your eyes. "Please, I need it, I need you, please."
"That's better." His voice was dark with satisfaction. "I want to hear you beg. I want to hear you say exactly what you want."
"I want your mouth," you gasped out. "I want your fingers. I want your cock inside me. I want you to fuck me until I can't remember my own name. Please, Sherlock, please!"
"Since you asked so nicely." He withdrew his fingers, and you whimpered at the loss. But then he was moving, positioning himself over you, and you realized he was finally, finally going to give you what you needed.
He made quick work of his remaining clothes, and when he was finally naked before you, you couldn't help but stare. He was magnificent - all lean muscle and pale skin, and his cock was thick and hard, exactly as impressive as his supreme confidence had suggested.
"See something you like?" he asked, echoing your words from two nights ago.
"Yes," you breathed. "God, yes."
"Good. Because you're going to feel every inch of it." He gripped your hips, flipping you over with surprising strength. "On your hands and knees."
You scrambled to obey, positioning yourself on all fours, acutely aware of how exposed you were in this position. You could feel his gaze on you, hot and possessive, and then his hands were on your hips, positioning you exactly how he wanted you.
"Look back at me," he commanded.
You turned your head, meeting his eyes over your shoulder. The hunger in his gaze made you clench with anticipation.
"I want you to watch," he said, one hand sliding up your spine. "I want you to see exactly what I'm doing to you. Can you do that?"
"Yes," you managed.
"Good girl." He positioned himself at your entrance, the head of his cock pressing against you, and you had to fight the urge to push back, to take him inside. "Now tell me. Who do you belong to right now?"
"You," you gasped. "I belong to you, Sherlock."
"That's right." And then he was pushing inside, slowly, letting you feel every inch as he filled you. The stretch was exquisite, almost too much, and you couldn't suppress the moan that tore from your throat.
"God," he groaned, his fingers digging into your hips. "You feel… you're perfect. Absolutely perfect."
He bottomed out inside you, and for a moment he just stayed there, letting you adjust to his size. Then he began to move, pulling almost all the way out before thrusting back in, establishing a rhythm that was deep and powerful and exactly what you needed.
"Is this what you wanted?" he asked, his voice rough with pleasure. "Is this what you've been thinking about?"
"Yes," you gasped, pushing back to meet his thrusts. "God, yes, exactly this!"
"You took such pleasure in controlling me," he continued, his pace increasing. "In making me helpless. But look at you now. Completely at my mercy. Taking my cock so beautifully."
The crude words combined with the relentless thrusts were driving you insane. The angle was perfect, hitting that spot inside you with every stroke, and you could feel your orgasm building again, stronger than before.
"Sherlock," you moaned. "Please, I need -"
"I know what you need." One of his hands left your hip, sliding around to find your clit. "You need to come. You need it so badly you can barely think. Don't you?"
"Yes," you sobbed. "Please, please let me!"
"Not yet." But his fingers continued their maddening circles, his cock continuing its deep, powerful thrusts. "I want you desperate. I want you mindless. I want you to beg me properly."
"I am begging," you cried. "Please, Sherlock, please, I'll do anything, just please let me come."
"Anything?" His thrusts became harder, faster. "That's a dangerous promise."
"I don't care," you gasped. "Please, I need it, I need you, please!"
"Come," he commanded, his fingers pressing firmly against your clit. "Come for me now."
Permission granted, your orgasm crashed over you like a wave. You screamed his name, your inner walls clenching rhythmically around him, pleasure so intense it bordered on pain radiating through your entire body. Distantly, you heard him groan, felt his rhythm falter, and then he was coming too, spilling inside you with a shout of your name.
You collapsed forward onto the bed, trembling and gasping, and he followed you down, his weight pressing you into the mattress. For a long moment, neither of you moved, too overwhelmed to do anything but breathe.
Finally, he rolled to the side, pulling you with him so you were tucked against his chest. His hand stroked down your back, soothing, gentle in a way that contrasted sharply with the intensity of what had just happened.
"That was..." you started, then trailed off, unable to find adequate words.
"Yes," he agreed, pressing a kiss to your temple. "It really was."
You tilted your head to look at him, finding his expression softer than you'd ever seen it. "I think we're even now."
"Even?" He raised an eyebrow. "I'm not sure I agree. I think I may need to conduct further experiments. Gather more data."
You laughed, the sound breathless and happy. "Is that so?"
"Mmm." His hand traced idle patterns on your hip. "After all, the scientific method requires repeated trials to ensure accurate results."
"How very thorough of you."
"I'm nothing if not thorough." He captured your lips in a slow, deep kiss that promised more to come. "Though I must admit, I find myself particularly invested in this line of inquiry."
"Only this line of inquiry?" you teased.
"Well." His smile was genuine, transforming his entire face. "You are the most fascinating puzzle I've ever encountered. Every time I think I've solved you, you surprise me again."
"Good," you said, echoing your words from two nights ago. "I plan to keep surprising you."
"I'm counting on it." He pulled you closer, and you settled against him with a contented sigh. "Though perhaps next time we could negotiate the terms beforehand. Establish some ground rules."
"Where's the fun in that?"
"Fair point." His fingers traced up your spine, making you shiver. "Though I should warn you - I have several more ideas for how to make you scream my name."
"Is that a threat or a promise?"
"Both." He nipped at your earlobe. "Definitely both."
You laughed again, feeling lighter and happier than you had in years. This thing between you felt right in a way nothing else ever had. The push and pull, the battle for dominance, the way you challenged each other intellectually and physically - it was intoxicating.
"Stay," he said quietly, and there was a vulnerability in his voice that made your heart clench. "Tonight. Stay with me."
"I was planning on it," you assured him, pressing a kiss to his chest. "I'm not going anywhere."
"Good." He tightened his arms around you. "Because I'm not finished with you yet. Not by a long shot."
"Promises, promises."
"Oh, I always keep my promises." His hand slid lower, cupping your backside possessively. "And I promise you, by the time I'm through with you tonight, you won't be able to walk straight tomorrow."
A shiver of anticipation ran through you. "I look forward to it."
"As do I." He rolled you onto your back, positioning himself over you, and the hunger in his eyes made it clear that round two was about to begin. "Now, where were we?"
And as his mouth claimed yours again, as his hands began their exploration anew, you couldn't help but think that you'd finally found your perfect match. Someone who could keep up with you intellectually, who could challenge you, who could make you lose control while maintaining his own.
Someone who was exactly what you needed.
And judging by the way he touched you, by the reverence mixed with possession in his gaze, you were exactly what he needed too.
The power games would continue - you both enjoyed them too much to stop - but beneath it all was something deeper. Something real.
Warning/Rating: 18+; explicit, graphic sexual activity (oral stimulation, penetration, orgasm described in detail), unprotected sex, jealousy/possessiveness, language, rough/intense sexual themes
Word Count: 5.2 K
The abandoned warehouse reeked of rust, decay, and something far more sinister. Death, approximately thirty-six hours old if the bloating and discoloration were any indication. You crouched beside the body, careful not to disturb the pooled blood that had long since congealed into a dark, sticky mass.
“Blunt force trauma to the occipital bone,” you murmured, tilting your head to examine the wound. “But the positioning is wrong for a fall. Someone struck him from behind while he was kneeling.”
“Observant as always.” Sherlock’s voice came from somewhere above you, that distinctive blend of admiration and arrogance that made your stomach flip in ways you’d never admit. “Note the indentation pattern. Hexagonal, approximately two inches in diameter. A wrench, most likely. Common enough to be untraceable, which suggests premeditation rather than crimes of passion.”
You glanced up to find him studying you rather than the corpse, those sharp eyes cataloging something that had nothing to do with the investigation. Before you could call him on it, the warehouse door screeched open, admitting a shaft of grey London light and a figure you recognized immediately.
“Holmes! Didn’t expect to see you here.” Inspector Morrison from Scotland Yard strode in with the kind of confidence that came from never being told no. Handsome in a conventional way - square jaw, broad shoulders, perfectly pressed suit. He was everything Sherlock wasn’t. “And Miss - my God, you’re even lovelier than the last time we met.”
You straightened, brushing dust from your skirts. “Inspector Morrison. I’d say the pleasure is mine, but we’re standing over a corpse, so perhaps we should maintain some decorum.”
Morrison laughed, warm and easy. “Sharp as a tack, this one. Holmes, you’re a lucky man to have such an intelligent assistant.”
“Associate,” Sherlock corrected, his voice dropping several degrees below freezing. “She’s my associate. And her intelligence, while considerable, is hardly the most remarkable thing about her.”
You felt rather than saw Sherlock move closer, his presence suddenly overwhelming as he positioned himself at your shoulder. His hand came to rest at the small of your back - possessive, proprietary, and entirely unlike him in public settings.
“How fascinating that you’ve noticed,” Sherlock continued, his tone dripping with false pleasantry. “Tell me, Morrison, do you make a habit of cataloging the physical attributes of women at crime scenes, or is this a special occasion? Perhaps it explains why your solve rate is hovering at a dismal forty-two percent.”
“Sherlock,” you warned, though you couldn’t quite suppress your smile.
Morrison’s expression tightened. “I was merely being polite.”
“Politeness.” Sherlock circled the body with predatory grace, never quite removing his hand from your back until distance made it impossible. “Yes, I’m sure that’s what you call it. How very… conventional of you. Tell me, have you even examined the body, or were you too distracted by your ‘politeness’ to notice the defensive wounds on the victim’s right hand? No, of course you didn’t. You were too busy -”
“The defensive wounds suggest he saw his attacker,” you interjected smoothly, shooting Sherlock a look that promised retribution later. “Which contradicts the angle of the blow. Unless…”
“Unless there were two assailants,” Morrison finished, his eyes lighting up. “Brilliant! You see, Holmes, this is why I always appreciate running into you both. Miss, your mind is absolutely extraordinary.”
Sherlock’s jaw could have cut glass.
“How very astute of you to agree with her conclusion, Morrison,” he said, each word precisely enunciated. “I’m sure it took tremendous intellectual effort. Tell me, do you often take credit for observations made by others, or is that another example of your ‘politeness’?”
“I wasn’t taking credit, I was -”
“Sherlock, for God’s sake,” you snapped, rounding on him. “Could you possibly be more insufferable?”
His eyes met yours, dark and stormy and filled with something that made your breath catch. “I could try,” he said softly, dangerously. “Would you like me to demonstrate?”
The air between you crackled with tension that had nothing to do with the investigation and everything to do with the way he was looking at you - like Morrison’s very existence was a personal affront.
“If I might continue,” Morrison continued, oblivious to the undercurrent. “Miss, I was wondering if you might join me for dinner this evening? I should very much enjoy discussing the case further, and perhaps -”
“She’s occupied.” Sherlock’s voice cut through the warehouse like a whip crack.
“I’m sorry?” You turned to him slowly, eyebrow raised. “I wasn’t aware you managed my social calendar.”
“We have the Blackwood files to review. The Pemberton case requires your attention. And Mrs. Hudson specifically requested -”
“Mrs. Hudson can wait. The files can wait.” You crossed your arms, enjoying the way his eyes narrowed dangerously. “Perhaps I’d like to have dinner with Inspector Morrison.”
Sherlock moved so quickly you barely registered it, suddenly close enough that you could smell his cologne - tobacco and something darker, more complex. “Perhaps,” he said, his voice low enough that only you could hear, “you’re trying to provoke me.”
“Perhaps,” you whispered back, “you’re making it remarkably easy.”
His hand found your elbow, fingers pressing just firmly enough to send heat racing up your arm. “The victim’s wallet is missing, but his pocketwatch remains - a gold Swiss watch worth at least three hundred pounds. The killer wasn’t after money. Note the scuff marks leading to the eastern exit, the pattern consisten with someone dragging a second object. Approximately forty pounds, cylindrical shape. Morrison, do make yoursel useful and check the perimeter for a discarded pipe or rod.”
It was a dismissal, plain and simple.
Morrison’s expression flickered with irritation, but he nodded. “Of course. Miss, perhaps we could continue our conversation later?”
“Perhaps,” you said noncommittally, very aware of Sherlock’s fingers still wrapped around your elbow.
The moment Morrison disappeared through the eastern door, you yanked your arm free. “What in God's name was that?”
“Investigation,” Sherlock said coolly, though his eyes were anything but cool. They burned. “I’m investigating.”
“You were being an absolute ass.”
“I was being accurate. There’s a difference.”
“You were being jealous.”
The word hung between you like a confession. Sherlock’s expression shuttered immediately, that brilliant mind working overtime to construct a denial. But you’d seen it - that flash of raw, unguarded emotion before he could lock it away.
"Don't be absurd," he said finally. "I merely find it tedious when incompetent detectives waste valuable time with transparent attempts at -"
"At what, Sherlock?" You stepped closer, challenging. "Say it."
His jaw worked, muscles tensing beneath skin. When he spoke, his voice was rough, barely controlled. "We're leaving. Now."
"The investigation."
"Can proceed without us. Morrison is perfectly capable of contaminating the crime scene on his own." He was already moving toward the exit, his movements sharp and agitated. "Come along."
You should have argued. Should have insisted on staying, on finishing the investigation properly.
Instead, you followed him into the grey London afternoon, your heart pounding with anticipation for the confrontation you both knew was coming.
The carriage rattled through London's narrow streets, the silence inside thick enough to choke on. Sherlock sat rigid across from you, his fingers steepled beneath his chin in that infuriating way that meant he was thinking - or more accurately, seething.
You lasted approximately forty-five seconds before breaking.
"If you have something to say, say it."
His eyes snapped to yours, dark and dangerous. "I have several things to say. Shall I begin with your appalling lack of judgment, or would you prefer I start with your apparent inability to recognize when a man's intellectual capacity rivals that of a particularly dim-witted spaniel?"
"Ah, there it is." You leaned back against the worn seat, crossing your arms. "The great Sherlock Holmes, threatened by a man who dared to compliment me."
"Threatened?" He laughed, sharp and bitter. "By Morrison? Please. I'm merely concerned that prolonged exposure to his staggering mediocrity might prove contagious. Tell me, what exactly did you find appealing about his ham-fisted attempts at deduction? Was it when he failed to notice the victim's missing wedding ring? Or perhaps when he completely overlooked the tobacco ash - Turkish blend, distinctive enough for a child to identify - scattered near the body?"
"Not everyone processes crime scenes like a machine, Sherlock."
"No, some people process them like Morrison. Which is to say, not at all." He shifted forward, invading your space with predatory intent. "But that's not what this is about, is it? This is about his 'charming' smile and his 'polite' interest and his pathetically transparent dinner invitation."
Heat flooded your cheeks. Anger or something far more dangerous, you couldn't tell. "And what if I accept it? What if I'd like to have dinner with a man who actually treats me like a woman instead of a walking encyclopedia?"
The words hit their mark. Sherlock's expression flickered with something raw and wounded before the mask slammed back into place.
"A woman," he repeated slowly, dangerously. "I see. And here I thought you preferred being treated as an equal. My mistake. By all means, go simper over Morrison's pedestrian observations. I'm sure you'll find his company... adequate."
"Adequate?" You leaned forward until you were inches from his face, close enough to see the gold flecks in his eyes, to smell the faint scent of his cologne. "At least he notices me as something other than a convenient assistant. At least he -"
"Don't." The word cracked like a whip. Sherlock's hand shot out, gripping your wrist with barely restrained force. "Don't you dare finish that sentence."
Your pulse hammered beneath his fingers. "Why not? Afraid of the truth?"
"The truth?" His laugh was hollow. "The truth is that Morrison looked at you for thirty seconds and saw a pretty face. I've worked beside you for two years and I see everything. Every brilliant deduction, every sharp observation, every moment of breathtaking insight that makes you the most remarkable woman in London. But please, do tell me more about how he 'notices' you."
The confession hung between you, unexpected and devastating.
"Then why…" Your voice came out rougher than intended. "Why do you treat me like I'm just another piece of your investigations?"
"Because it's safer." The admission seemed torn from him. His thumb traced an unconscious circle on your inner wrist, right over your racing pulse. "Because if I treated you like what you actually are to me, I'd -"
He stopped abruptly, jaw clenching.
"You'd what?" you challenged, your free hand coming up to grip his lapel. "Say it, Sherlock. For once in your life, just say it."
The carriage lurched to a stop outside 221B Baker Street. Sherlock's eyes burned into yours, his breathing harsh and uneven.
The door to 221B slammed behind you with enough force to rattle the frame. Sherlock was already halfway across the sitting room, his movements sharp and agitated as he stripped off his coat and flung it toward the chair. It missed, pooling on the floor in an uncharacteristic display of disorder.
"You didn't answer him," he said, his back still to you. "Morrison. When he asked you to dinner."
"I said 'perhaps.'" You closed the distance between you, refusing to be cowed by the rigid set of his shoulders. "Which isn't a yes."
"It isn't a no." He spun to face you, and the raw emotion in his eyes stole your breath. "Tell me… were you actually considering it, or were you simply enjoying watching me lose my composure?"
"Maybe both." You tilted your chin up defiantly. "Maybe I wanted to see if the great Sherlock Holmes was even capable of jealousy. Congratulations. You are. Spectacularly so."
His jaw worked, a muscle ticking beneath the skin. "This isn't jealousy. This is -"
"What? Concern for my wellbeing? Professional interest?" You laughed, sharp and bitter. "Don't insult my intelligence, Sherlock. You were ready to eviscerate that man for the crime of finding me attractive."
"He doesn't find you attractive." Sherlock moved closer, predatory and precise. "He finds you available. There's a difference. Morrison sees a pretty woman at a crime scene and thinks 'opportunity.' He doesn't see the way your mind works three steps ahead of everyone else in the room. He doesn't notice how you worry your bottom lip when you're concentrating, or how your eyes light up when you solve something particularly complex, or -"
He stopped abruptly, as if realizing he'd revealed too much.
"Or what?" you pressed, taking another step forward. You were close enough now to see the gold flecks in his eyes, the barely controlled tension in every line of his body. "What else do you notice, Sherlock?"
"Everything." The word came out rough, almost broken. "I notice everything about you, and it's." He turned away sharply, one hand raking through his dark hair. "It's distracting. Inconvenient. Entirely counterproductive to maintaining any semblance of professional objectivity."
"Then stop maintaining it."
He laughed, hollow and bitter. "And what? Become like Morrison? Reduce you to some… some conquest to be won with dinner invitations and empty compliments?"
"No." You grabbed his arm, forcing him to face you. "Become honest. For once in your life, stop hiding behind that brilliant mind and just - feel something. Admit something."
"I admit things constantly. I admitted Morrison is an imbecile. I admitted the killer used a wrench. I admitted…"
"That's not what I mean and you know it." Your fingers tightened on his sleeve. "You don't get to act like you own me and then pretend you don't care. You don't get to sabotage every man who shows interest and then claim it's professional concern. Either you want me or you don't, Sherlock. But you don't get to keep me in this - this limbo while you decide if I'm worth the risk."
Something cracked in his expression. That carefully constructed mask of indifference shattering to reveal the raw need beneath. "Worth the risk?" His voice dropped to something dangerous, intimate. "You are the risk. You're the variable I can't account for, the equation I can't solve. Do you have any idea what that does to a man like me?"
"Then why?"
"Because I'm terrified." The confession exploded out of him, sharp and desperate. "Because everyone I've ever… everyone who matters eventually leaves. They die or they betray me or they simply realize I'm too difficult, too demanding, too fundamentally broken to tolerate long-term. And you." His hand came up to cup your face, thumb tracing your cheekbone with devastating gentleness. "You're the one person I can't afford to lose. So yes, I keep you at arm's length. Yes, I treat you like a colleague instead of -"
"Instead of what?"
His eyes searched yours, wild and vulnerable in a way you'd never seen. "Instead of the woman I think about every waking moment. The woman whose safety I prioritize above my own. The woman who makes me want to be something other than a consulting detective with no personal attachments."
Your breath caught. "Sherlock."
"So forgive me," he continued, his voice rough with emotion, "if I find it somewhat unbearable to watch Morrison - or any man - look at you like you're something they might possess. You're not his. You're…"
"Yours?" The word hung between you, a challenge and an invitation.
His pupils dilated, his breathing harsh and uneven. "Say you won't have dinner with him."
"Why should I?"
"Because." His other hand found your waist, pulling you flush against him. The heat of his body seared through your clothes, and you could feel his heart hammering against your chest. "Because if you do, I'll spend the entire evening imagining him touching you. Kissing you. And then I'll have to arrest myself for what I'll do to him afterward."
"That's not a reason," you whispered, though your hands had somehow found their way to his chest, fingers curling into his shirt. "That's a threat."
"Then let me give you a reason." His forehead dropped to yours, his breath ghosting across your lips. "Don't have dinner with Morrison because you don't want to. Because you'd rather be here, with me, doing this -"
"Doing what?" Your voice came out breathless, challenging. "We're not doing anything, Sherlock. We're just…"
"Standing too close?" His nose brushed yours, a whisper of contact that sent electricity racing down your spine. "Breathing the same air? Pretending we don't both know exactly how this ends?"
Your fingers tightened in his shirt. "And how does it end?"
His eyes locked with yours, dark and burning with barely restrained hunger. "With me finally admitting that I don't want you as my associate. I want you as mine. Completely. Irrevocably. In every way that matters."
The words hung between you for one suspended heartbeat.
Then you closed the distance and kissed him.
For a fraction of a second, Sherlock went absolutely still. As if his brilliant mind had short-circuited entirely. Then he made a sound low in his throat, something between a growl and a groan, and his control shattered completely.
His hands were suddenly everywhere - one fisting in your hair, angling your head exactly where he wanted it, the other gripping your waist hard enough to bruise. He kissed you like a man starving, like he'd been holding back for years and had finally, finally been given permission to take.
And God, he took.
His tongue swept into your mouth, claiming and demanding, and you met him with equal ferocity. Your fingers tangled in his dark hair, pulling hard enough to make him hiss against your lips. The sound sent heat pooling low in your belly.
"Two years," he growled against your mouth, his teeth catching your bottom lip. "Two years of watching you, wanting you, imagining -"
"Then stop talking," you gasped, "and do something about it."
His eyes flashed dangerously. "Careful what you wish for."
Then he was moving, walking you backward with predatory intent until your back hit the wall beside the fireplace. The impact knocked the breath from your lungs, but before you could recover, his mouth was on your throat, teeth scraping over your pulse point.
"Mine," he murmured against your skin, and the possessiveness in his voice made you shudder. "Say it."
"Make me," you challenged breathlessly.
His laugh was dark, wicked. "Oh, I intend to."
His hands found the buttons of your blouse, and for a man whose fingers could pick locks and perform delicate chemical experiments, he showed absolutely no patience now. Buttons scattered across the floor as he tore the fabric open, baring you to his hungry gaze.
"Sherlock! That was expensive."
"I'll buy you ten more." His mouth traced the curve of your collarbone, teeth grazing sensitive skin. "A hundred more. I don't care. I've been patient long enough."
"Patient?" You gasped as his hand cupped your breast through the thin fabric of your chemise, thumb circling your nipple with devastating precision. "You call today patient? You nearly eviscerated Morrison. Oh God!"
"Don't," he snarled, his other hand gripping your hip possessively, "say his name. Not now. Not when I'm touching you."
His mouth replaced his hand, hot and wet through the fabric, and your head fell back against the wall. Your fingers scrabbled for purchase on his shoulders, his back, anywhere you could reach.
"Then give me something else to say," you managed, your voice shaking. "Give me a reason to forget he exists."
Sherlock pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, his pupils blown wide with desire. "I'll give you several."
He dropped to his knees so quickly you barely registered the movement. His hands slid up your legs, pushing your skirts up, up, until cool air hit your overheated skin. His fingers found the ribbons of your drawers, and he looked up at you with something almost reverent in his expression.
"Tell me to stop," he said, his voice rough. "Tell me you don't want this, and I'll -"
"Sherlock Holmes," you interrupted, threading your fingers through his hair, "if you stop now, I'll never forgive you."
His smile was absolutely sinful. "Good."
He pulled your drawers down with agonizing slowness, his eyes never leaving yours. Then his mouth was on your inner thigh, kissing, biting, marking a path upward that made your legs tremble.
"Still thinking about Morrison?" he murmured against your skin.
"Who?" you gasped, and felt him smile.
"Exactly."
When his mouth finally reached its destination, your knees nearly buckled. Only his hands on your hips kept you upright as he worked you with his tongue, with his lips, with a precision that shouldn't have surprised you but somehow did. He mapped you like one of his crime scenes - learning what made you gasp, what made you moan, what made your fingers tighten desperately in his hair.
"Sherlock! I can't - I'm going to -"
"Then do it," he commanded against you, the vibration of his voice pushing you over the edge.
You came apart with his name on your lips, pleasure crashing through you in waves. He didn't stop, didn't relent, drawing out your climax until you were shaking and oversensitive and pulling at his hair to make him stop.
He rose to his feet with the grace of a predator, his lips glistening, his eyes dark with satisfaction and unfulfilled need. "Now," he said, his voice rough, "tell me you're mine."
You were still catching your breath, still trembling, but you managed to meet his gaze with a challenging smile. "Prove it."
Something feral flashed in his eyes. He lifted you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you to the couch. He laid you down with surprising gentleness, but there was nothing gentle about the way he covered your body with his, nothing soft about the kiss he claimed from your lips.
You could taste yourself on his tongue, and it should have embarrassed you, but instead it sent fresh heat coursing through your veins.
Your hands found the buttons of his shirt, and unlike him, you took your time, revealing inch by inch of skin and lean muscle. He shuddered under your touch, his breathing harsh and uneven.
"You're enjoying this," he accused.
"Immensely." You pushed his shirt off his shoulders, your nails dragging lightly down his chest. "The great Sherlock Holmes, completely undone. It's quite a sight."
"You haven't seen anything yet." His hands made quick work of his remaining clothes, and then he was bare above you, all lean muscle and barely restrained power.
He settled between your thighs, and you could feel him, hard and ready, but he didn't move. Instead, he braced himself on his forearms, his face inches from yours.
"Last chance," he said softly. "Once I have you, I won't let you go. I won't share you. I won't pretend this is casual or temporary or anything other than what it is."
Your hand came up to cup his face, thumb tracing his sharp cheekbone. "And what is it?"
"Everything." The word was raw, honest, vulnerable. "You're everything."
You pulled him down into a kiss, deep and slow and full of promise. "Then take me," you whispered against his lips. "I'm yours."
He entered you in one smooth thrust, and you both gasped at the sensation. He stilled, giving you time to adjust, his forehead pressed to yours.
"Perfect," he breathed. "You're perfect."
Then he began to move, and coherent thought became impossible.
He set a rhythm that was both controlled and desperate, each thrust deliberate but increasingly urgent. Your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he groaned your name like a prayer.
"Look at me," he commanded, and you opened eyes you hadn't realized you'd closed. His gaze burned into yours, intense and possessive and full of emotion he'd never been able to voice. "I want to see you. Want to watch you come apart for me."
"Arrogant," you gasped, but your body was already tightening around him, pleasure building with devastating speed.
"Accurate," he corrected, his hand sliding between your bodies to where you were joined. His fingers found that sensitive bundle of nerves, circling with the same precision he'd shown before. "Now come for me. Let me feel it."
The combination of his words, his touch, the feeling of him inside you - it was too much. You shattered, crying out his name, your body clenching around him rhythmically.
"Yes," he hissed, his rhythm faltering. "Yes, just like that - God, you're - I can't."
His control broke completely. He thrust into you harder, faster, chasing his own release with single-minded intensity. You watched his face as he came, watched the way his eyes squeezed shut, the way his mouth fell open on a silent cry, the way every carefully constructed mask fell away to reveal the raw need beneath.
He collapsed against you, his weight pressing you into the couch, both of you breathing hard. His face was buried in your neck, and you could feel his heart hammering against your chest.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. Then Sherlock pressed a surprisingly tender kiss to your throat, right over your pulse.
"Mine," he murmured again, softer this time but no less possessive.
You smiled, your fingers threading through his sweat-dampened hair. "Yours," you agreed. "But Sherlock?"
"Mm?"
"I'm keeping Inspector Morrison's calling card. Perhaps I shall reconsider his invitation, just to watch you lose your composure again."
He bit your shoulder in retaliation, making you yelp and laugh. When he raised his head to glare at you, his eyes were bright with affection and residual jealousy.
"You," he said, "are absolutely insufferable."
"I learned from the best." You pulled him down for another kiss, slow and sweet and full of promise. "Now, about those Blackwood files you mentioned..."
His laugh rumbled through both of you. "Later. Much later. I'm not nearly finished with you yet."
An hour later, you lay tangled together on the couch, your chemise hastily pulled back on, his shirt hanging open and forgotten. Your head rested on his chest, rising and falling with each breath, while his fingers traced lazy patterns along your spine - up and down, a soothing rhythm that made you drowsy and content.
The fire had burned low, casting flickering shadows across the sitting room. Outside, London's evening sounds filtered through the windows - distant carriages, muffled voices, the city settling into dusk.
"Your heart rate has finally normalized," Sherlock murmured, his voice rough and satisfied. "Took approximately twelve minutes longer than I calculated."
You smiled against his skin, pressing a kiss to his sternum. "Perhaps your calculations need adjusting."
"Impossible. My calculations are always…" He stopped as you bit him lightly. "You're doing that on purpose."
"Doing what?" You traced the line of his collarbone with your fingertip, feeling him shiver. "Pointing out that the great Sherlock Holmes might occasionally be wrong about something?"
His hand slid up to cup the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair. "I wasn't wrong about this," he said quietly. "About us. Was I?"
The vulnerability in his voice made your chest tighten. You shifted to look up at him, finding his eyes already on you - dark and uncertain in a way that was so unlike him it made your heart ache.
"No," you said softly, reaching up to trace his jaw. "You weren't wrong."
He caught your hand, bringing it to his lips and pressing a kiss to your palm. "Good. Because I meant what I said. I don't share. I don't do casual. And I certainly don't…"
"Let people in?" you finished gently.
His expression flickered with something raw. "Yes."
You shifted higher, until you could kiss him properly - slow and deep and tender. When you pulled back, his eyes had softened, some of that desperate edge finally easing.
"So what happens now?" you asked, your thumb stroking his cheekbone. "Tomorrow, when we go back to crime scenes and investigations? Do we pretend this didn't happen? Do we."
"No." The word was immediate, fierce. His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. "Tomorrow, and every day after, you're mine. Publicly. Privately. In every way that matters. Anyone who looks at you the way Morrison did will know exactly who you belong to."
"Possessive," you teased, though warmth bloomed in your chest.
"Accurate," he corrected, echoing his earlier words. His hand slid up to cup your face, thumb brushing your lower lip. "I've spent two years pretending I didn't want this. I'm not wasting another moment. You'll move your things into the spare room. Or into mine, I don't particularly care which, though I have a preference and we'll continue working together. Only now, when Morrison or any other idiot tries to -"
"You'll eviscerate them with deductions?" you supplied, grinning.
"Precisely." He looked entirely too pleased with himself. "Though I may also kiss you senseless in front of them. For clarity."
You laughed, the sound bright and genuine. "Sherlock Holmes, jealous and territorial. Who should ever have supposed it?"
"I prefer 'protective' and 'committed.'" His fingers traced down your spine again, making you arch into him. "But yes, if you insist on being technical about it, I am... deeply opposed to sharing your attention."
"Just my attention?"
His eyes darkened. "Everything. Your attention, your time, your brilliant mind, your…" He pulled you down for another kiss, this one heated enough to make your toes curl. When he released you, you were both breathing hard again. "Everything," he repeated firmly.
You settled back against his chest, your fingers playing with the open edges of his shirt. "I suppose such an arrangement might prove... acceptable," you said, attempting a casual tone and failing entirely.
"You suppose?" He pinched your side lightly, making you squirm. "Shall I provide further evidence of why this arrangement is mutually beneficial?"
"Later," you said, echoing his earlier words. "Much later. Right now, I just want to stay here."
His arms tightened around you, and you felt him press a kiss to the top of your head. "Then stay," he murmured. "Stay as long as you like."
"Careful, Sherlock. That almost sounded romantic."
"Impossible," he said, but you could hear the smile in his voice. "I don't do romance. I do facts. And the fact is, you're not leaving this flat tonight. Or any night, if I have my way."
You smiled against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart. "What about the Blackwood files?"
"Burned."
"The Pemberton case?"
"Solved itself."
"Mrs. Hudson's request?"
"Can wait until morning." His hand found yours, fingers interlacing. "Right now, the only case I'm interested in is figuring out how I managed to deserve you."
Your breath caught. You tilted your head up to find him watching you with an expression so tender it made your chest ache.
"That's the easiest deduction you'll ever make," you whispered. "You don't have to deserve me, Sherlock. You just have to want me."
"Then I'm solved the case," he said softly, "because I've never wanted anything more."
You kissed him again, slow and sweet, and settled back into his arms. Outside, London continued its evening symphony, but inside 221B Baker Street, everything had finally, perfectly, fallen into place.
"Though I am keeping Inspector Morrison's calling card. Perhaps I might extend his invitation after all - one must maintain one's options.."
Sherlock's growl of protest rumbled through his chest, making you laugh as his arms locked around you like a vice.
Some things, you thought contentedly, would never change.
Summary: Tony Stark found himself at a bar after a bad argument with Pepper. There, he found Mia, or more like she found him.
Warnings: cussing | age gap she's 25 and he's 45 | adult themes | Mia is a self-insert so she's a Latina mami | Spanish | Tony is a brooding guy | love at first sight maybe? |
Song Inspo: Julieta - Latin Mafia
Word Count: 2,759
Author's Note: Helloooooo it's me again smashing these two together lmao this is a what if universe in which instead of reuniting 4 years later, they will find each other days later, well... more like Tony won't stop thinking about her lol i might just fully focus on this for a while so if you sent a request, ooopsies I'll get to it at some point, I promise.
| Masterlist | The Wedding Planner | Meet The Starks | Tag List |
Tú sabes bailar
Se te facilita como el caminar
Tú sabes bailar
Y ese ritmo que lo hace lento
Poco a poco se va a violento
Vamos, vamos, vamos al cielo
Yo no tengo miedo y lo siento
Arguments with Pepper were never fun. Her relentless criticism of his choice to be a “superhero” had morphed into a grueling daily routine. It felt like she was constantly trying to disassemble him and rebuild him into someone else. That’s not love, is it? He wondered, raising the glass of amber liquid to his lips.
Maybe she was right. Maybe if he finally ripped out the arc reactor and stopped building the suits, he could actually have the family he never thought he deserved.
But then again, he became Iron Man to right his wrongs. He was trying to honor Yinsen’s memory by rewriting his legacy, a concept Pepper just couldn’t seem to grasp.
To hell with it. Maybe it was for the best that they broke up, but this time it had to be for good. No half-assed apologies that would just spin them right back into the same toxic cycle.
“Are you always this broody?”
The voice snapped him out of his spiral, drawing his attention to the girl who had slipped onto the barstool next to him. Tony blinked, looking around the dim room in genuine confusion. Was she talking to him?
“Yes, I am talking to you,” she said, answering the unspoken question as if she could read his mind.
She looked young—mid-20s at most. Tony’s eyes reflexively scanned her, taking her in. Dark brown eyes were framed by a dusting of glitter that perfectly matched her shimmery dress, and long, dark hair cascaded in loose waves over her chest.
“I’m not in the mood for pictures, Tinkerbell,” he muttered, deflecting with a classic Stark defense mechanism. She just laughed at the ridiculous nickname. Most people would’ve taken the hint and walked away, but not her.
“The name is Mia, and I don’t want your picture,” she replied easily.
Without breaking eye contact, she reached out for Tony’s now-neglected drink. He tracked her every movement, from the way her ink-covered arm stretched across the dark wood of the bar to the moment the rim of the glass pressed against her plush lips. She downed the burning liquid he’d been nursing as if it were nothing but water.
Sweet lord baby Jesus. When was the last time someone had openly flirted with him like this?and, more importantly, when was the last time he’d actually been free to play along? He couldn’t remember. But looking at her, he knew one thing for certain: this girl was absolute trouble.
Mia set the empty glass back down with a soft clink, turning her dark eyes back to his. “Looks like you’re dry. And I need a drink.”
Tony held her gaze, a slow, amused smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he signaled the bartender. “Another whiskey, and…”
“Two tequila shots,” she interrupted confidently.
Tony shot his eyebrows up. Yep. He could already foresee how this night ends.
“Whatever the lady wants,” he said, sliding his black card across the slick bar top.
He turned back to Mia. For a split second, a flash of genuine surprise crossed her dark brown eyes at his easy compliance. But then again, he was Tony Stark, what were two shots of tequila compared to his net worth?
“Careful,” she warned, a playful edge to her voice. “How do you know I’m not gonna buy drinks for the whole place?”
The bartender placed the shots in front of her with a practiced nod. Mia didn't hesitate; she immediately slid one of the salt-rimmed glasses across the counter toward Tony.
“You don’t seem the type to splurge on someone else’s dime,” Tony replied, eyeing the clear liquid with a mix of amusement and dread. “And besides, Tinkerbell, I don't do tequila.”
Mia tilted her head, her dark waves shifting over her shoulder as she looked at him, completely unfazed by the rejection of the drink.
“You don’t do tequila, or Tony Stark doesn’t do things he can’t control?” she challenged, her plush lips curving into a teasing smile. She picked up her own shot glass, swirling the liquid lazily. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’re dying to lose control just a little bit tonight.”
Tony let out a dry, breathy laugh, leaning his elbow on the bar. The girl was observant. Too observant. It was dangerous, especially considering the raw, gaping wound Pepper had just left in his chest, but right now?
Dangerous felt a whole lot better than miserable.
“Ouch. Direct hit,” Tony said, pressing a hand to his chest over his shirt, right where the arc reactor sat. “And here I thought I was doing a seamless job of playing the mysterious, brooding billionaire.”
“You’re doing great, sweetie, really,” Mia said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. She raised her glass in a silent toast. “But the whiskey-sipping pity party is a bit of a cliché. Come on. One shot. It won't kill you.”
Tony looked from the shot glass to her eyes, decorated in that distracting shimmer. The heavy weight of his legacy, the looming threat of the next argument with Pepper, the guilt over Yinsen; it all felt incredibly loud.
He couldn’t explain it, but looking at Mia—who was a complete stranger—the noise started to dull.
Reaching out, his fingers brushed against hers for a fleeting second as he picked up the small glass.
“Fine. But if I end up singing karaoke on top of the bar, you’re the one explaining it to my PR team,” Tony warned, a genuine spark of mischief returning to his eyes for the first time in weeks.
Mia’s laugh was loud and genuine, a sound that cut right through the ambient hum of the lounge. “Deal, Stark. To bad decisions.”
“To bad decisions,” Tony echoed, and slammed the shot back.
The burn of the tequila hit the back of his throat, a sharp, violent contrast to the smooth warmth of the whiskey he’d been nursing. He slammed the glass back down on the bar, exhaling a sharp breath and pulling a face.
“Horrible. Absolutely barbaric,” Tony muttered, though the familiar fire in his chest felt grounded. Alive.
Mia downed hers like an absolute pro, not even flinching as she set her empty glass down beside his. She wiped her bottom lip with the back of her hand, a smug, triumphant grin spreading across her face. “See? You didn't die. In fact, I think a little color actually just came back into your face.”
“That’s not color, that’s my internal organs crying for help,” Tony shot back, leaning his hip against the bar so he could face her fully. He tapped his fingers rhythmically against the counter, his mind finally moving faster than his misery. “Alright, you’ve successfully poisoned the great Tony Stark. What’s phase two of your master plan?”
She turned on her stool, crossing one leg over the other. The shimmery fabric of her dress caught the dim, ambient light of the lounge, and the ink on her arm seemed to shift with the movement. She rested her chin in her hand, looking at him with an intensity that made him forget all about the looming, suffocating silence of his empty workshop.
“Phase two involves figuring out why a guy who has everything looks like he just lost his last friend,” she said softly. The teasing edge in her voice had softened into something genuinely curious.
Tony stiffened slightly, the phantom ache of his argument with Pepper flaring up again. No half-assed apologies. He’d meant it. He couldn’t go back to that cycle. But explaining that to a stranger?
“Let’s just say… corporate restructuring,” Tony said, his voice dropping into that smooth, practiced cadence he used for the press. “Re-evaluating partnerships. Cutting ties with assets that no longer align with the company’s vision.”
Mia let out a soft snort, shaking her head. “Wow. You really talk in press releases when you're hurt, don’t you?”
Tony blinked. Direct hit. Again.
“You’re brutal, you know that?” he said, a genuine smile breaking through his defensive walls. He raised his fresh glass of whiskey toward her. “I like it. Most people just nod and pretend they understand the genius.”
“Well, I’m not most people, Stark,” Mia murmured, her dark brown eyes locking onto his, holding him captive in a way he hadn’t experienced in a very long time. “And personally? I think you look a lot better when you're not trying to be a genius.”
Her words truly took him aback. Had she really been able to see straight through his carefully constructed layers based on nothing but a five-minute interaction? It made him feel exposed, like she already knew a little too much about him. Yet, looking at her, she seemed entirely genuine.
No hidden agenda, no cameras. Just her.
It was his turn to put her on the hot seat. Tony opened his mouth to flip the interrogation back on her, but before he could speak, a sudden squeal of excitement left her lips, startling him.
“That’s one of my favorite songs! Come on, dance with me!” Mia cried, sliding off her barstool and instantly grabbing his hand, pulling him upward.
“I don’t dance,” he tried to protest, attempting to anchor himself to the bar, though his eyes immediately began to wander.
She was on the shorter side, but damn, she had curves in all the right places. His eyes traveled up from her legs, watching how the sparkly fabric of her dress stretched perfectly over her plump ass. As she turned, he realized the tiny piece of clothing was completely backless, revealing a stunning cascade of inked flowers blooming across her bare skin.
He’d be lying to himself if he said he didn’t find her attractive.
In fact, a dark, possessive thought crossed his mind—if this girl were to be his girl, she probably wouldn’t have made it past the bedroom door. Tony immediately reprimanded himself for the thought, shaking his head to clear it. Focus, Stark.
But Mia was relentless, dragging him straight into the thick of the dance floor. Sweaty bodies pressed against each other, moving to the sensual, heavy rhythm of what Tony guessed was a Spanish song.
“Just follow me,” Mia said, turning back to face him. She caught his hands, her hips immediately beginning to sway like a hypnotizing pendulum.
Tony stood there for a second, feeling entirely out of his depth. He could build a particle accelerator in his sleep, but moving his feet to a Latin beat while a beautiful, tatted-up woman melted into his personal space? That required a different kind of genius.
“You’re assuming I have rhythm, Tinkerbell,” Tony shouted over the booming bass, though he didn't pull his hands away. Instead, his grip tightened slightly against her soft skin.
“Everyone has rhythm, Stark. You’re just overthinking it. Stop trying to engineer the dance,” Mia teased. She took a step closer, closing the distance between them until the shimmery, glittered fabric of her dress brushed against his tailored pants.
She guided his hands down to her waist. The skin of her bare back was warm beneath his palms, the texture of her tattoos smooth. As she moved, her hips rolled perfectly against the beat, drawing him into her orbit.
Tony let out a low breath, the last remnants of his brooding mood evaporating into the crowded, humid air of the club. Pepper, the workshop, the endless expectation; it all faded into the background, replaced entirely by the intoxicating scent of Mia’s perfume and the friction of her body against his.
He allowed his feet to move, finally catching the rhythm. A slow, wicked grin spread across his face as he pulled her just an inch closer.
“Alright, Mia,” Tony murmured, his voice dropping an octave as his eyes locked onto her plush lips. “Let’s see what else you can teach me.
Mia smiled, instantly taking on the challenge. She moved in, getting dangerously close—so close that he could feel the warmth of her breath against his lips.
“Tú sabes bailar, se te facilita como el caminar. Tú sabes bailar,” she sang softly, her dark brown eyes locked onto his as the foreign lyrics brushed against his mouth. This had to be the gods thanking Tony for saving the world twice already. Seriously. Because that right there? That was easily the hottest thing he had witnessed in a very long time.
His heart hammered against his ribs, a sudden rush of adrenaline spiking through his veins that had absolutely nothing to do with flight suits or alien invasions. Tony’s hands tightened on her hips, anchoring her to him as the heavy bass of the music vibrated through the floorboards beneath their shoes.
“English, Tinkerbell,” Tony murmured, his voice thick and suddenly raspy. He leaned down just a fraction of an inch, his lips practically grazing hers as she continued to sway against him. “You’re cheating. I have no idea what you’re saying, but it feels like a violation of the Geneva Convention.”
Mia let out a breathless, smoky laugh, her hands sliding up his chest to rest against his shoulders. The glitter on her collarbones caught the pulsing neon lights of the club.
“I said you know how to dance,” she whispered, her hips rolling into him with a slow, agonizing rhythm that made his brain completely short-circuit. “That it comes easily to you. Like walking.”
“Oh, it’s definitely not easy,” Tony groaned softly, though a confident, dangerous smirk was finally breaking through his shock. He leaned in closer, his nose brushing against hers, entirely intoxicated by her smell, her touch, and the sheer audacity of her presence. “But I’m a quick learner.”
He guided her smoothly through a turn, his hand sliding across the bare, inked skin of her back. The touch sent a jolt straight down her spine.
For the first time in months, Tony wasn’t thinking about the future, or his mistakes, or the crushing weight of being a hero. He was just a man in a bar, completely captivated by a girl who didn't care about his armor.
Mia’s eyes darkened, her plush lips parting slightly as she felt the shift in his confidence. She leaned her head back, looking up at him through thick lashes. “Yeah? Prove it, Stark.”
He didn’t have to be told twice. The challenge in her eyes was all the permission he needed, but the sudden, overwhelming urge to kiss her completely hijacked his senses.
His eyes dropped to her plush lips, just inches from his own, still parted and inviting. Every logical thought in his brain evaporated, replaced by a fierce, possessive heat that caught him completely off guard.
He wanted her. No—he needed her.
And more than that, he needed to get her out of this crowded, sweaty room full of staring eyes. He wanted to take her home, somewhere private, where no one else could witness the way she moved, the way she laughed, or the way those inked flowers traced the curves of her bare back. She was too captivating for a public floor, and right now, Tony was feeling entirely selfish.
“Careful what you wish for, Mia,” Tony murmured, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly promise.
Before she could answer, his hand slid up from her waist, his fingers tangling into the long, dark waves of her hair to tilt her head back. He leaned down and captured her lips in a deep, bruising kiss that completely cut off the rest of the world.
Mia gasped against his mouth, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she melted right into him, her arms wrapping tightly around his neck as she returned the kiss with a fiery intensity that matched the rhythm of the music pulsing around them.
She tasted like sweet tequila and pure trouble.
When he finally pulled back just enough to breathe, his forehead rested against hers. Both of them were breathless, their chests heaving. Tony’s smirk was gone, replaced by a look of intense, raw focus.
“We’re leaving,” Tony said, his tone leaving absolutely no room for argument.
Mia’s dark eyes were glazed, her glittery lids heavy, as a slow, knowing smile spread across her face. “Are we?”
“Yeah,” Tony muttered, already wrapping his arm securely around her waist to guide her through the crowd. He reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone to text Happy to bring the car around. “Because if I keep you here another five minutes, I’m going to make a scene, and my PR team is already having a bad week.”
I have a request for you, Tony discovering he has daddy!kink... 😮💨 Tony and Reader started dating recently and they can't stay away from each other. They're in Tony's penthouse having an amazing sex, and when Reader is almost there, she pulls his hair, scratches his back, wraps her legs around his waist, and calls him daddy without even realizing it... He'll stop, look at her with wide eyes, and at first she'll think he hated it, and when she goes to apologize, he kisses her so hard and keeps fucking her even harder than before, begging her to call him daddy repeatedly until they both cum together, and he'll let out the sexiest moan of his life and cum deliciously inside her. It will also be the first time they say they love each other during the sex and the aftercare, a sexy, sentimental and cute moment 💝💝💝
Daddy Issues (In the Best Way)
Pairing: Tony Stark x F!Reader
Warning/Rating: 18+; explicit, graphic sexual activity (oral sex, manual stimulation, penetration, orgasm described in detail), unprotected sex, language, daddy kink, power play
Word Count: 3 K
You let yourself into Tony’s penthouse with the access code he’d given you four months ago, toeing off your heels by the door like you always did. The familiar hum of the arc reactor rached your ears before you saw him - sprawled out on the couch with a tablet, still in his suit minus the jacket.
“There’s my girl,” he said without looking up, a smile playing at his lips. “I was starting to think you’d stood me up for that Netflix documentary about boy bands.”
“The boy bands can wait.” You crossed to him, plucking the tablet from his hands and setting it aside. “Besides, I have much better plans for tonight.”
“Oh?” He pulled you down onto his lap, hands immediately finding your waist like they belonged there. After three months together, he knew exactly where to touch you. “And what plans would those be?”
“Well,” you murmured, rolling your hips against him in a way that made his eyes darken, “I was thinking we could skip dinner and go straight to dessert.”
“I lik the way you think.” His hands slid up your thighs, pushing your skirt higher. “Though I should warn you, I’m very hungry tonight.”
“Good thing I’m on the menu then.” You kissed him, deep and familiar, the kind of kiss that came from knowing exactly what the other person liked.
He groaned into your mouth, standing with you in his arms - a move he’d perfected over the past few months. “Bedroom. Now.”
“So demanding,” you teased, but you were already wrapping your legs around his waist as he carried you through the penthouse.
By the time you reached the bedroom, half your clothes were already gone, discarded in a trail behind you. Tony laid you on the bed with the easy confidence of someone who’d done this dozens of times before, who knew exactly how to make you fall apart.
He stood at the edge of the bed, eyes roaming over you with that hungry look that never failed to make you wet. “You’re wearing too many clothes,” he observed, reaching for the clasp of your bra.
"So are you," you countered, but he was already unhooking it, sliding the straps down your arms and tossing it aside.
"Ladies first." His hands cupped your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples in the way that made you arch into his touch. "God, you're beautiful. Every single time, you take my breath away."
"Less talking, more touching," you breathed, and he grinned - that cocky, confident grin that made your stomach flip.
"Impatient." He hooked his fingers in your panties, the last barrier between you, and slowly dragged them down your legs. "But I like that about you."
Then he was on you, his mouth hot and demanding as he kissed down your neck, your collarbone, the valley between your breasts. He took one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard while his hand worked the other, rolling and pinching until you were squirming beneath him.
"Tony," you gasped, threading your fingers through his hair.
"Mmm, I love the way you say my name." He switched to the other breast, giving it the same attention, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak. "But I want to hear you scream it."
He kissed his way down your stomach, nipping at your hip bone, and then he was settling between your thighs, spreading you open with his hands. The first swipe of his tongue through your folds made you cry out, your hips bucking involuntarily.
"Fuck, you're already so wet for me," he murmured against your pussy, his breath hot against your sensitive flesh. "Love how responsive you are. Love how you taste."
He dove in like a man starving, his tongue licking through your folds with practiced precision. He knew exactly what you liked - had spent months learning every response, every sound you made. His tongue circled your clit, teasing, before he sucked it into his mouth, and the sensation made you see stars.
"Oh god, Tony!" Your hands fisted in his hair, holding him against you as he worked you over with his mouth. He alternated between broad, flat strokes of his tongue and focused attention on your clit, building the pleasure higher and higher.
He slid two fingers inside you, curling them to hit that spot that made your thighs shake, all while his tongue continued its relentless assault on your clit. The dual sensation was overwhelming, pleasure coiling tight in your core.
"That's it, sweetheart," he murmured against you, the vibration of his voice adding another layer of sensation. "Ride my face. Take what you need."
You did, grinding against his mouth as he fucked you with his fingers, his tongue working your clit in tight circles. You were close, so close, teetering on the edge.
He pulled back, and you whimpered at the loss.
"Not yet," he said, his lips and chin glistening with your arousal. "Want to feel you come on my cock."
"Bastard," you panted, but you were already reaching for him, pulling him up for a kiss. You could taste yourself on his tongue, and it was obscenely hot.
"Your turn," you murmured against his lips, pushing at his shoulders until he rolled onto his back.
You made quick work of his belt and pants, freeing his cock. He was hard and thick, the head already glistening with precum. You wrapped your hand around him, stroking slowly, and he groaned, his hips lifting into your touch.
"Fuck, yes -"
You lowered your head, licking a stripe up the underside of his cock before taking the head into your mouth. The taste of him, salty and masculine, made you moan around him.
"Christ," Tony gasped, one hand coming to rest in your hair - not pushing, just holding, like he needed to touch you. "Your mouth feels so fucking good."
You took him deeper, relaxing your throat to take as much of him as you could. You'd learned over the months exactly how he liked it - the pressure, the suction, the way he loved when you hollowed your cheeks and sucked hard on the upstroke.
"Just like that," he groaned, his thighs tensing beneath your hands. "Fuck, just like that, sweetheart. You're so good at this. So fucking good."
You worked him with your mouth and hand in tandem, taking him deep and then pulling back to swirl your tongue around the sensitive head. His cock was heavy on your tongue, thick and perfect, and you loved the way he responded to you. The way his breath hitched, the way his fingers tightened in your hair, the way his hips started to move, fucking up into your mouth in shallow thrusts.
"Stop," he gasped after a few minutes, tugging gently at your hair. "Stop or I'm going to come, and I need to be inside you when I do."
You released him with a wet pop, grinning up at him. "So demanding."
"You love it." He pulled you up for a bruising kiss, then flipped you onto your back in one smooth motion. "Now let me show you exactly how much I need you."
He settled between your thighs, the head of his cock nudging at your entrance. He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, and you both groaned at the sensation. After months together, your body knew his, welcomed him, but it was still intense - the stretch, the fullness, the way he filled you so completely.
"God, you feel incredible," he groaned once he was fully seated inside you. "Never gets old. Never."
"Better not," you gasped, wrapping your legs around his waist. "You're stuck with me now, Stark."
"Best thing that's ever happened to me." He started to move, slow and deep, hitting that spot inside you that made your toes curl. "That's it, sweetheart. Let me hear you."
He'd learned your body over the past months, knew exactly where to touch, how hard to grip, what angle made you see stars. You'd mapped every inch of him too, knew that he loved when you pulled his hair, when you dragged your nails down his back hard enough to leave marks.
The pace built gradually, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, more desperate. Your hands roamed his back, nails digging in, leaving the marks he loved to see in the mirror the next morning. One hand fisted in his hair, pulling just the way he liked. Your legs wrapped tighter around his waist, heels digging into his ass, urging him deeper.
"Right there," you panted, the pleasure building to an almost unbearable peak. "Don't stop, don't -"
He shifted the angle slightly - that move he'd perfected three weeks ago that made you cry out every time - and suddenly he was hitting that perfect spot with every thrust. The coil of pleasure in your core wound tighter and tighter, and you were right on the edge, so close you could taste it.
"Fuck, daddy, yes!"
The words slipped out without thought, torn from you in the heat of the moment. You didn't even realize what you'd said until Tony went completely still, buried deep inside you.
His eyes were wide, shocked, his breath coming in harsh pants. For a moment, neither of you moved.
Horror flooded through you. "Oh my god. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean - I don't know why I said that." You tried to pull away, mortification burning through you. "We can just forget -"
He kissed you.
It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was desperate, claiming, almost bruising in its intensity. His tongue swept into your mouth as his hips drew back and slammed forward, harder than he'd ever fucked you before, deeper than before.
"Say it again," he demanded against your lips, his voice wrecked and raw. "Fuck, say it again."
"Tony -"
"Please." He thrust again, and you could feel him trembling. "Need to hear you say it again. Need - fuck, I need it."
Understanding dawned, along with a rush of arousal so intense it made you dizzy. He liked it. More than liked it. He was completely undone by it.
"You like that, daddy?" you whispered against his ear, and felt him shudder. "Like when I call you daddy?"
"Yes." The word was almost a growl. He was fucking you with an intensity you'd never experienced from him before, hard and fast and desperate. "Yes, fuck, yes. Say it. Keep saying it."
"Daddy," you moaned, and he groaned like he was in pain. "Daddy, please. You feel so good, daddy. So deep."
"Christ." His rhythm was becoming erratic, his control clearly slipping. "You're going to kill me. Going to fucking kill me and I'm going to die happy."
You pulled his hair harder, scratched your nails down his back, tightened your legs around him. "Make me come, daddy. Want to come on your cock. Want to feel you come inside me."
"Fuck, fuck -" He reached between your bodies, fingers finding your clit and circling with just the right pressure - the exact touch he'd learned drove you wild. "Come for me. Come for daddy. Let me feel it."
The combination of his cock hitting that perfect spot, his fingers on your clit, and the absolutely filthy words falling from his lips sent you over the edge. Your orgasm crashed through you like a tidal wave, your body clenching around him as pleasure whited out your vision.
"That's it, that's my girl," he praised, his voice strained. "So beautiful when you come. So fucking perfect."
"Daddy," you whimpered, still riding the waves of your orgasm. "Come inside me, daddy. Want to feel you. Please."
That did it. His rhythm stuttered, and then he was coming with a moan that was absolutely the sexiest sound you'd ever heard from him - raw and vulnerable and completely unguarded. You felt him pulse inside you, filling you with heat, and it triggered another smaller orgasm that had you gasping his name.
He collapsed on top of you, both of you breathing hard, hearts racing in tandem. For a long moment, neither of you spoke, just held each other as you came down from the high.
Finally, Tony lifted his head, and you were surprised to see something almost shy in his expression. "So... that happened."
"That definitely happened." You brushed his hair back from his forehead, the gesture tender and familiar. "You okay?"
"Okay? I just discovered I have a daddy kink at the ripe age of… well, let's not discuss numbers." He rolled to the side, pulling you with him so you were tucked against his chest in your usual post-sex position. "I'm more than okay. I'm... that was..."
"Intense?" you offered.
"Understatement of the century." He pressed a kiss to your forehead. "I didn't know. I mean, we've been together for months now, and no one's ever called me that before. And then you did, and it was like something just clicked into place. Like finding a piece of myself I didn't know was missing."
You traced patterns on his chest, over the arc reactor. "I didn't mean to just spring it on you. It genuinely just slipped out."
"Best accident ever." He caught your hand, bringing it to his lips. "Though I have to ask… was it just a heat of the moment thing, or...?"
"I don't know," you admitted honestly. "I've never really explored that particular kink before. But seeing your reaction? Feeling how much it turned you on?" You looked up at him. "Yeah, I could definitely be into it. If you are."
"Oh, I'm into it." His hand slid down your back, cupping your ass. "Very, very into it. We're definitely exploring this further. Extensively. For science."
You laughed. "For science?"
"I'm a genius, remember? I need to conduct thorough experiments. Gather data. Test various hypotheses." His eyes were sparkling now, the vulnerability replaced with familiar playfulness. "It's going to require a lot of research. Hours and hours of very hands-on research."
"Well, I do love contributing to scientific advancement." You kissed his chest, right over the arc reactor. "Though I have to say, the way you begged me to call you daddy was possibly the hottest thing I've ever experienced. And we've had some pretty hot experiences."
He groaned. "You can't just say things like that when I need at least twenty minutes to recover. I'm not a machine. Well, partially a machine, but the relevant parts are still human."
"I can wait twenty minutes." You snuggled closer, fitting against him perfectly like you always did. "This is nice too. Just being with you."
His arms tightened around you. "Yeah. It really is." There was a pause, and then, quieter: "I didn't expect this, you know. You. Us. I don't usually do the relationship thing."
"I know." You'd heard the stories, seen the tabloid pictures. Tony Stark wasn't exactly known for his commitment. "But here we are. Four months and counting."
"Here we are," he echoed. Another pause, longer this time. When he spoke again, his voice was soft, almost uncertain. "I love you."
Your breath caught. You lifted your head to look at him, finding his expression open and vulnerable in a way you'd never seen before. "Tony..."
"You don't have to say it back," he said quickly. "I know we've been taking our time, and maybe it's too soon, but I've never been good at playing it cool, and after what just happened, after discovering something that intimate with you, I just... I needed you to know. You make me feel things I didn't think I was capable of feeling anymore. You see me - really see me, not just Iron Man or the genius billionaire playboy philanthropist, but me. And I…"
You kissed him, cutting off his rambling. When you pulled back, you were smiling. "I love you too."
His eyes widened. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." You cupped his face, thumbs stroking his cheekbones. "I love you, Tony Stark. All of you. Including your newly discovered daddy kink."
He laughed, the sound bright and genuine and full of joy. "God, I really hit the jackpot with you, didn't I?"
"We both did." You settled back against his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear. "Though I have to say, if someone had told me this morning that by tonight we'd have discovered your daddy kink and be exchanging 'I love yous,' I would have thought they were insane."
"Life's funny that way." His fingers traced lazy patterns on your back. "For what it's worth, I'm really glad you accidentally called me daddy."
"Me too." You pressed a kiss to his chest. "Though I reserve the right to be mortified about it in the morning."
"No deal. You're going to own it. In fact, I'm going to make sure you say it so many times that it becomes second nature." His hand slid lower, squeezing your ass. "Starting in about fifteen minutes."
"I thought you needed twenty?"
"Turns out I'm highly motivated." He rolled you onto your back, settling between your thighs with a grin that was pure mischief. "Besides, I have a lot of lost time to make up for. Forty-something years of not knowing I had a daddy kink? That's a lot of research to conduct."
You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down for a kiss. "Well then, daddy," you murmured against his lips, feeling him harden against your thigh, "let's get started on that research."
His answering groan was everything you'd hoped for. "I love you," he said again, like he couldn't quite believe he got to say it. "I really, really love you."
"I love you too," you replied, meaning it with every fiber of your being. "Now show me exactly what daddy can do."
And he did.
Twice.
JARVIS very diplomatically didn't comment on any of the noises coming from the bedroom, though Tony swore later that the AI had sounded amused when he'd asked for privacy mode.
But that was a conversation for the morning. Right now, wrapped in Tony's arms, his voice rough as he whispered "that's my good girl" against your skin, you couldn't think of anywhere else you'd rather be.
Daddy issues, you thought with a smile as Tony made you come apart again, had never felt so good.
Can there be a fic where reader is just OBSESSED with RDJ’s long hair? And every time they’re doing naked wrestling in bed her hand is always grasping at his locks and that in turn also gets him going cuz he likes getting his hair tugged
Thank you.
- 🐓🌸
Tangled Up in You
Pairing: Robert Downey Jr x Girlfriend F!Reader
Warning/Rating: 18+; explicit, graphic sexual activity (penetration, orgasm described in detail), unprotected sex, profanity, dirty talk, hair-pulling kink
Author's Note: I just imagine his hair like it is for Sherlock Holmes. Ugh!!!
Word Count: 3.3 K
The afternoon sun filtered through the windows of Robert’s Malibu living room, casting golden light across the hardwood floors. You were supposed to be reading through the script he’d handed you twenty minutes ago, but the words had blurred into meaningless shapes approximately nineteen minutes and thirty seconds ago.
Because your boyfriend was sitting across from you in that insufferably perfect way of his, one leg crossed over the other, reading glasses perced on his nose, and his hair - God, his hair - was going things to your concentration that should probably be illegal in several states.
It had grown out over the past few months, and you’d watched with increasing fascination as it fell in soft waves that brushed past his ears and curled slightly at his neckline. The layers were perfectly imperfect, textured and tousled in that effortlessly cool way that probably took his stylist an hour to achieve but looked like he’d just run his fingers through it. Which he did. Frequently. The bastard knew exactly what he was doing to you.
He did it again now, absently pushing the dark strands back from his forehead as he read, and you felt your breath catch.
"You're staring again."
His voice cut through your reverie, smooth and knowing. He didn't even look up from his script.
"I'm not staring," you lied, poorly. "I'm... contemplating."
"Contemplating." Now he did look up, one eyebrow arched over the rim of his glasses in that trademark expression that had launched a thousand GIFs. "Is that what we're calling it these days?"
"I'm contemplating the artistic choices in this script," you said, gesturing vaguely at the pages in your lap that you definitely hadn't been reading. "Very contemplative. Much art."
"Uh-huh." He set his own script down, removing his glasses with deliberate slowness. "So you can tell me what page you're on?"
"Page..." You glanced down. "Seven."
"Try twelve. You haven't turned a page in fifteen minutes." He leaned back against the couch, arms spreading across the back in a pose that was absolutely calculated to be devastating. "I know you find me irresistible, sweetheart, but this is getting ridiculous. Even for you."
"Your humility is truly inspiring," you shot back, but you could feel heat creeping up your neck.
"Humility is overrated. Honesty, however..." He tilted his head, and those waves shifted, catching the light. "You've been eye-fucking my hair since I got out of the shower this morning. That's what, four hours now?"
"Eye-fucking is a strong term."
"You literally stopped mid-sentence during breakfast to stare at it. I had to wave my hand in front of your face."
"I was thinking."
"You were fantasizing." He was grinning now, that sharp, knowing smile that made him look like he'd just won an argument you didn't know you were having. "Just admit it. You're obsessed. Still. After all this time."
You set the script aside, deciding that if you were going to be called out - again - you might as well own it. "Fine. Yes. Your hair is ridiculously touchable and I've been thinking about running my fingers through it for approximately..." You checked your watch. "Four hours and seventeen minutes. Happy?"
"Ecstatic." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes glinting with mischief. "Though I have to say, you usually crack around the two-hour mark. You're showing remarkable restraint today."
"Oh, fuck off," you laughed, grabbing a throw pillow and launching it at him.
He caught it easily, that infuriating grin widening. "There she is. I was starting to worry you'd been body-snatched by someone with self-control."
"Self-control is overrated."
"That's my girl." He tossed the pillow aside and stood, moving with that casual grace that seemed effortless but you knew came from years of fight choreography and the yoga you'd dragged him to last month. He crossed to where you sat, stopping just in front of you. "So what's stopping you?"
You looked up at him, heart suddenly hammering despite the familiarity. "Stopping me from what?"
"From touching it. Since you're so obsessed and self-control is overrated." He was close enough now that you could see the flecks of amber in his dark eyes, could smell his cologne - the one you'd bought him for his birthday. "I'm right here. Like always."
It was a challenge. Everything with Robert was a challenge, a game of verbal chess where the stakes were always higher than they appeared. Even after all these months together, he still kept you on your toes.
You stood slowly, bringing yourself nearly eye-level with him in your heels. "You sure you can handle it? Remember what happened last Tuesday?"
"Please." He scoffed, but there was something darker flickering in his expression now, something heated and familiar. "That was one time. And we were already late."
"We were an hour late. To your own premiere."
"Worth it," he said without hesitation. "Besides, we don't have anywhere to be today."
"Dangerous words," you murmured, and reached up.
The first touch of his hair against your fingers was electric, just like it always was. It was softer than it looked, the waves silky and thick as you slid your hand through the layers. You felt him inhale sharply, saw his eyes flutter closed for just a second before he caught himself.
"Still gets you every time," you said softly, voice lower now.
"Yeah." His voice had gone rough around the edges. "Yeah, it does. Keep going."
So you did. Your other hand joined the first, combing through the textured layers, feeling how they fell perfectly back into place, how the ends curled slightly around your fingers. You let your nails scrape lightly against his scalp - the way you'd learned he loved - and felt him shudder.
"Jesus," he breathed. "You know what that does to me."
"I know exactly what it does to you." You were close enough now that your breath ghosted across his lips. "That's why I do it."
Instead of answering, he kissed you.
It wasn't gentle. Robert never did gentle when he was worked up, and you'd learned months ago that your hands in his hair worked him up faster than anything else. His mouth was hot and demanding against yours, one hand sliding to the back of your neck, the other gripping your hip in that possessive way that made your knees weak.
You kissed him back just as fiercely, fingers tightening in his hair, tugging just hard enough to make him groan into your mouth.
"Fuck," he gasped when you pulled back for air. "Do that again."
"This?" You wound your fingers deeper into the waves and pulled, harder this time, tilting his head back.
His eyes went dark, pupils blown wide. "You're going to be the death of me."
"You say that every time," you said, and kissed him again.
Somehow you ended up on the couch - though you both knew exactly how, this was a well-practiced dance by now. He fell back against the cushions and you followed, straddling his lap in one fluid motion that spoke of familiarity and desire in equal measure.
"Well," he said, looking up at you with that crooked smile, hands sliding up your thighs to rest on your hips. "Here we go again."
"Complaining?" you asked, already reaching for the hem of your shirt.
"Never." His hands found the hem of your shirt, helping you tug it up and over your head. "This is literally my favorite part of dating you."
"Just this part?" You pulled his t-shirt off and immediately got your hands back in his hair, using the grip to angle his head as you kissed down his jaw, his neck, feeling his pulse jump under your lips in that familiar rhythm.
"Okay, top three," he amended breathlessly as your teeth grazed his collarbone. "Top three favorite parts."
"Better." You bit down gently and pulled his hair at the same time - a combination you'd perfected over months of practice.
"Christ," he hissed. "You're getting too good at that."
"Practice makes perfect," you said against his skin. "And we've had a lot of practice."
"Not complaining about that either." His hands were working at your jeans now, popping the button with the practiced ease of someone who'd done this many times before. "Though I have to say, you're particularly enthusiastic today."
"Blame the hair. It's been taunting me all morning."
You stood just long enough to shimmy out of your jeans and underwear, and you watched his eyes go dark with that familiar hunger as he took you in. He made quick work of his own pants, and then you were back in his lap, skin against skin, and the feeling was intoxicating even though you'd felt it a hundred times before.
"Hi," he said softly, hands spanning your waist, thumbs tracing circles on your hipbones.
"Hi yourself," you breathed, and then you were kissing again, deeper this time, slower, like you had all the time in the world. Because you did.
But patience had never been your strong suit, and Robert knew it.
You reached between your bodies, wrapping your hand around his cock, feeling him pulse in your palm. He groaned into your mouth, hips jerking up in that involuntary response you'd come to love.
"Eager," you teased.
"You're one to talk," he shot back, but his voice was strained. "You've been eye-fucking me for hours. Again."
"And now I'm going to actually fuck you," you said, positioning yourself over him. "Try to keep up."
"I always keep up," he said, but his breath hitched as you sank down onto him in one slow, deliberate movement.
His mouth fell open, eyes squeezing shut, and his hands tightened on your hips hard enough to bruise - just the way you both liked it.
"Fuck," he groaned. "Never gets old."
"Never," you agreed, gasping, because he felt incredible, stretching and filling you perfectly. You gave yourself a moment to adjust - though your body knew him well enough by now that it didn't take long - then started to move.
You set a hard, demanding rhythm, rising up and sinking back down, using your thighs to drive the pace. And your hands - your hands went straight back to his hair, fingers threading through those perfect waves, gripping tight.
The effect was immediate and devastating, just like always. Robert's head fell back against the couch, a broken moan escaping his throat, and his hips bucked up to meet yours with renewed urgency.
"That's it," you breathed, tugging harder, using the grip to pull his head to the side so you could bite at his neck. "You love this, don't you?"
"Yes," he hissed. "Fuck, yes, you know I do."
You did know. You'd learned every single thing that made him come undone, and this - your hands fisted in his hair while you rode him - was at the top of the list.
You rode him harder, faster, one hand fisted in his hair while the other braced against his shoulder for leverage. Every time you pulled, he thrust up harder, a feedback loop of pleasure that had you both gasping and had become your signature move.
"You look so good like this," you told him, watching the way his face contorted with pleasure, the way his hair fell across his forehead in messy waves. "Completely wrecked."
"You're one to talk," he managed, opening his eyes to look at you. The intensity in his gaze nearly undid you, even after all this time. "Riding me like you're trying to prove something."
"Maybe I am."
"What's that?" His hands slid from your hips to your ass, gripping hard, helping to drive you down onto him in that perfect rhythm you'd found together.
"That I can still make you lose control," you said, punctuating it with a particularly hard pull of his hair.
He actually whimpered, and the sound went straight to your core. "Every single time. You know that."
You could feel the tension building, that delicious pressure coiling tighter and tighter. You changed the angle slightly, grinding down, and gasped when he hit that perfect spot inside you - the one he'd learned to find with unerring accuracy.
"There?" he asked, voice rough, and did it again.
"There," you confirmed, head falling back.
He took advantage of your exposed throat, leaning forward to kiss and bite at the sensitive skin, all while maintaining that perfect angle. Your grip in his hair tightened reflexively, and you felt him smile against your neck.
"You're close," he murmured. "I can always tell."
"So are you," you gasped, because you could - could feel him getting harder, his rhythm getting more erratic in that telltale way.
"Then let's make it good." One of his hands slid between your bodies, thumb finding your clit with the kind of precision that came from months of practice and attention.
The combination of sensations - him inside you, his thumb circling with perfect pressure, his mouth on your neck, his hair soft and thick between your fingers - was overwhelming. You felt yourself climbing higher, higher, right to the edge.
"Robert," you gasped. "I'm -"
"I know, baby. I've got you. Always."
You pulled his hair hard, probably harder than you should have, and felt him groan against your skin. That was all it took. You came with a cry, pleasure crashing over you in waves, your whole body shaking with the force of it.
Robert followed seconds later, your name a broken prayer on his lips as he thrust up one final time and spilled inside you. You felt him pulse, felt his hands grip you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.
For a long moment, neither of you moved, both trying to remember how breathing worked. The living room was quiet except for your ragged gasps and the distant sound of waves from the beach below - a soundtrack that had become familiar over the months you'd been together.
Finally, you lifted your head from where it had fallen against his shoulder. His hair was completely destroyed, waves sticking up in every direction from your grip, and he looked thoroughly debauched.
"So," he said eventually, voice hoarse. "That happened. Again."
You laughed, the sound breathless and a little giddy. "Your powers of observation are truly astounding."
"I'm a little brain-dead at the moment. You fucked the wit right out of me. As usual."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"You should." His hands were tracing lazy patterns on your back now, gentle and soothing in that post-coital tenderness you'd come to crave. "That was... yeah. Top five, easily."
"Top five?" You pulled back to look at him, eyebrow raised. "Only top five?"
"Top three," he amended with a grin. "Don't get greedy."
"I'm always greedy when it comes to you."
"I've noticed." But he was smiling, that soft, genuine smile that he didn't show often, the one that made him look younger and less guarded. The one he saved just for you.
You reached up, gently smoothing his hair back from his forehead, trying to restore some order to the chaos you'd created. He leaned into the touch, eyes closing, a contented hum rumbling in his chest.
"You really do love my hair," he said, amused. "I mean, I knew that. But it never stops being entertaining."
"It's a very nice hair," you said seriously. "Ten out of ten. Would recommend."
"Would recommend my hair?"
"Would recommend pulling your hair during sex. The reviews continue to be excellent. Five stars on Yelp. Consistently."
He laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest into yours. "You're ridiculous."
"You love it."
"I really do," he said, and there was something in his voice that made your heart skip. Something softer than the banter, more real. "I love you."
You pulled back slightly to look at him, warmth flooding your chest. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, the gesture achingly tender. "In case that wasn't clear from the mind-blowing sex we just had on my couch. Again."
"It was pretty mind-blowing," you agreed. "Though I think we might have traumatized your couch at this point."
"The couch has seen things," he said solemnly. "It's a veteran. It can handle it."
"I'm not sure I want to know what else it's witnessed."
"Probably not." He was quiet for a moment, thumb brushing across your cheekbone. "You know you're stuck with me now, right? This hair obsession of yours has locked you in."
Your heart did something complicated in your chest. "Is that so?"
"Absolutely. I'm growing it out specifically to keep you around. It's a trap."
"A very effective trap," you admitted.
"The most effective." He grinned. "Plus, I'm pretty sure if I cut it, you'd actually leave me."
"I would," you said seriously. "Immediately. No discussion."
"See? Trapped by my own follicles."
"You could do worse."
"I really couldn't." His expression softened. "Seriously, though. You know I love this, right? The hair thing. The way you can't keep your hands off me. All of it."
"Even when it makes us an hour late to your premieres?"
"Especially then." He pulled you down for a kiss, this one slow and sweet and full of affection. "You're lucky I'm as into this as you are."
"We're both lucky," you murmured against his lips.
"True." He was quiet for a moment, just holding you, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your spine. "So, what do you want to do for the rest of the day? Besides mess up my hair some more."
"Is that an option?"
"It's always an option with you. I've accepted my fate."
You pretended to think about it. "Well, we never finished reading those scripts."
"We both know we're not finishing those scripts today."
"Probably not," you admitted. "We could order food. Watch a movie. Engage in more naked wrestling."
"Naked wrestling," he repeated, deadpan. "Is that what we're calling it?"
"It's a very athletic activity. Requires stamina. Flexibility."
"And apparently a lot of hair-pulling."
"That's just my signature move."
He laughed, pulling you closer. "I love your signature move. Have I mentioned that?"
"Once or twice. But I don't mind hearing it again."
"I love your signature move," he said obediently, then added, "I love you."
"I love you too," you said, settling against his chest, his arms wrapping around you. "Even without the hair."
"Liar."
"Okay, mostly with the hair. But the man attached to it is pretty great too."
"I'll take it." He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "So, food and a movie?"
"And more naked wrestling?"
"Obviously. I have a reputation to maintain."
"What reputation is that?"
"Best boyfriend with great hair," he said seriously. "It's a very specific niche."
You laughed, fingers already threading back through those perfect waves. "You're definitely winning in that category."
"Damn right I am." He stood, somehow managing to lift you with him, your legs wrapping around his waist in a move you'd perfected over months of practice. "Come on. Let's take this to the bedroom. The couch deserves a break."
"The bedroom is good," you agreed. "Though I have to say, the couch has been a real MVP today."
"We have a lot of furniture," he said thoughtfully, carrying you down the hallway. "And apparently infinite stamina when your hands are in my hair."
"It's a gift."
"It's something," he agreed, shouldering open the bedroom door. "But I'm not complaining."
"You never do."
"Because I'm smart." He laid you down on the bed, following you down, his hair falling forward to frame his face. "And because I love you. And your weird hair obsession."
"It's not weird, it's romantic."
"It's both," he said, and kissed you again.
You pulled him closer, fingers tangling in his hair once more, and thought that maybe, just maybe, this obsession with his hair was the best thing that had ever happened to you.
How about a smut fic about tony or robert spanking f. Reader's ass as a foreplay))) +lots of dirty talk
Iron Will
Pairing: Tony Stark x F!Reader
Warning/Rating: 18+; explicit sexual content (graphic descriptions of sexual acts, arousal, and orgasms), extensive profanity and dirty talk, dominant/submissive dynamics, graphic depictions of spanking and sexual foreplay
Word Count: 2.5 K
The city glittered sixty floors below, a constellation of lights that paled in comparison to the arc reactor’s glow illuminating Tony Stark’s bare chest as he leaned against the floor-to-ceiling windows of his penthouse bedroom.
“You know,” he said, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, “most people who challenge me to prove my claims at least have the decency to look nervous about it.”
You crossed your arms, fighting the smile tugging at your lips. “Most people you make claims to probably haven’t heard you brag about your ‘exceptional manual dexterity’ at three separate Stark Industries galas.”
“Exceptional is underselling it, actually.” He set down his glass with a soft clink. “I was being modest. You know, for the shareholders.”
“Modest. Right. That’s definitely a word I associate with Tony Stark.”
He pushed off from the window, closing the distance between you with that predatory confidence that made your pulse quicken. "You're the one who said, and I quote, 'I bet your ego writes checks your body can't cash.'"
"And you're the one who dragged me up here to prove me wrong."
"Dragged?" Tony's eyebrow arched as he circled you slowly. "Pretty sure you practically sprinted to the elevator. JARVIS, what was her exact speed from the ballroom to -"
"Don't you dare."
His laugh was low and rich. "Relax. I dismissed him from the bedroom protocols the moment we walked in. No AI audience for this particular demonstration of my... capabilities." He stopped directly in front of you, close enough that you could smell his cologne - expensive, woody, with hints of motor oil that somehow worked. "Though I have to say, the way you're looking at me right now? That's not the face of someone who thinks I'm all talk."
You lifted your chin, meeting his gaze. "Maybe I'm just wondering how long it'll take for you to actually do something instead of running your mouth."
"Oh, sweetheart." His fingers traced along your jawline, feather-light. "My mouth is going to be doing plenty. But we're going to start with my hands." He leaned in, lips brushing your ear. "Because someone's been a little too mouthy tonight, and I think we both know what happens to smart girls who challenge Tony Stark."
Heat pooled low in your belly. "What, you bore them to death with your TED Talk on nanotechnology?"
Tony pulled back, eyes gleaming with amusement and desire. "See, that right there. That attitude." His thumb traced your lower lip. "I'm going to enjoy making you forget every single sarcastic comment you've got loaded in that pretty head."
"Big promises from a man who's still fully dressed."
"Patience." His hands moved to your shoulders, fingers playing with the thin straps of your dress. "I'm a man who appreciates the finer things. And unwrapping them slowly." One strap slipped down your shoulder. "Savoring them." The other followed. "Making them beg."
"I don't beg."
"Yet." He smiled, wicked and sure. "You don't beg yet."
Your dress whispered against your skin as he dragged it down, his knuckles deliberately grazing your breasts, your ribs, your hips. The fabric pooled at your feet, leaving you in nothing but black lace and heels.
Tony stepped back, unabashed in the way his gaze traveled over every inch of exposed skin. "Now that's what I call a successful engineering feat. Though I have to ask…" he circled you again, "did you wear this knowing how the night would end, or are you always prepared for impromptu demonstrations of sexual prowess?"
"Maybe I just like nice underwear."
"Uh-huh." He stopped behind you, his breath warm against your neck. "And maybe I'm just a mechanic who happens to have a few billion dollars." His fingers traced down your spine, making you shiver. "We're both liars, sweetheart. Difference is, I'm about to make you admit it."
His hands spanned your waist, pulling you back against him. The arc reactor pressed against your back, warm against your skin, and you could feel exactly how much he wanted you.
"Here's what's going to happen," Tony murmured against your ear, his hands sliding up to cup your breasts through the lace. "I'm going to take off this very pretty, very strategic bra." He suited action to words, unclasping it with practiced ease. "Then you're going to walk over to that bed." The bra fell away. "And then I'm going to put you over my lap and spank that gorgeous ass until you're dripping and desperate and finally ready to admit that maybe, just maybe, Tony Stark delivers on his promises."
Your breath caught. "And if I don't want to?"
His laugh rumbled through his chest into your back. "Then you can walk out that door right now." One hand slid down your stomach, fingers playing with the edge of your panties. "But we both know you're not going to. Because you've been thinking about this all night. Every time I made you laugh. Every time our eyes met across the room. Every time you came up with another sharp little comment, you were really just wondering what it would feel like to have me take control."
He was right. God, he was right, and you both knew it.
"So what's it going to be?" His fingers dipped just barely beneath the lace, not nearly enough. "Door's right there. Or..." He nipped at your earlobe. "You can be a good girl, walk to that bed, and let me show you exactly why my manual dexterity is legendary."
You turned your head, meeting his eyes over your shoulder. "You're awfully confident for someone who hasn't made me come yet."
"Yet. I love that word." He stepped back, giving you space. "Now walk."
Your legs felt unsteady as you crossed to the massive bed, hyperaware of his gaze on you, on the sway of your hips, the curve of your ass barely covered by black lace.
"Lose the panties," Tony said, his voice rougher now. "I want you bare."
You hooked your thumbs in the waistband, sliding them down slowly, stepping out of them with deliberate grace.
"Heels stay on."
Of course they did.
Tony sat on the edge of the bed, legs spread, the arc reactor casting blue light across his features. He looked like sin personified - powerful, dangerous, and absolutely certain of what he wanted.
"Come here."
You moved to stand in front of him, and his hands immediately went to your hips, pulling you closer.
"Beautiful," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your stomach. "Smart. Sexy as hell." His hands slid around to cup your ass, squeezing. "And about to learn what happens when you challenge a genius."
He guided you down across his lap, positioning you so your ass was elevated, your hands bracing against the bed on one side, your legs dangling on the other. The position left you completely vulnerable, completely exposed.
"Color system," Tony said, one hand stroking your ass almost gently. "Green for good, yellow for slow down, red for stop. What's your color?"
"Green," you breathed.
"That's my girl." His hand lifted. "Let's start with a warm-up, shall we? Get you nice and ready."
The first smack was lighter than you expected, more of a tap, the sound sharp in the quiet room. The second was firmer, heat blooming across your skin. He alternated sides, building a rhythm, his other hand resting on your lower back.
"You know what I love about this?" Tony's voice was conversational, like he was discussing one of his inventions, even as his hand connected with your ass again, harder. "The control. The trust. The way your body's already responding." His fingers trailed between your legs, barely grazing your pussy. "The way you're getting wet from this."
"Fuck," you gasped as he delivered a particularly sharp smack.
"Oh, we'll get there. But first -" Another spank, hard enough to make you jolt. "- I want to hear you admit it. Admit you've been thinking about this."
"Tony…"
"Admit it." Smack. "Or we can do this all night. And trust me, I've got the stamina." Smack. "And the creativity." Smack. "I could edge you for hours, sweetheart. Make you so desperate you'd say anything."
Your ass was burning now, each impact sending shockwaves of sensation through your body, pleasure and pain blurring together. And he was right. You were wet, achingly so, your body betraying exactly how much you wanted this.
"I thought about it," you admitted, the words tumbling out. "At the gala. When you were talking. I thought about what your hands would feel like."
"Good girl." His hand soothed over the heated skin. "See how easy that was? Honesty." He spanked you again, a sharp crack that made you moan. "Gets you rewarded."
His fingers slid through your folds, finding you soaked, and he groaned. "Fuck, you're dripping. All from a little spanking? What are you going to do when I really get started?"
"Please -"
"Please what?" Another spank, his hand connecting with the sensitive spot where your ass met your thigh. "Please stop? Please more? You're going to have to be specific."
"More," you gasped. "Please, more."
"Since you asked so nicely." His hand came down harder now, a steady rhythm that had you writhing across his lap. Each impact sent jolts of pleasure straight to your clit, your body wound so tight you thought you might shatter.
"Look at you," Tony murmured, his voice thick with desire. "Taking it so well. Your ass is the perfect shade of pink. Like a sunset. Like art." Smack. "My art."
His fingers dipped inside you without warning, two thick digits stretching you, and you cried out.
"That's it. Let me hear you." He pumped his fingers slowly, torturously, while his other hand continued its assault on your ass. "Let the whole tower hear you. Let them know that Tony Stark is making you fall apart."
"Oh god!"
"Close, but not quite." He curled his fingers, finding that spot inside you that made your vision blur. "Though I appreciate the comparison."
You would have laughed if you could breathe. If you could think. But all you could do was feel - the burn of your ass, the stretch of his fingers, the building pressure that threatened to consume you.
"Color?" Tony asked, his thumb circling your clit.
"Green," you managed. "So fucking green."
"That's my girl." He withdrew his fingers, and you whimpered at the loss. "But you don't get to come yet. Not until I say so."
"Tony, please!"
"Begging already?" The satisfaction in his voice was palpable. "I knew you would. I knew under all that sass and attitude, you wanted someone to take control. To make you let go." His hand came down hard, the sharpest spank yet. "To make you submit."
"Yes," you gasped, past pride, past pretense. "Yes, please, I need -"
"I know what you need." His hand soothed over your burning skin. "And I'm going to give it to you. Every. Single. Thing." Each word was punctuated with a firm smack. "But first, you're going to count the last ten. And you're going to thank me for each one."
"What?"
"Count. Thank me. Or we start over." His hand rested on your ass, waiting. "Your choice."
You took a shaky breath. "Okay."
"Okay, what?"
"Okay, Tony."
"Better." His hand lifted. "Count."
The spank landed hard and sharp. "One. Thank you."
"Good girl."
"Two. Thank you."
"Beautiful."
By five, you were trembling. By seven, tears pricked your eyes - not from pain, but from the overwhelming intensity of sensation. By nine, you were begging incoherently between counts.
"Last one," Tony said, his voice rough with restraint. "Make it good."
The final spank was the hardest, and you cried out, "Ten! Thank you, thank you, please!"
"Up." He helped you up, turning you to straddle his lap, and you gasped at the feeling of your sensitized ass against his thighs. His hands cupped your face, and his kiss was consuming, all tongue and teeth and desperate need. "You're incredible," he murmured against your lips. "Absolutely incredible."
You could feel his cock, hard and thick against you, separated only by his pants. You ground against him, chasing friction, and he groaned.
"Bed. Now." He lifted you easily, laying you back against the silk sheets. "Spread your legs. Let me see what I did to you."
You obeyed, and his eyes darkened as he took in the sight - your flushed skin, your hardened nipples, your glistening pussy.
"Fucking perfect." He stripped off his pants and boxer briefs in one smooth motion, and your mouth went dry at the sight of him. "See what you do to me? How hard you make me?"
He knelt between your legs, his hands running up your thighs. "I'm going to fuck you now. Hard. Deep. Until you scream my name and forget every smart comment you've ever made." He positioned himself at your entrance. "Until the only word you remember is 'please.'"
"Please," you whispered.
He thrust in one smooth stroke, filling you completely, and you both groaned at the sensation.
"Fuck," Tony breathed, his forehead dropping to yours. "You feel even better than I imagined. And trust me, I've got a very good imagination."
He started to move, deep, powerful strokes that had you clutching at his shoulders, his back, anything to anchor yourself. The arc reactor glowed between you, a constant reminder of who was taking you apart so thoroughly.
"That's it," he growled, his pace increasing. "Take it. Take all of me."
Your sensitized ass rubbed against the sheets with each thrust, adding another layer of sensation that had you spiraling higher.
"Touch yourself," Tony commanded. "I want to feel you come around my cock."
Your hand slipped between your bodies, finding your clit, and the added stimulation was almost too much.
"Tony, I'm -"
"I know. I can feel it." His thrusts became harder, more erratic. "Come for me. Show me how good I make you feel. Prove that Tony Stark delivers on every fucking promise."
Your orgasm hit like a shockwave, pleasure crashing through you in waves that seemed endless. You did scream his name, just like he said you would, your body clenching around him as he fucked you through it.
"That's it, that's my girl, fuck!" Tony's rhythm faltered, and with a groan, he followed you over the edge, his release pulsing inside you.
He collapsed beside you, both of you breathing hard, skin slicked with sweat.
After a moment, Tony turned his head, that familiar smirk playing at his lips. "So. Think my ego was writing checks my body couldn't cash?"
You laughed, breathless and sated. "I think... you might have a point about that manual dexterity."
"Might have a point?" He propped himself up on one elbow, eyebrow raised. "Sweetheart, I just made you forget your own name."
"Your ego is still insufferable."
"Yeah, but now you know it's justified." He pressed a kiss to your shoulder. "JARVIS, note for the record: I was right, she was wrong, and she definitely begged."
"I thought you dismissed JARVIS!"
"I did. But the note's for later." His grin was absolutely wicked. "For the next time you challenge me at a gala and I have to remind you exactly what happens when you do."
You should have been annoyed. Instead, you were already thinking about what challenge to issue next time.
Tony Stark, it turned out, was very good at delivering on his promises.
And you were very good at giving him reasons to prove it.
Can you write another part of “Intoxicating”? 🥺 I would love to see more of their dynamics and a very delicious morning sex, they are absolutely in love!
Morning Light
Pairing: Tony Stark x F!Reader
Warning/Rating: 18+; explicit, graphic sexual activity (manual/oral stimulation, penetration, orgasm described in detail), unprotected sex, language
Parts 1/2
Word Count: 2.6 K
Sunlight was the first thing you registered. Warm and golden, filtering through floor-to-ceiling windows that you’d forgotten weren’t yours. The second thing was the weight of an arm draped across your waist, the solid warmth of a body pressed against your back, and the soft, steady rhythm of breathing against your neck.
Tony was spooning you.
You bit back a smile, careful not to move yet. This was… unexpected. Not the waking up together part - you’d fallen asleep on his couch at some point in the early hours, too sated and comfortable to even consider moving. But this? Tony Stark, notorious commitment-phobe and self-proclaimed disaster at relationships, holding you like you were something precious?
“I can hear you thinking,” his voice rumbled against your shoulder, rough with sleep and somehow even more attractive than usual. “It’s very loud.”
“I’m not thinking anything,” you lied.
“Liar.” His arm tightened around you, pulling you closer. “You’re thinking about how I’m cuddling you right now. And you’re probably planning to mock me for it.”
You turned in his arms to face him, and God, he was unfairly beautiful in the morning light. His hair was a complete disaster - definitely your fault - and there were faint marks on his neck that made satisfaction curl warm in your chest. But it was his eyes that got you, soft and unguarded in a way you’d never seen before.
“I would never mock you for cuddling,” you said solemnly. “That would be cruel.”
“But you’re thinking it very loudly.”
“I’m thinking,” you said, reaching up to trace the line of his jaw, “that you’re surprisingly good at this.”
“At what? Sleeping?” He caught your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm. “I’m a man of many talents.”
“At the morning after.” You shifted closer, your leg sliding between his. “I expected awkward Tony. Deflecting-with-humor Tony. Maybe even panic-and-try-to-sneak-out Tony.”
“I don’t sneak out of my own bed.”
“You know what I mean.”
He was quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing circles on your hip. “Would you have preferred awkward Tony?”
“No.” You kissed him, soft and sweet. “I prefer this Tony. The one who holds me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear.”
“I’m not afraid you’ll disappear,” he said, but his arms tightened fractionally. “I’m afraid I’ll wake up and this will have been a dream. That I’ll be back on that couch, watching you look at me like I’m just a fine wine you’re admiring from a distance.”
Your heart clenched. “Tony.”
“I’m also afraid,” he continued, his voice dropping lower, “that you’ll realize what you’ve gotten yourself into. That you’ll remember all the reasons this is a terrible idea and -”
You kissed him again, deeper this time, swallowing whatever self-deprecating thing he was about to say. When you pulled back, his eyes were darker, his breathing slightly uneven.
“Stop thinking,” you murmured against his lips. “I’m here. I’m real. And I’m not going anywhere.”
“Promise?”
The vulnerability in that single word made your chest ache. “Promise.”
He kissed you then, slow and thorough, like he was trying to memorize the taste of you. His hand slid up your back, tangling in your hair, and you pressed closer, feeling the evidence of his morning arousal against your thigh.
“Mmm,” you hummed against his mouth. “Someone’s awake.”
“Someone’s been awake since you started wiggling against me five minutes ago,” he muttered, but there was humor in his voice now, that familiar teasing edge. “You’re a menace.”
“You love it.”
“I -” He stopped, his eyes meeting yours, and something shifted in his expression. “Yeah. I do.”
The weight of those words hung between you, and you knew he wasn’t just talking about your teasing. Your breath caught, your heart suddenly racing.
“Tony -”
“Too much?” he asked quietly. “Too soon?”
Instead of answering, you rolled him onto his back, straddling his hips in one smooth motion. His hands immediately found your waist, his eyes widening slightly at the sudden shift.
“Not too much,” you said, leaning down to kiss him. “Not too soon. Just right.”
His smile was brilliant, unguarded, and absolutely devastating. “Just right, huh? I can work with that.”
“Good.” You rolled your hips against him, watching his eyes darken. “Because I’m still thirsty.”
He groaned, his head falling back against the pillow. “You’re going to kill me with that line.”
“What a way to go.”
“Can’t argue with that.” His hands slid up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts. “Though I should warn you - morning sex with me is a religious experience.”
“Is that so?”
“Absolutely. People have been known to scream ‘Oh God’ repeatedly.”
You laughed, the sound bright and genuin, and felt his smile against your skin as he pulled you down for another kiss. This one was slower, sweeter, but no less heated. His hands explored your body with a reverence that made your breath catch, like he was discovering you all over again in the morning light.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured against your lips, and there was no teasing in it now, just raw honesty. “I can’t believe I get to touch you like this. That you’re here, in my bed, looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m not a disaster. Like I’m someone worth keeping.”
Your heart clenched. “Tony, you are worth keeping. You always have been.”
He pulled you down for another kiss, and this one was different - deeper, more vulnerable, full of everything he couldn't quite say. You felt his hands shake slightly as they cupped your face, felt the way his breath hitched when you pressed closer.
"I need you to know," he whispered against your mouth, his voice rough with emotion. "This - you - it's not just... I need you to know what this means to me."
Your chest tightened, your breath catching at the raw vulnerability in his voice. "I know," you whispered back, your fingers threading through his hair. "I feel it too. Everything."
"Yeah?" His eyes searched yours, and you saw everything he couldn't say reflected there - hope and fear and something so deep it made your heart ache.
"Yeah." You kissed him softly, pouring everything you felt into it. All the tenderness, the want, the desperate need to show him he was worth this, worth everything. His hands slid down your body, gripping your hips, and you felt him hard and ready beneath you.
"Slow," you breathed against his lips. "I want to feel everything."
He groaned, his hips bucking up involuntarily. "You're going to be the death of me."
"But what a way to go," you echoed his earlier words, and his laugh was breathless and full of affection.
He shifted beneath you, one hand sliding between your bodies to touch you, finding you already wet and ready. "God, you're perfect," he murmured, his fingers moving in slow circles that made you gasp. "So perfect for me."
"Tony, please…"
"I've got you." He positioned himself at your entrance, his eyes locked on yours. "I've got you, sweetheart. Always."
You sank down onto him slowly, taking him inch by inch, and the sensation was overwhelming - not just physically, but emotionally. This wasn't the desperate passion of last night. This was something deeper, more intimate. This was connection in its purest form.
"Fuck," Tony breathed, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave marks. "You feel… God, you feel incredible."
You started to move, slow and deliberate, and his eyes never left yours. Every roll of your hips was answered with a thrust of his, a perfect rhythm that built slowly, steadily. His hands roamed your body: your hips, your waist, your breasts. Touching you like you were something precious.
"You have no idea," he said, his voice breaking slightly, "what you do to me. What you mean -"
"Show me," you gasped, your movements becoming more urgent. "Tony, show me…"
"I will." One hand slid between your bodies, finding your clit, and the added sensation made you cry out. "I will, baby. Let me feel you. Want to feel you come apart for me."
The combination of his words, his touch, the way he was looking at you like you were his entire world. You came with a cry of his name, your body clenching around him, and he followed you over the edge moments later, groaning your name like a prayer.
For a long moment, you stayed like that - joined, trembling, foreheads pressed together as you both caught your breath. Then Tony pulled you down against his chest, his arms wrapping around you, holding you close.
"That was…" he started, then stopped, seeming at a loss for words.
"Yeah," you agreed, pressing a kiss to his chest. "It was."
"I meant it," he said quietly. "What I said. This means something to me. And I know I'm a mess, and I'm probably going to screw this up at some point, but I -"
"Tony." You lifted your head to look at him. "Stop catastrophizing. We're going to figure this out together. Okay?"
He studied your face for a long moment, then nodded. "Okay."
"Good." You kissed him softly. "Now, I don't know about you, but I'm starving."
His smile was slow and wicked. "I could eat."
"Food, Stark. I meant food."
"I know what you meant." He rolled you both over, pinning you beneath him with a grin. "But I'm thinking we should work up more of an appetite first."
You laughed, pulling him down for another kiss. "You're insatiable."
"Only for you," he murmured against your lips. "Only ever for you."
Twenty minutes later - after another round that left you both breathless and laughing - you finally made it out of bed. Tony lent you one of his MIT t-shirts, which hung to mid-thigh on you, and you padded after him into the kitchen, bare feet on cool tile.
"So," you said, hopping up to sit on the counter while he rummaged through the fridge. "Do you actually know how to cook, or are we ordering in?"
"I'm a genius, remember? I can figure out breakfast." He emerged with eggs, bacon, and what looked like half a pepper. "How hard can it be?"
"Famous last words."
"Ye of little faith." He set the ingredients on the counter beside you, then stepped between your legs, his hands settling on your thighs. "I'll have you know I'm very skilled with my hands."
"I'm aware," you said dryly. "I have the beard burn to prove it."
He grinned, unrepentant, and leaned in to kiss you. It was supposed to be quick, just a peck, but you wrapped your arms around his neck and deepened it, and suddenly he was pressed against you, his hands sliding up under your - his - shirt.
"Food," you murmured against his lips, even as you tilted your head to give him better access to your neck. "We need food."
"Food is overrated," he muttered, his teeth grazing your pulse point in a way that made you shiver.
"Tony…"
"Fine." He pulled back with obvious reluctance, his eyes dark. "But you're a terrible distraction, sitting there in my shirt, looking like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you belong here." The words were soft, almost wondering, and your heart squeezed.
"Maybe I do," you said quietly.
His smile was brilliant. "Yeah. Maybe you do."
He turned back to the stove, and you watched him crack eggs into a pan with surprising competence. "You actually do know how to cook."
"I have many hidden talents." He glanced over his shoulder at you. "Stick around and you might discover all of them."
"Is that a promise or a threat?"
"Both."
You laughed, and he grinned, looking more relaxed than you'd ever seen him. This was a side of Tony Stark the world didn't get to see - domestic, playful, content. And you got to keep it.
"So," he said, whisking the eggs with more force than strictly necessary. "We should probably talk about... this. Us."
"Are you nervous, Stark?"
"Terrified," he admitted, not looking at you. "I don't want to screw this up."
You slid off the counter, moving to stand beside him. "Then don't."
"Helpful."
"I'm serious." You took the whisk from him, setting it aside, and turned him to face you. "We've been friends for years. We know each other. We know each other's flaws and baggage and all the messy parts. That doesn't change just because we're sleeping together now."
"It changes everything," he said quietly.
"Okay, yes. It changes everything." You took his hands, lacing your fingers through his. "But that doesn't have to be scary. We'll figure it out. Together."
He studied your face for a long moment, then nodded. "Together."
"Besides," you added, your tone lightening, "you're stuck with me now. I know where you live."
"You've always known where I live."
"Yes, but now I have a key."
His eyebrows rose. "Do you?"
"I will by the end of the day," you said confidently. "You're going to give me one because you're secretly a romantic and you want me to be able to come and go as I please."
"Am I?"
"Absolutely. You're also going to clear out a drawer for me. Maybe two."
"Two drawers?" He was fighting a smile now. "Aren't you presumptuous."
"I prefer confident." You stepped closer, your arms sliding around his waist. "Am I wrong?"
He was quiet for a moment, his hands settling on your hips, his expression soft. "No," he said finally. "You're not wrong. I'll have JARVIS make you a key. And you can have three drawers if you want them."
"Three? Tony Stark, are you trying to move me in?"
"Maybe." He pulled you closer, his forehead resting against yours. "Would that be so bad?"
Your heart was racing, but it wasn't fear - it was excitement, anticipation, joy. "No," you whispered. "That wouldn't be bad at all."
He kissed you then, soft and sweet, and you felt him smile against your lips. "Good. Because I'm not letting you go."
"Promises, promises."
"I mean it." He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes serious. "And I know I'm going to mess up sometimes, and I'm going to drive you crazy, but I'm all in. If you'll have me."
"Tony." You cupped his face, your thumbs brushing across his cheekbones. "I'm all in too. Crazy and all."
His smile was radiant, and he kissed you again, deeper this time, full of promise and hope and love. When you finally pulled apart, you were both grinning like idiots.
"So," you said, glancing at the stove where the eggs were definitely starting to burn. "About that breakfast..."
"Shit!" He lunged for the pan, and you dissolved into laughter as he tried to salvage the eggs with a spatula.
"Very skilled with your hands," you teased.
"Shut up." But he was laughing too, and when he finally gave up and dumped the burnt eggs in the trash, he turned to you with a sheepish grin. "Okay, so maybe we order in."
"Maybe we do."
He pulled out his phone, already pulling up a delivery app, and you wrapped your arms around him from behind, resting your cheek against his back. He covered your hands with one of his, his thumb stroking across your knuckles.
"Hey," he said softly.
"Hey."
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For staying. For this. For—" He turned in your arms, his expression vulnerable. "For seeing me. The real me. And staying anyway."
You reached up, pulling him down for a kiss. "Always," you promised against his lips. "I'll always stay."
And as the morning sun streamed through the windows, warming the kitchen and gilding everything in gold, you knew it was true. This was just the beginning—messy and imperfect and absolutely perfect all at once.
Where the reader has powers like Supergirl and one day the reader and Tony are on a mission together.
The reader notices some bad guys advancing who want hurt him and has an idea before sneaking away without him noticing. Tony notices that the reader is no longer beside him and gets worried until the reader says "You need help” causing him to look to see the reader floating in the air with her suit on.
Then reader lands beside him and helps him fight until one of the guys they're fighting with uses something that contains the readers weakness (green kryptonite) and hurts the reader. Tony notices that the reader starts swaying on their spot and starts to run over to the reader before she falls but he catches her but she passes out in his arms.
Thank you so much, love your writing!! 😊
Catch Me When I Fall
Pairing: Tony Stark x Avenger GF!Reader
Warning/Rating: action/violence, minor injury, romantic themes, emotional vulnerability, brief language
Word Count: 3.9 K
The Volkov Industries warehouse smelled like rust and bad decisions.
Tony moved through the shadows with practiced ease, his HUD painting the cavernous space in shades of blue and amber. Crates stacked three stories high created a maze of potential ambush points, and the skeletal remains of old machinery cast long shadows across oil-stained concrete.
“Remind me again why we’re doing this the old-fashioned way?” you whispered beside him, your breath barely disturbing the air. Even without your suit activated, you moved with an otherworldly grace that never failed to catch his attention.
“Because, sweetheart,” Tony murmured, his gauntleted hand scanning a nearby crate, “sometimes you need finesse over firepower. We’re looking for intel, not trying to level the building.”
“You? Choosing finesse?” You raised an eyebrow, a smile playing at your lips. “Should I check you for a concussion?”
“Hilarious. You’re hilarious.” But his eyes crinkled at the corners, visible through his partially retracted faceplate. “The data core should be in the main office. Third floor, northeat corner. We get in, copy everything, get out. Simple.”
Nothing was ever simple.
You’d learned that the hard way over the past year of dating Tony Stark. The man was a magnet for complications, chaos, and creative solutions that usually involved something exploding. It was part of why you loved him. That brilliant, reckless mind that never stopped moving, never stopped trying to fix the world even when the world didn’t want fixing.
Your enhanced hearing picked up the sound before your conscious mind processed it: boots on concrete, at least twenty pairs, moving with military precision. The whisper of weapons being readied. The crackle of radio communications.
Your head snapped toward the eastern entrance.
“Tony…”
“I know. Motion sensors just lit up like a Christmas tree.” His faceplate snapped shut, the arc reactor in his chest glowing brighter. “We’ve got company. Probably Volkov’s private security. Stay close, stay -”
But you were already counting. Twenty-five, maybe thirty hostels, converging fro multiple directions. They were trying to box you in, cut off the exits. Standard tactical maneuver, but effective. Tony was brilliant in the suit, but even he could be overwhelmed by sheer numbers, especially in close quarters where his repulsors risked bringing the whole place down.
Your mind raced through the options in microseconds - a gift of your Kryptonian-like physiology. You could see the angles, calculate the trajectories, assess the threat level. These weren’t ordinary security guards. The weapons they carried hummed with energy signatures that made your skin prickle. Advanced tech. Dangerous.
Tony couldn’t handle this alone. He wouldn’t admit it - his ego was as much a part of his armor as the gold-titanium alloy - but you knew. You’d seen him come home with cracked ribs, with burns, with that haunted look in his eyes that said he’d cut it too close again.
Not tonight.
“Stay in the shadows,” Tony instructed, his voice modulated through the suit’s speakers. “I’ll draw them off, you make for the -”
You were already moving.
Your enhanced speed let you slip away before he finished the sentence, melting into the darkness between two massive crates. Your heart hammed. Not from fear, but from the adrenaline of the decision you’d just made. Tony hated when you took risks. The irony wasn’t lost on you, given his track record, but love made hypocrites of everyone.
Your suit was nanotechnology, a gift you’d designed yourself with some “collaborative input” from Tony (which meant he’d backseat-engineered the whole thing while pretending not to). It lived in a bracelet on your wrist, dormant until needed. You pressed the activation sequence, and the familiar sensation of the suit spreading across your skin made you feel complete.
The material flowed like liquid metal, deep blue with silver accents, forming armor that enhanced rather than restricted your natural abilities. No cape - you’d learned that lesson the hard way during a training session that ended with you tangled in a wind turbine. Practical. Powerful. Yours.
Through the walls, you could hear Tony’s repulsors charging.
“Alright, gentlemen,” his voice echoed through the warehouse, cocky and confident. “I’m going to give you one chance to walk away. After that, things get expensive. For you. Your dental work, specifically.”
Tony’s HUD explodedwith threat warnings as the secuirty team opened fire. He took to the air, repulsors firing, weaking between the crisscrossing beams of weaponized energy. The warehouse erupted into chaos - men shouting, weapons discharging, the screech of metal as his repulsor blasts tore through cover.
But his mind wasn’t fully on the fight.
Where was she?
“JARVISE, locate -” He grunted as a blast caught his shoulder, spinning him mid-air. The suit compensated, stabilizers firing. “Locate her. Now.”
“I’m afraid Miss -”
“I don’t want excuses, I want a location!”
His heart rate spiked, and not from the combat. She’d been right beside him thirty seconds ago. Right there. And now she was gone, and there were armed hostels everywhere, and his brain was supplying a thousand terrible scenarios in the time it took to blast two guards off a catwalk.
She can handle herself, he thought, taking cover behind a support pillar as energy bolts scorched the air where he’d been. She’s probably the most powerful person in this building. She doesn’t need you to -
But logic had nothing to do with the cold fear settling in his chest.
He'd lost people. Too many people. Yinsen. His parents, even if that wound was old and scarred over. He’d almost lost Pepper more times than he could count. The idea of losing her - the woman who could fly, who could lift a car with one hand, who kissed him like he was worth saving - it made the arc reactor feel like it was freezing in his chest.
“Tony.”
The voice came from above, calm and clear and achingly familiar.
“You need help.”
He looked up.
You floated twenty feet above the warehouse floor, suspended in the air like gravity was a suggestion you’d chosen to ignore. The suit caught the dim industrial lighting, making you look like something out of mythology - powerful, otherworldly, beautiful. Your hair moved in an invisible wind, your eyes glowing faintly with the energy that powered your cells.
Tony’s breath caught. He’d seen you in action before, but it never got old. Never stopped making him feel like the luckiest son of a bitch in the universe.
“Took you long enough,” he said, because vulnerability wasn’t his strong suit. “I was starting to think you’d stopped for coffee.”
You descended, landing beside him with barely a sound, concrete cracking slightly under the force you didn’t quite suppress. A smile played at your lips. “You looked like you had it under control.”
“I absolutely did.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Total control. One hundred percent.”
“Tony.”
“Okay, seventy percent.”
A guard rushed your position, and you moved like lightly - a blue or blue and silver, your fist connecting with his chest plate hard enough to send him flying backward into a stack of crates. He’d be bruised, maybe a cracked rib, but alive. You always pulled your punches. It was one of the the things he loved about you.
“Show off,” Tony muttered, but his voice was warm.
“Learned from the best.”
And then you were fighting together, and it was like a dance you’d choreographed in blood and trust.
Tony took the high ground, repulsors firing in controlled bursts, driving the guards into your range. You moved through them like a force of nature, every movement precise and devastating. When three guards tried to flank Tony’s left, you were there, your enhanced speed letting you cross the distance in a heartbeat. When a guard got a lucky shot that cracked Tony’s shoulder plate, you put yourself between him and the shooter, the energy blast dissipating harmlessly against your invulnerable skin.
“I had that,” Tony said, firing a repulsor blast past your shoulder to take out another hostile.
“I know.”
“I’m serious, I was about to -”
“Duck!”
He ducked. Your heat vision - a recent development you were still mastering - scorched the air above his head, melting the barrel of a weapon aimed at his back.
“Okay, that one I didn’t have.”
You fought like you’d been doing this together for years instead of months. He knew your rhythms, you knew this. When to press, when to fall back. Where he was vulnerable, where you were strongest. It was intimate in a way that had nothing to do with the bedroom adn everything to do with trust.
A guard went down. Then another. The odds were evening.
Tony allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. “See? Finesse. I told you were didn’t need to -”
The air changed.
You felt it before you saw it - a wrongness that made your cells scream in warning. Your head snapped toward the eastern catwalk where a figure in black tactical gear stood, holding something that glowed with a sickly green light.
Kryptonite.
The word flashed through your mind with cold certainty. You’d encountered it only once before, a fragment that had somehow made its way to Earth, probably from the same cosmic accident that had brought your ancestors. The memory of that pain was seared into your neurons - the feeling of your power draining away, your invulnerability becoming mortality, your strength becoming weakness.
“No,” you whispered.
The guard fired.
The weapon wasn’t a gun - it was a dispersal device. Green mist exploded from the barrel, spreading through the air like poison. You tried to move, tried to get clear, but you’d been too focused on protecting Tony. the cloud enveloped you in seconds.
Pain.
It started in your chest, a burning that spread through your veins like acid. Your vision blurred, the world tilting sideways. The suit’s systems flickered - it was tied to your bioelectric field, and that field was collapsing, your cells screaming as the radiation disrupted the solar energy that powered them.
Your knees buckled.
“No, no, no -” Your voice sounded distant, weak. The ground rushed up to meet you, except you were still standing. Weren’t you? Everything was spinning.
Through the haze of pain, you heard repulsors firing, heard Tony’s voice raised in fury. The guard with the kryptonite weapon went flying, the device shattering against the far wall. But the damage was done. The green mist clung to you, seeping through the suit, finding your skin.
You swayed, trying to stay upright through sheer force of will.
Tony saw you stumble and his entire world narrowed to a single point.
“JARVIS, full power to thrusters, now!”
He shot across the warehouse, armor screaming with the force of acceleration. The remaining guards didn’t matter. The mission didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except reaching you before you hit the ground.
Your eyes were unfocused, your skin pale beneath the flickering suit. The green radiation - he’d seen the dispersal, his sensors had caught the signature, and his genius brain had put the pieces together in the half-second it took to cross the distance - clung to you like a shroud.
Kryptonite. They’d brought kryptonite.
He was going to kill them. He was going to find whoever supplied that weapon and he was going to -
You collapsed.
Tony caught you three feet from the concrete, his armor’s servos straining with the sudden weight. Not because you were heavy - you weren’t, even with your enhanced density - but because he arrested his momentum so fast that the suit’s structural integrity warnings screamed in his HUD.
He didn’t care.
“I’ve got you,” he said, his voice rough even through the modulator. “I’ve got you, sweetheart. You’re okay. You’re going to be okay.”
Your eyes fluttered, trying to focus on his face. The suit around you was retracting, the nanotech retreating to your bracelet as your bioelectric field failed. It left you vulnerable, human, dressed in the tactical gear you’d worn under the suit.
“Tony…” your voice was barely audible. “Sorry… I just wanted to…”
“Shh. don’t talk. Save your strength.” His hands were shaking. Iron Man’s hands never shook, but Tony Stark’s did, and right now he was just a man holding the woman he loved while she faded in his arms.
Your hand lifted weakly, touching the faceplate of his helmet. “You’re okay?”
“Am I -” His voice cracked. “Yes. Yes, I’m okay. Because of you. You’re the one who’s hurt, you brilliant, reckless -”
Your eyes closed.
"No. No, no, no. Stay with me." He was moving now, repulsors firing, carrying you toward the exit. The remaining guards scattered - they'd have to be idiots to get in his way now. "JARVIS, prep the med bay. Full decontamination protocols. Get Banner on the line. He knows more about radiation than anyone. Now."
“Already done, sir. Might I suggest -”
“Whatever you’re going to suggest, do it. Just get us home.”
The night air hit him as he burst through the warehouse doors, and he pushed the suit to maximum speed. You were limp in his arms, your breathing shallow, your heartbeat - God, he could hear your heartbeat through the suit’s sensors, and it was too slow, too weak.
The flight back to the tower tood four minutes. It felt like hours.
He kept talking to you the whole way, his voice a steady stream of words that might have been reassurances or prayers or promises. He wasn't sure anymore. "You're going to be fine. You hear me? You don't get to do this. You don't get to save my ass and then check out. That's not how this works. We had plans. Dinner on Thursday. You were going to make me watch that documentary about space you've been going on about. I was going to pretend to hate it and then ask a million questions because I'm constitutionally incapable of not learning things..."
Your head rested against his chest plate, right over the arc reactor.
"I love you," he said, and his voice broke on the words. "I don't say it enough. I know I don't. But I love you. So you need to stay. You need to fight this. Because I can't - I can't do this without you."
The tower's landing pad rose to meet him, and there were people waiting—medical team, Bruce in a hastily thrown-on shirt that was probably yesterday's. They swarmed you the moment Tony landed, and he had to force himself to let go, to let them take you, to trust that they could fix this.
Bruce gripped his shoulder, still in the armor. "Tony. We've got her. Let us work."
He wanted to argue. Wanted to follow you into the med bay, to stand over the doctors and demand they work faster, do better, fix you now. But he'd be in the way. He knew that. Hated it, but knew it.
So he stood on the landing pad, watching through the glass as they rushed you inside, and for the first time in a long time, Tony felt utterly powerless.
The arc reactor hummed in his chest, steady and strong.
He'd built it to keep himself alive.
But right now, he'd rip it out and give it to you if it would help.
"Sir," JARVIS said softly. "Her vital signs are stabilizing. The kryptonite exposure was brief. Banner's initial assessment suggests that with proper treatment and time to metabolize solar radiation, she will make a full recovery."
Tony's knees nearly buckled with relief.
"How long?"
"Several hours for consciousness. Perhaps a day or two for full power restoration."
He nodded, not trusting his voice.
Then he turned and walked inside, shedding armor pieces as he went, leaving a trail of gold and red from the landing pad to the med bay. By the time he reached your room, he was down to the underlayer, his hair a mess, his hands still shaking slightly.
You were on the bed, hooked up to monitors and an IV, a specialized lamp above you that mimicked solar radiation. Your color was already better, your breathing deeper.
Tony pulled a chair to your bedside and took your hand.
"You scared the hell out of me," he said quietly. "In case you were wondering. Full-on existential terror. Very off-brand for me."
You didn't answer. Didn't move.
But your fingers twitched slightly in his grip, and he held on tighter.
"Next time you want to play hero," he continued, his thumb tracing circles on your palm, "maybe give a guy some warning? I know, I know. Pot, kettle, black, et cetera. But I'm working on it. We can work on it together. The whole 'not giving each other heart attacks' thing. Could be our couple's activity. Very romantic."
The monitor beeped steadily, a rhythm he matched his breathing to.
"You were incredible out there," he said, his voice softer now. "I know I didn't say it. I was too busy being terrified. But you were. You always are. Flying in like some kind of avenging angel, all power and grace and terrible fashion choices - I'm kidding, the suit looks great, I helped design it - and I just..."
He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to your joined hands.
"I just need you to wake up. Okay? So I can tell you all of this while you're conscious. And probably make a joke to deflect from the feelings. And then kiss you until we both forget I was ever scared."
The sun lamp hummed above you, feeding your cells the energy they needed to heal.
And Tony sat vigil, holding your hand, waiting for you to come back to him.
Because that's what you did when you loved someone.
Not the burning agony of kryptonite radiation, but the gentle, nourishing warmth of solar energy. It seeped into your cells, recharging, rebuilding, restoring. Your enhanced healing was working overtime, metabolizing the last traces of green radiation and flushing them from your system.
The second thing you became aware of was the hand holding yours.
You knew that hand. Knew the calluses from working with tools, the strength in the fingers, the way his thumb unconsciously traced patterns on your skin.
"Tony," you whispered, your voice rough from disuse.
The hand tightened immediately.
"Hey." His face appeared above you, and he looked wrecked - hair disheveled, eyes red-rimmed, the arc reactor visible through his thin shirt. But he was smiling, that soft smile he reserved only for you. "Welcome back, sleeping beauty."
"How long?"
"Six hours. Bruce said you'd probably sleep longer, but I told him you were too stubborn for that. I believe I won twenty bucks."
You managed a weak laugh that turned into a cough. Tony was there instantly with water, helping you sit up enough to drink. The simple act of swallowing felt like a victory.
"The mission -"
"Doesn't matter."
"Tony."
"I mean it." His voice was firm, but his hand was gentle as he brushed hair from your face. "JARVIS copied the data remotely while we were making our dramatic exit. The mission's done. Volkov's operation is compromised. SHIELD's handling cleanup. None of it matters compared to you."
You looked at him, really looked at him, and saw the fear still lingering in his eyes. The vulnerability he tried so hard to hide.
"I'm sorry," you said softly. "I saw them coming and I just... I couldn't let them hurt you."
"I know." He sat on the edge of the bed, still holding your hand like a lifeline. "And I get it. I do. God knows I've made the same call a thousand times. But when I saw you fall..." He swallowed hard. "I've built a lot of things. Suits that can withstand nuclear blasts. AI that can run a company. A new element, for Christ's sake. But I can't build anything that would fix losing you."
Your heart clenched. "You're not going to lose me."
"You passed out in my arms after being poisoned by radioactive rocks. Forgive me if I'm feeling a little raw."
You squeezed his hand, feeling your strength slowly returning. "I'm okay. I'm going to be okay."
"I know. Bruce explained the whole solar radiation metabolism thing. You'll be back to full power in a day or two." He paused, his jaw working. "But that's not the point."
"Then what is?"
"The point is that I love you." The words came out fierce, almost angry, like he was mad at himself for feeling them so deeply. "And I know I don't say it enough. I know I deflect and joke and hide behind sarcasm because feelings are terrifying and I'm emotionally stunted. But I love you. And watching you fall, not knowing if you'd wake up... It put some things in perspective."
You felt tears prick your eyes. "Tony..."
"I'm not asking you to stop being a hero," he continued quickly. "I know that's who you are. It's one of the reasons I love you. But maybe we could have a signal or something? A 'hey, I'm about to do something incredibly brave and stupid' signal? So I can at least be prepared for the heart attack?"
Despite everything, you laughed. "You mean like you give me before you fly into a wormhole or fight a robot army?"
"That's different."
"How?"
"Because I'm…" He stopped, and a rueful smile crossed his face. "Okay, point taken. We're both disasters."
"We really are."
"But we're disasters together."
"Together," you agreed.
He leaned down and kissed you, soft and careful, like you were something precious. When he pulled back, his eyes were bright.
"For the record," he said, "you looked amazing out there. The whole floating entrance, the 'you need help' line. Very dramatic. I approve."
"Learned from the best," you repeated your earlier words.
"Damn right you did."
You shifted over on the bed, ignoring the protest of your still-healing muscles, and patted the space beside you. Tony didn't need to be asked twice. He stretched out next to you, careful not to jostle any of the monitors, and you curled into his side, your head on his chest, right over the arc reactor.
The steady hum of it was comforting. A reminder that you'd both survived things that should have killed you. That you were both here, together, alive.
"Tony?" you said quietly.
"Yeah?"
"I love you too. In case that wasn't clear."
His arm tightened around you. "It was. But I don't mind hearing it."
You lay there in comfortable silence, the sun lamp warming you, Tony's heartbeat steady beneath your ear. Outside, the New York skyline glittered with a million lights. Somewhere out there, people needed saving. Missions needed completing. The world kept turning.
But right now, in this moment, you were exactly where you needed to be.
"Hey," Tony said after a while. "Next time you want to make a dramatic entrance, maybe consider a cape? Very classic. Very superhero."
You pinched his side. "I told you, capes are a hazard."
"Edna Mode would be proud."
"Did you just reference The Incredibles?"
"I contain multitudes."
You smiled against his chest. "That you do."
And as you drifted back to sleep, safe and healing and loved, you thought that maybe being a disaster together wasn't such a bad thing after all.
You told yourself, this was the last time. One last time, you’d give your father the chance to prove that he cares about you.
He let you down so many times in the past that you could fill books with all the tears and heartbreak he caused.
Missed birthdays, graduations, and milestones. This was the last straw. Your wedding with the man picking you up whenever you fell.
“Come on, just call him. We need to know if he got the invitation and wants to show up for you for once,” your fiancé encouraged you. He was the one who always stood by your side and wanted you to have your family with you at your wedding.
“He will come up with yet another excuse,” you sighed deeply. You gave up on your father a long time ago. For years, he did everything in his power to attend every school play, birthday party, or soccer game for his stepdaughter. You were only an afterthought after he remarried.
“If you don’t call him, you’ll never know. I know you went low contact with your father, but give it a try. This is his last chance. He’s family, and you’ll regret it if he doesn’t walk you down the aisle.”
“Fine,” you said, already knowing your father would disappoint you again. “I’ll call him. He won’t come; I know it.”
“We have a backup plan if he screws up,” Tony smirked, making you go weak in the knees. “Jarvis would be over the moon walking you down the aisle.”
“I won’t let one of your suits walk me down the aisle, Tons.” You pouted and sighed again. A little louder this time. “I wouldn’t mind letting Thor do the job.”
“Thor?” Tony hiccupped. “You want the guy smashing everything with his hammer to walk my bride down the aisle?”
“He’s nice and charming,” you pointed out, enjoying. “Or we could ask Steve.”
“Rogers won’t lay a hand on my wife,” Tony quickly said. “I don’t trust the golden boy. He’s hiding something. I know it.”
“Aw, you are so sexy when you’re jealous.” You patted his cheek and chuckled. “I only love you, Tons. You know that. Captain America doesn’t stand a chance against you, baby.”
Tony puffed his chest and wrapped his arms around you. He sighed and kissed the top of your head. “I know you can’t even think of another man. Why taste a burger if you can have a filet mignon?”
“You’re so full of yourself,” you teased and playfully swatted his chest. “Okay. I’ll call him. It’s your fault if he breaks my heart again.”
“I’ll break him down to nothing if he dares to hurt you.” Tony kisses your temple, silently praying that your father won’t let you down for once.
“Hello,” your father huffed into the phone. “What can I do for you?” He sounded annoyed because you dared to call him. “What do you need this time?”
You already regretted calling your father. His annoying tone alone made you angry, but you promised Tony to give it a try. And you hate to disappoint the love of your life.
“Did you get my invitation? I need to know if you want to come. You can bring a plus one too,” you nervously said, clutching Tony’s hand for dear life.
There was a pause at the other end of the line, long enough to make you want to give up. Then he sighed like you were a burden to him. “About that,” he muttered, “I won’t be able to make it.”
You closed your eyes for a second, holding back the scoff that wanted to escape your throat. “You’re missing my wedding,” you murmured. “Why?”
“My hands are tied,” he replied. “Your sister has her engagement party that day, and her mother already booked everything. You know how important this is.”
You laughed bitterly. Of course, he would choose her again. Your father had known your wedding date for months, and somehow your stepsister had still planned her engagement party on the very same day.
“You my wedding date in advance. For months,” you whispered. “I wanted to make sure you’d find the time for me.”
“Don’t make this harder than it needs to be,” your father snapped, making you flinch. “I’m sure you can handle a wedding without me.”
That was it. The last little piece of hope you held onto shattered completely. Your fingers tightened around the phone, but your voice came out calm.
“You know what?” you said. “Don’t worry about it. I think Tony and I will manage just fine without you there. Who needs a father to walk her down the aisle, right?”
You hung up without waiting for a response.
You let out a choked-out sob before the tears came hot and fast. You hated that your father could still do this to you—still make you feel like a child begging for scraps of affection he had never given to you.
Tony pulled you against his chest. He held you tightly, giving you time to tell him what your father said.
“He’s not coming,” you choked out, your words muffled against his shirt. “He chose her engagement party over me. Over our wedding, Tony. I told you so.”
Tony’s arms tightened around you. “Then he’s not welcome in our lives any longer,” he said. “He’s not worth a single tear. I want you to take a deep breath and tell him to get fucked.”
“I didn’t have much hope, you know. But I thought maybe this time would be different.”
“He doesn’t matter, darling. Only you matter to me. I have no one left either. We will celebrate our wedding with our chosen family, okay.” Tony whispered against your cheek, feeling his eyes burn. He wished to take your pain away, but he couldn’t.
Your wedding day arrived with newfound confidence and clarity. You’d never make the mistake of having faith in your father again.
Pepper and Natasha helped you get ready while Wanda checked on the door, refusing to let Tony inside to see you before the ceremony.
“Tony is a disaster,” Natasha informed you. “Happy had to stop him from sneaking into the room at least six times.”
Somehow, these people, your chosen family, made you forget about your absent father. Today, you’d leave the past behind and only allow people who cherished you to stay in your life.
“It’s time,” Wanda said, tapping her watch. “If we let him wait for another minute, he might use force and break into the room.”
You nodded and walked out of the room, your bridesmaid flanking your sides as if you were about to go to war. Well, with the Avengers around, you never knew.
“You look beautiful, my lady.” Thor was quick to offer his arm to you. It was a hard decision whom you wanted to choose to walk you down the aisle. In the end, you chose Thor because he was the eldest among the Avengers. He took the insult coming from Tony with grace, laughing and proudly telling you his age.
“I’m a little nervous,” you murmured, holding tight onto Thor’s arm. “What if Tony hates the dress? What if he panics and runs?”
“If he runs, I’d gladly step in,” Thor casually said while guiding you along the hallways. “I’m sure he’ll be there.” He was quick to add.
When you entered the room, you gasped loudly. Tony was waiting at the far end of the aisle, dressed to the nines to impress you. Tony’s breath caught; he clutched his chest before a smile lit up his whole face.
“She’s going to be the death of me,” he muttered under his breath, but Steve and Bucky heard him. The super-soldiers chuckled, but envied Tony at the same time. They had yet to find their soulmate.
Tony didn’t wait for you to walk down the aisle with Thor. He crossed the distance with steady steps and held out his hand. “May I take it from here?” he asked Thor, furrowing his brows.
The Asgardian chuckled and gave you to Tony, stepping aside to let the two of you have your moment. “May the all-father bless this union.” He said and sat down next to his raven-haired brother. “Behave, and don’t try one of your tricks.”
“I wouldn’t dare,” Loki replied, mischief in his eyes. He planned to cause chaos but decided against it. “But we could turn her father into a lizard.”
“I’d support your suggestion,” Thor whispered lowly. Of course, word spread fast. Everyone knew about your father and his refusal to attend your wedding.
Together, you and Tony walked down the aisle. You didn’t miss your father or your stepmother. Your chosen family watched you in awe while you savored every step you took toward a future with Tony.
They tried to hold back tears, but when you reached the end of the aisle and started with your vows, most of the combat-experienced Avengers were sniffling and crying happy tears.
“You never let me fall,” you whispered, squeezing Tony’s hands. “Whenever the world was cruel, you were kind and loving. You made me feel seen after I felt like I’m invisible for all my life. I’m not standing here because I love you.” People gasped before you continued. “I’m standing here because you are my home, my heart, my everything.”
“Wimps,” Loki commented. “Why are they crying?”
“Shush,” Natasha elbowed the trickster. “It’s sweet, and Y/N deserves the best. Her father is a piece of work.”
The rest of the ceremony was sweet, intimate, and full of the kind of love that made your heart flutter. Tony looked at you the whole time. He barely understood a word the officiant said. All he could hear was the beating of his own heart when he looked at you in your wedding dress.
“Yes!” He said, looking at the officiant. “It was my turn, right?”
You chuckled. “Yeah, it was, Tony.”
By the time the officiant pronounced you married, Steve was pretending very hard not to glance at his best friend, Bucky was nervously shifting in his seat, and Thor was crying ugly.
Tony was already kissing you before you exchanged the rings. You didn’t mind at all. Smiling against his lips, you let Tony wrap his arms around you.
Your found family clapped their hands, whistled, or sniffled. Even Loki felt a tug at his heart watching you and Tony exchange rings. “So, she’s Stark’s now?”
“She always was, brother,” Thor said. “Don’t start anything.”
“We really should turn her father into a lizard.” Steve’s words caught Loki off guard. He glanced at the super-soldier, his mouth curving upward. “Let’s have a meeting later, Captain.”
The news of Tony Stark’s wedding spread fast. Your faces were plastered all over New York City and beyond.
It didn’t matter to you. Most of the people already knew you were going to become Tony Stark’s wife. Everyone but a few people.
You came home from your honeymoon glowing, your heart much lighter, and for the first time in years you didn’t care about your father. He was in the past, Tony, and your chosen family were the future.
Then your phone started ringing. An unknown number, followed by emails from an unknown account. You usually ignore messages and calls from unknown accounts. Though they wouldn’t stop.
Around two weeks after you returned from your honeymoon, you finally had enough. Tony was standing behind you when you opened the first message.
I didn’t realize who you were marrying.
“Wow, he has a way with words, huh?” Tony commented to soften the blow. “I would’ve started with, I’m sorry I was a dumbass and didn’t attend your wedding. Or I’m sorry I hurt you.”
“That would have been too much to ask for, Tons,” you said, while cold clarity turned your heart to ice. The man calling himself your father didn’t care that he hurt you. He only cared that Tony Stark was your husband.
“I should’ve allowed Loki to turn him into a lizard,” Tony said. He didn’t joke. If it weren’t against the law to turn people into lizards or to kill people, he’d have your father’s head.
“Don’t waste your energy on him.” You deleted the message, and all the others are waiting for a response. “Can you please block him on everything? I don’t want him to use burner phones or stuff to reach me.”
“Leave this to me.” Tony wrapped his arms around you from behind and kissed your neck. “Consider it done. He’ll never bother you again.”
Your silence wasn’t enough. Your father showed up at the Avengers’ tower a week later. He tried to fight with security, demanding to see his daughter.
Tony sighed when he saw him on one of the security screens. He was tempted to allow Loki to turn your father into a bug or worse.
Your husband clenched his jaw, trying to decide what to do with your father when you walked into his office, glancing at the monitor.
“No.”
“Security has it handled. He won’t reach you.” Tony assured you, but you still started to sniffle. “Hey. No tears for that bastard.”
“How dare he come here! What does he think he is?”
“He’s no one, darling.”
“I will tell him to get lost,” you said, turning to leave.
“Absolutely not,” Tony said.
“I can handle him,” you said, though you struggled not to cry.
Tony came to stand beside you, taking your hand to kiss it. “I know you can,” he murmured. “But you don’t have to do it alone anymore. We are a team. Team Sexy Husband.”
You chuckled and gave Tony a cracked smile. “Alright. We’ll do this together.”
The second your father saw Tony at your side, he put on his best fake smile. He offered a bouquet of pink roses, trying to act like a decent father.
“I just wanted to congratulate you both in person,” he said, thrusting the bouquet toward Tony, not you. “I had no idea. If I’d known… well, ...” Your father stumbled over his words.
“If you had known I was going to marry Tony Stark, not some nobody—or how did your precious stepdaughter call my husband on social media?”
Your father swallowed thickly. “I mean… I would have been there.”
“Wow. When I thought you couldn’t fuck up even worse, you do just that,” you huffed. “You’re not here to say sorry that you missed my wedding. You’re sorry you missed Tony Stark’s wedding.”
Tony watched your father grovel with cold determination. He decided a long time ago to never allow your father to hurt you again.
“You know, Y/N invited you because I asked her to call you. She hoped, against all odds, that you might act like her father on her wedding day,” he said. “You refused. Our wedding happened without you, and so will the rest of our lives. You’ll never see your daughter or,” Tony looked at you, adoration in his eyes when his hand found your middle, “your grandchildren.”
Your father’s eyes flicked between the two of you, realization settling in. “But…she’s my daughter.”
“Then you should have acted like it before you knew I married Tony Stark,” you replied. “Now you’re nothing but a sperm donor to me. Never contact me again, or you and your lovely wife and stepdaughter will hear from my lawyer. Goodbye.”
Tony guided you away from your father, gesturing to security to have him removed. He’ll make sure your father stays out of your life.
Tony could still let Loki take matters into his hands…
PAIRING || Husband! Dad! Young! Tony Stark x Wife! Mom! Pregnant! Female! Reader
WORDCOUNT || 1.9K
SUMMARY || You've been coming across the 'seeing if my husband melts into my kiss' challenge on your social media, so you decide to try it out on the man you love. Needless to say, he barely lasts a second before melting into you and giving you exactly what you so deeply desire from him.
RATING || Explicit (E)
TAGS & WARNINGS || Young! Tony Stark AU | Pregnancy fic | Reader is described as tattooed | Tony speaking Italian (don't say I didn't warn you 👀) | Explicit sexual content
WARNINGS | SMUT || Pregnancy kink | Dirty talk | Praise | Light nipple play | Fingering | Unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it!) | Simultaneous orgasms | Aftercare
A/N || This is written as a little birthday surprise from me to all of you, so I hope every single one of you will enjoy this as much as I did when writing it! I want to give my endless gratitude to @cacrca for proofreading and suggesting this _sinfully_ beautiful GIF, because without your input, I wouldn't be where I am today! 🤍
Photo: @cacrca || All other graphics in this post are made by ✨ @nicoline1998enilocin ✨
Main masterlist || Tony Stark masterlist || Young! Tony Stark masterlist
For the last few weeks, you’ve seen a new trend pop up on Instagram every time you take a moment to sit down and scroll. While you’ve never been one to try them out, no matter how fun they may look, this one caught your eye from the first time you saw it. Men melting into their partner’s kisses when they have to keep their arms up is something that immediately made you think of Tony, as you’re sure he will not even last a second.
So, for the next few days, you’re trying to find the perfect moment to do so, and it just so happens that your twins - Hudson and Orion - wanted to have a sleepover at their grandparents’ house, to which they immediately agreed. They were picked up not long after, and now you have the entire house to yourselves, which makes for the perfect moment of your plan.
While you’re normally not at all shy about sharing affection and kissing Tony in front of your kids, you have a feeling that your husband might not be able to stop at just kissing you. So, now that the moment is finally here, you can’t help but let out some giggles at the thought of what’s about to happen. You’re seated at the kitchen island while Tony is cleaning up from dinner, and he looks at you with a questioning look, a small smile tugging at his mouth.
“What’s going on, Sunshine?” At his question, you let out a few more giggles before getting up and rounding the island to get to his side. His eyes follow your every move, and his hands immediately reach out to your growing belly where you’re growing your third little miracle.
“As much as I want you to touch me, I would like to try out something where you can’t,” you tell Tony as you grab his wrists, pushing them away from your belly and up into the air. “All you need to do is stand here and keep your hands in the air, okay? That’s all you need to do.”
Tony squints his eyes in suspicion, but he trusts you completely and does as you ask, both his hands in the air, even though he wants nothing more than to touch you, to kiss you, and to make love to you. You smile widely as one of your hands reaches out for his shoulder, and the other wraps around his neck to let your fingers slide into the soft hair on the nape of his neck, your nails scratching ever so gently.
His eyes slip shut immediately, and that’s when you seize the moment, your feet lifting until you’re standing on your toes - Tony is still quite a bit taller than you are, after all - your mouth gently pressing against his soft, pink lips in a kiss that sends your heart flying. After all these years, you’ve never gotten over how it feels to kiss the man you love, the father of your children, and the man you’re growing old with. It’s still like fireworks every single time.
At this, it doesn’t surprise you that Tony doesn’t even last a single second, as he immediately deepens the kiss to let his tongue explore with your own, his hands sliding down your back and side to pull you impossibly closer. A soft moan escapes your lips as his hand finds your ass, kneading softly over the fabric of the sundress you’ve decided to put on today. Then, without leaving your lips for even a second, he lifts you onto the kitchen counter before stepping between your legs and pulling you towards the edge.
“You can’t expect to kiss me like that and not do anything about it, Sunshine. You’re too fucking irresistible,” he says between the kisses he trails over your jaw and neck, your head falling back to give him all the access he needs. The soft scrub of his facial hair makes your entire skin feel like it’s on fire, and your back arches into him as he sucks on your most sensitive spot between your neck and shoulder.
“Sei bellissime con il mio bambino dentro di te,” Tony whispers, and the sound of the words slipping so effortlessly from his mouth has your panties ruined immediately. They already were from the moment he lifted you, but hearing Tony speak Italian is the closest feeling to having an orgasm without him touching you, and you’ll never get tired of hearing it.
“Fuck-” he whispers as he loosens the straps of your dress, the knots falling apart without resistance to reveal your bare chest, nipples peaking from the air hitting them, as well as your arousal that soars through every single inch of your body.
“You look so good, Sunshine. Can never get enough of you.”
His fingers glide over your inked skin, following every single line of dark and colored ink as he makes his way to your breasts. His lips follow the path he makes, and before you know it, they wrap around one of your nipples, making you moan loudly as he wraps an arm around you to ensure you won’t fall back. Your entire body feels like it’s on fire in the best way possible, and your husband is responsible for setting every single nerve ending ablaze.
“You, carrying my baby again-” he says after releasing your now hardened, sensitive peak as his free hand glides over your bump, “I’ll never get enough of it. You’re gorgeous like this,” he says before latching onto the other one, a very similar moan escaping your lips once again. You try to close your thighs in order to get at least a little relief, but your husband standing between them makes that impossible.
“Hmm, someone’s a little needy today, huh?” he asks, and you nod without thinking about it. You’re already so close to the edge from him sucking on your nipples and touching you ever so gently that you can almost taste it on your tongue, but you need just a little more to fall over the edge of blinding pleasure.
“T-Tony,” you moan, and without needing to say anything else, he happily obliges. Within seconds, his pants and underwear are around his knees, his thick, long cock already dripping as it’s almost painfully hard, while your dress is bunched up and your panties are pulled to the side. His hand is wrapped around the base of his cock to stop himself from finishing the second he enters you, and his thumb on his free hand is gently gliding through your arousal.
“Look at you, all dripping for me,” he groans before slipping the digit into your entrance, your head falling back at the feeling of him inside you. “Looking so sexy with your round belly, carrying our love, while your sweet pussy is begging to be fucked. God, you’re so fucking beautiful.”
And with that, he’s moving forward, his thumb immediately replaced with the head of his cock before he gently pushes in, letting your body adjust to the thickness that’s trying to enter. After all these years, your body still needs time to take him, and Tony will happily oblige every time you do. He’s never in a hurry, always taking his sweet time to ensure you won’t get hurt.
It only takes a few small thrusts for him to be buried to the hilt, and you wrap your arms around his neck and shoulders to steady yourself, as you cannot trust your own arms to hold you upright anymore. His hand snakes around your waist to pull you even closer to the edge, your legs wrapping around his hips. You couldn’t be closer to him if you’d tried, and you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else in this world than right in his arms. In there, you feel safe and loved, bringing tears to your eyes. It’s not something you’ve always felt and something you’ll never take for granted, and all Tony does is kiss the falling tears away before placing a kiss on the tip of your nose.
“Ti amo, Sunshine. Non posso credere di poterti avere così ogni singolo della mia vita,” he whispers as he gently starts thrusting, your bodies moving in sync as he says those words to you. The Italian, combined with his soft touches and his thrusts, has you falling even more in love with him, and a feeling of nothing but pure safety washes over you. You let go of every thought you possibly had, your husband invading every single one of your senses now.
“Cum for me, Sunshine. Cum for me and I’ll be right there with you,” Tony tells you before capturing your lips, his hips setting a pace that has you on the edge sooner than expected, and at his plea, you do exactly that as you cling onto him, your moans uncontrollable as your walls tighten around his cock, making him groan loudly before filling you up with his warm seed.
“That’s it, sweet girl. You’re doing so well for me. Good girl,” he whispers as he works you through your orgasm, his lips placing featherlight kisses on your cheeks as his hands are rubbing your back. Soft, sweet sounds fall from your lips as he pulls out his cock, leaving you empty for only a second before his fingers scoop some of the cum that is dripping out, pushing it back in with his thick, large fingers.
“You feel so good, Sunshine. Around my cock, my fingers, everywhere,” he says before pulling them back out, leaving you empty once again. But this time, instead of repeating what he just did, he steps out of his clothing to leave it on the floor, and he lifts you effortlessly once again to bring you to the bathroom, where he’s drawing a nice, relaxing bath for the two of you to enjoy.
“What scent would you like to use?” he asks, and you point to your favorite, making your husband smile knowingly.
“Should have known you’d pick that one,” he says after he put the bubble bath in the warm water, the tub slowly filling up as he turns back to you.
“Now, let’s get you out of these clothes and into the water, okay?” he asks, and you just nod. He doesn’t require you to speak right now, knowing you’re still coming down from everything that just happened. Your entire body feels like it’s made of cooked noodles now, and he knows it, so he’s more than happy to take care of you in every way he can.
It doesn’t take long for the two of you to sit in the water, your body nestled against his chest with his hands rubbing your bump gently. Your eyes are closed as you listen to the music he put on, your breathing slowing down as you enjoy the warmth enveloping you, and your husband whispering sweet words to you. A sweet mix of Italian and English is hitting your ears, though you’re too sleepy to hear all of them.
“I love you, Sunshine. And I love it even more when you’re melting into me like this,” he says before placing a kiss on the top of your head, and that’s when you finally give in to the sleep that has been wanting to overtake you for a while now. As much as you wanted to see how he would melt into you, you’re even happier to be the one who melts into his touch every chance you get.
Well since you said you needed a request like this…
How about the hottest nastiest sex with Hank Palmer after smoking a joint hehe maybe you can add the Prince Albert Piercing in there
Besos 😘
Joint Venture
Pairing: Hank Palmer x F!Reader
Warning/Rating: 18+; explicit, graphic sexual activity (manual and oral stimulation, penetration with Prince Albert piercing, multiple orgasms described in detail), unprotected sex, marijuana use, language, rough sex, intense dirty talk
Word Count: 3.7 K
The door to Hank’s apartment clicks shut behind you, and you’re immediately struck by how different this space feels from the courtroom where you first saw him work. Gone is the three-piece suit and the calculated aggression. Here, he’s stripped down to dark jeans and a white button-down with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and somehow that’s even more devastating.
“So,” he says, tossing his keys onto a sleek console table, “you survived dinner with Carla. I’m impressed. Most people tap out after her third story about her cats.”
“Please. Carla’s a lightweight. Try my Aunt Marie and her slideshow of timeshare properties.” You slip off your heels, immediately losing three inches. “Besides, I liked her. She told me about the time you got caught stealing a golf cart in high school.”
Hank’s laugh is low and genuine. “She promised she’d take that to her grave.”
“She also said you were ‘trouble with a capital T.’” You move further into the apartment, taking in the windows overlooking the city, the expensive but understated furniture. “I’m starting to think she was right.”
“Trouble?” He follows you to the living room, close enough that you can smell his cologne. “That’s a strong word. I prefer ‘selectively rebellious.’”
“Is that what we’re calling it?”
“What would you call it?” He’s standing too close now, eyes locked on yours with that intensity that probably wins him cases. It’s definitely winning him points right now.
“I’d call it…” You pretend to consider, tapping your finger against your lips. “Calculated chaos. You like to push boundaries, but only when you know exactly what you’re doing.”
His smile is slow, dangerous. “You’ve got me all figured out after one dinner?”
“I’m observant.”
“So am I.” His gaze drops briefly to your mouth, then back up. “And I’ve observed that you’ve been eye-fucking me since the appetizers.”
Heat floods your cheeks, but you refuse to look away. “That’s a bold accusation, counselor.”
“It’s not an accusation if it’s true. And if it helps…” He leans in slightly, voice dropping. “The feeling’s mutual.”
The air between you crackles. You should say something witty, maintain the banter, but your brain is suddenly occupied with how good he smells and how much you want to know what that mouth tastes like.
Hank breaks the tension first, stepping back with a knowing smirk. “You want a drink? Or…” He pulls open a drawer in the coffee table, producing a small wooden box. “I’ve got something better if you’re interested.”
You arch an eyebrow. “Are you offering me drugs, Mr. Palmer?”
“I’m offering you premium cannabis from a completely legal dispensary.” He opens the box to reveal a neat joint and a lighter. “But if you’d preger to maintain your innocence…”
“Please. I went to college.” You settle onto his obscenely comfortable leather couch. “Light it up.”
He sits beside you - not quite touching, but close enough that you’re hyperaware of his presence. The joint flares to life, and he takes a long drag before passing it to you. Your fingers brush in the exchange, and you swear you feel it everywhere.
The weed is smooth, expensive. Of course it is.
“So tell me,” Hank says, watching you through the smoke, “what’s a woman like you doing slumming it with a burned-out defense attorney?”
“Slumming it?” You pass the joint back. “You have a penthouse apartment and smoke weed that probably costs more than my car payment.”
“Fair point.” He takes another hit, and you watch his lips wrap around the joint with entirely too much interest. “But I’m still curious. You’re smart, funny, gorgeous. You could be having dinner with someone who doesn’t have a reputation for being an asshole.”
“Maybe I like assholes.” The weed is starting to hit, making you bolder. “Or maybe I just like you.”
“Yeah?” His voice has gone lower, rougher. “What is it you like, specifically?”
“Fishing for compliments?”
“Fishing for information.” He passes the joint back, and this time his fingers linger against yours. “I like to know what I’m working with.”
The touch sends electricity up your arm. You take a drag, holding his gaze. “I like that you’re smart enough to keep up with me. I like that you don’t bullshit. I like…” You lean closer, emboldened by the week and the want pooling in your belly. “I like that you’ve been undressing me with your eyes all night and you’re not even pretending otherwise.”
“Why would I pretend?” His hand finds your knee, warm and solid. “You wore this dress for a reason.”
“Maybe I just like the dress.”
“Maybe.” His thumb traces a small circle against your skin. “Or maybe you wanted to see if I’d notice.”
“Did you?”
“I noticed everything.” His hand slides higer, just slightly. “The dress. The way you bite your lip when you’re thinking. How you kept crossing and uncrossing your legs during dessert.” His eyes are dark now, pupils blown wide. “You’re not subtle, sweetheart.”
“Neither are you.” you stub out the joint in the ashtray on the coffee table, then turn to face him fully. “So what are you going to do about it?”
Hank’s smile is pure sin. “I’ve got a few ideas.”
“Show me.”
He doesn’t need to be asked twice.
His mouth is on yours before you can take another breath, and fuck, he kisses like he argues - with complete confidence and devastating precision. His hand slides into your hair, angling your head exactly where he wants it, and you moan into his mouth because this is exactly what you’ve been thinking about since you watched him destroy a witness on cross-examination this afternoon.
You start to pull away, thinking he’ll lead you somewhere else, but his hand tightens in your hair, keeping you exactly where you are.
“Right here,” he growls against your lips, and then he’s pulling you down onto the couch, your back hitting the leather cushions. “Can’t wait.”
“Hank -” But whatever you were going to say dies in your throat because he’s already pushing your dress up over your hips, his hands hot and urgent on your thighs.
“Need you now,” he mutters, mouth moving to your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point. “Been thinking about this all fucking night.”
Your fingers fumblr with his shirt buttons, clumsy with want and the lingering haze of the weed. “These goddamn buttons.”
“Fuck it.” He pulls back just enough to yank the shirt over his head, buttons be damned, and Jesus Christ, he’s gorgeous. Lean muscle, a dusting of dark hair across his chest, that sharp V of his hipsbones disappearing into his jeans. You want to trace it with your tongue.
“Your turn,” he says, voice rough, and helps you wiggle out of your dress. It gets caught on your hips for a moment, and you both laugh breathlessly as you work it off, tossing it somewhere across the living room. You’re left in just your black lace bra and matching panties, sprawled on his couch, and his eyes go dark, hungry.
“Fucking hell,” he mutters, reaching for you again. “You’re perfect.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere.”
“I’m counting on it.”
His hands slide around to unhook your bra with ease, and then his mouth is on your breast, tongue circling your nipple, and you arch into him with a gasp. His other hand palms your other breast, thumb brushing over the sensitive peak, and the dual sensation makes your knees weak.
“These need to come off,” you manage, tugging at his jeans. “Now.”
He shifts back on the couch, giving himself room to work his belt buckle. The clink of metal, the rasp of his zipper, and then he’s pushing his jeans down his hips and -
“Holy shit.”
You sit up abruptly, eyes locked on his cock. Because there, glinting in the low light, is a curved barbell piercing through the head of his dick. A Prince Albert piercing.
Hank freezes, then a slow, wicked smile spreads across his face. “Surprise?”
"You have a…" You can't quite finish the sentence, still staring. "When did you - why didn't you -"
"Mention it?" He steps closer, completely unbothered by your shock. "It doesn't usually come up in dinner conversation. 'Hi, nice to meet you, I have genital jewelry.'"
"I mean, fair point, but -" You reach out tentatively, then pause. "Can I?"
"Please." His voice has gone rough again.
You wrap your hand around his shaft, feeling the weight of him, the heat. The metal is smooth and cool against your palm, contrasting with his hot skin. He's thick and hard, and the piercing adds a whole new dimension you're trying to process.
"How long have you had it?" you ask, stroking him slowly, watching his jaw clench.
"Five years. Got it after my divorce was finalized." He exhales sharply when you thumb over the head, the barbell moving slightly. "Needed to do something wild. Something just for me."
"And you chose to pierce your dick."
"I contain multitudes." His hand slides into your hair again, gentle but possessive. "You okay with it?"
"Okay with it?" You look up at him, then lean forward, pressing a kiss to his hip. "Hank, I'm fucking fascinated."
You take him into your mouth before he can respond, and the sound he makes is absolutely filthy. The piercing feels strange at first - the metal against your tongue, the different texture - but then you're adjusting, learning how to work around it, and Hank's hand tightens in your hair.
"Fuck, sweetheart," he groans. "That mouth of yours."
You hum around him, taking him deeper, and his hips jerk forward involuntarily. You can feel the piercing against the back of your throat, and it's weird and hot and you want more. You pull back, swirling your tongue around the head, paying special attention to the jewelry.
"You keep that up," he warns, voice strained, "and this is going to be over embarrassingly fast."
You release him with a wet pop, grinning up at him. "Can't have that. I have plans for you."
"Yeah?" He pulls you up, kissing you hard. "What kind of plans?"
"The kind where I find out exactly what that piercing feels like inside me."
His eyes go black. "Fuck, the way you talk."
"You like it."
"I fucking love it." He hooks his fingers in your panties, dragging them down your legs. "But two can play that game."
He pushes you back onto the couch, spreading your thighs, and then his mouth is on you and you forget how to form words. His tongue is wicked, circling your clit with perfect pressure, and when he slides two fingers inside you, you arch off the couch with a cry.
"So wet," he murmurs against you. "All this for me?"
"Don't - ah - don't get cocky."
"Too late." He curls his fingers, hitting that spot inside you that makes you see stars. "I'm already thinking about how you're going to feel wrapped around my cock. How that piercing's going to hit all the right places."
"Jesus, Hank!"
"That's it, sweetheart. Let me hear you."
He works you with his mouth and fingers, relentless and skilled, and you're climbing fast, thighs trembling. But just before you can tip over the edge, he pulls back, and you actually whimper at the loss.
"Not yet," he says, crawling up your body. "When you come, I want to be inside you."
"Then get inside me already," you demand, reaching between you to wrap your hand around his cock again. The piercing is slick now with your saliva and his precum, and you stroke him firmly. "I want to feel this."
"Condom," he manages, reaching over to his jeans crumpled on the floor nearby. He fishes one out of his wallet. "Unless…"
"I'm clean and on birth control," you interrupt. "You?"
"Clean. Tested last month." He pauses, searching your face. "You sure?"
"I want to feel all of you." You squeeze him for emphasis. "Every inch. The piercing."
"Fuck." He positions himself between your thighs, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance. "You're going to ruin me."
"Good." You wrap your legs around his hips, pulling him closer. "Now fuck me, counselor."
He pushes inside slowly, and the sensation is unlike anything you've ever felt. The stretch is perfect, but it's the piercing that makes you gasp. The metal a distinct pressure, a ridge of sensation that drags against your inner walls as he sinks deeper.
"Oh fuck," you breathe, nails digging into his shoulders. "Hank!"
"I know." His voice is strained, forehead pressed against yours. "I can feel how tight you are. How wet." He bottoms out, buried completely inside you, and you both groan. "Jesus Christ, you feel incredible."
"The piercing -" You can barely form words. "I can feel it. Right there."
"Yeah?" He pulls back slightly, then thrusts in again, and the metal catches against that perfect spot inside you. "That good?"
"So fucking good." You roll your hips, experimenting with the angle, and the piercing shifts, sending sparks of pleasure through your core. "Move. Please move."
He doesn't need to be told twice. He starts a steady rhythm, each thrust deliberate and deep, and you can feel every inch of him, every ridge of that metal barbell as it drags in and out. The sensation is overwhelming - the fullness of his cock combined with the unique stimulation of the piercing hitting places you didn't even know could feel this good.
"You're so fucking tight," he groans against your neck, hips snapping forward. "Taking me so well."
"More," you demand, meeting his thrusts. "Harder."
"Greedy." But he complies, fucking into you with more force, the leather couch creaking beneath you with each powerful thrust. "This what you wanted? To get fucked by a guy with a pierced cock?"
"Yes - fuck. Yes!" Your head falls back against the couch cushions, pleasure building with each stroke. "Wanted this since I saw you in that courtroom."
"Yeah?" His hand slides down to grip your thigh, hitching your leg higher, changing the angle. The piercing hits even deeper now, and you cry out. "Wanted me to bend you over the defense table? Fuck you right there?"
"God, yes." The image makes you clench around him, and he groans. "Would've let you."
"Dirty girl." He captures your mouth in a bruising kiss, tongue sliding against yours as his hips maintain their relentless pace. "I knew you would be. Knew you'd be perfect."
The praise mixed with the filth makes you moan into his mouth. Your hands slide down his back, feeling the flex of his muscles as he moves, the sweat starting to slick his skin. Everything is heat and friction and that maddening metal that keeps hitting exactly where you need it.
"Wait -" You push at his chest, and he stills immediately, concern flashing across his face.
"You okay?"
"More than okay." You grin up at him. "But I want to be on top. Want to control how deep that piercing goes."
His eyes go dark with lust. "Fuck yes."
You shift positions, and he lies back against the couch cushions, hands on your hips as you straddle him. You position yourself over his cock, then sink down slowly, taking him inch by inch. From this angle, you can feel everything - the stretch, the fullness, and especially the piercing as it drags along your front wall.
"Oh my god," you moan, settling fully onto him. "This is…fuck!"
"Look at you." His hands slide up to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples. "Taking all of me. So fucking beautiful."
You start to move, rolling your hips, finding the rhythm that makes the piercing hit just right. It's intoxicating, having this control, being able to angle yourself exactly where you need him. You brace your hands on his chest and ride him harder, chasing the pleasure building in your core.
"That's it," he encourages, hips bucking up to meet your movements. "Use me. Take what you need."
"You feel so good," you gasp, head falling back as you grind down on him. "That piercing… it's hitting - right there!"
"I can feel you getting tighter." One of his hands slides down between you, thumb finding your clit. "You're close, aren't you?"
"Yes - don't stop!"
He rubs tight circles over your clit while you ride him, and the dual stimulation is almost too much. The piercing keeps hitting that perfect spot inside you with every roll of your hips, and his thumb on your clit is relentless, and you're climbing so fast you can barely breathe.
"Come for me," he commands, voice rough. "Want to feel you come on my cock."
"Hank…fuck! I'm -"
The orgasm hits you like a freight train. You cry out, body going rigid as pleasure crashes through you in waves. You can feel yourself clenching around him, pulsing, and the piercing makes every contraction feel more intense. Your thighs shake, and you would collapse if his hands weren't on your hips, holding you steady.
"Fuck, that's beautiful," he groans, watching you come apart above him. "You're so fucking perfect."
You're still trembling through the aftershocks when he sits up, wrapping his arms around you, and kisses you deeply. You can feel him still hard inside you, the piercing a constant pressure, and despite having just come, you want more.
"Not done with you yet," he murmurs against your lips. Then he's lifting you off him, and you whimper at the loss. "Hands and knees, sweetheart."
You move on shaky legs, positioning yourself on all fours, and look back over your shoulder at him. He's kneeling behind you, one hand stroking his cock, and the sight makes you clench with renewed want.
"You're going to feel me so deep like this," he says, running his other hand down your spine. "That piercing's going to hit different angles."
"Show me," you challenge, arching your back.
He lines himself up and pushes in with one smooth thrust, and you gasp because he's right - from this angle, he feels impossibly deep. The piercing drags along your back wall now, creating entirely new sensations, and when he starts to move, you have to drop to your forearms.
"Fuck, Hank!”
"Too much?" His hands grip your hips, holding you steady as he fucks into you.
"No. More, harder!"
He gives you what you want, pounding into you with deep, powerful strokes. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mixed with your moans and gasps. You can feel the piercing with every thrust, that metal ridge catching and dragging, and it's driving you insane.
"You take my cock so well," he groans, one hand sliding up to grip your hair, pulling your head back. "Like you were made for it."
"Yes!"
"Love watching myself disappear inside you." His other hand comes down on your ass with a sharp smack, and you cry out. "Love feeling how wet you are. How tight."
"Don't stop," you beg, pushing back to meet his thrusts. "Please don't stop."
"Not planning on it." He releases your hair, both hands gripping your hips now, using the leverage to fuck you even harder. "Going to make you come again. Going to feel you squeeze my cock while I fill you up."
The dirty talk combined with the relentless pace is pushing you toward another edge. You can feel it building, that coil of tension in your belly, and every thrust of that piercing winds it tighter.
"Touch yourself," he commands. "Want to feel you come around me."
You slide one hand between your legs, fingers finding your clit, and the added stimulation makes you moan. You're so sensitive, so close, and with him fucking you from behind and your fingers on your clit and that goddamn piercing hitting places that make you see stars -
"Hank - I'm going to…"
"Do it. Come for me again."
Your second orgasm is somehow even more intense than the first. You come with a scream, body shaking, inner walls clamping down on his cock. The piercing makes every pulse feel magnified, and you can hear Hank cursing behind you, his rhythm faltering.
"Fuck - you're so tight. I can't -" His fingers dig into your hips hard enough to bruise. "Where do you want me?"
"Inside," you gasp, still trembling through your orgasm. "Want to feel you come inside me."
"Jesus - fuck!" He thrusts into you three more times, deep and hard, and then he's coming with a guttural groan. You can feel him pulsing inside you, feel the heat of his release, and the sensation triggers another wave of aftershocks. "Fuck - sweetheart -"
He collapses over your back, both of you breathing hard, bodies slick with sweat. His cock is still inside you, softening slowly, and you can still feel the piercing, a gentle pressure now instead of the intense stimulation from before.
"Holy shit," you manage after a moment.
"Yeah." He presses a kiss to your shoulder blade. "That about covers it."
You shift carefully, rolling off him and settling back against the couch cushions. He follows, pulling you against his chest as you both stretch out along the length of the leather sofa, your back to his front. His arm drapes across your waist, and he presses his face into your hair, both of you still catching your breath.
"So," you say, still catching your breath. "That piercing."
He laughs, low and satisfied. "What about it?"
"Best decision you ever made."
"Yeah?" He turns his head to look at you, a lazy smile on his face. "Better than going to law school?"
"Significantly better." You roll onto your side, tracing patterns on his chest. "Though I appreciate that law school gave you the stamina for that performance."
"Performance?" He catches your hand, bringing it to your lips. "Sweetheart, that was just round one."
Heat pools in your belly again despite the fact that you just came twice. "Round one?"
"You didn't think I was done with you, did you?" His eyes are dark again, hungry. "I've got all night to show you exactly what this piercing can do."
"Well," you say, grinning. "When you put it that way, counselor, I'm ready for your closing argument."
He laughs, pulling you on top of him. "You're going to be the death of me."
Riding Tony’s face as he jerks himself off😍😍😍 a need
✨Best Seat in The House✨
Author's Note: Nonnie are you JOOOOOOKING?! That man LIVES to eat you out. Like one taste and he has a whole fucking shrine built to how juicy and sweet your pussy is.
Trigger Warnings: SMUT SWEET SMUT | face riding | shy! reader| fingering | oral F receiving |
Word Count: 458
| Masterlist | Taglist |
Tony had been shamelessly flirting with you since the first day he laid eyes on you. Something about Pepper’s innocent little assistant just drove him absolutely nuts.
And those mini skirts you wore around the office? He could have sworn you were doing it just for him. And don’t even get him started on when you wore pants—your ass had never looked better.
So when he finally got you into his bed, he made sure you had the best seat in the house: his face.
You cute little innocent thing, you really thought you were going to hurt him if you put your full weight on him. To prove you wrong, he secured his strong hands around you, pinning you flush against him before he started expertly licking and sucking on your clit. You threw your head back in pure pleasure, the vibration of Tony's low groans echoing underneath you.
It wasn’t the first time you’d been eaten out, but it was definitely the first time a man had devoured you exactly the way God intended.
Tony was utterly lost, taking his sweet time to explore your folds with his expert tongue while his nose nudged at your clit, flicking it to absolute perfection.
Every flick of his tongue was precise, finding the exact rhythm that made your toes curl and your breath hitch. He started sucking on your clit once again, pulling you into his mouth until you were whimpering his name, your hips helplessly rolling against his face.
He had never been so damn hard in his entire life.
Unable to take it anymore, he slipped one of his hands down to the hem of his briefs, freeing his thick cock.
With your head still thrown back, you opened your heavy eyes, only to catch your reflection in the mirror on the ceiling directly above the bed.
“You like what you see?” Tony mumbled against you, noticing how you immediately bucked your hips against his mouth at the sight.
Your eyes stayed glued to the ceiling mirror, slowly tracking down from his broad chest and marked abs to where his hand was now rhythmically stroking his length. Your cheeks flushed a deep, breathless crimson.
“You like being dirty, don’t you?” he asked, though it sounded a whole lot more like a statement.
You only bit your lip, nodding as a breathless gasp escaped you. The sheer sight of Tony Stark completely beneath you, driven absolutely crazy just by eating you out, was something you found mind-numbing, extremely hot.
You could stop looking at how he stroked himself.
Tony smiled against your skin, his chest vibrating with a low laugh. “The shy ones are always the naughtiest,” he murmured, before immediately diving back into his ministrations.
You shared this and it got me thinking… Tony (or Peter or Hank, they're all incredibly hot) wants to be a father, so he proposes to Reader (his best friend) that they have a child and remain friends, raising the child together as friends. They'll start practicing a lot to make the baby 🤭 and will definitely fall in love in the process. When she gets pregnant, they'll fall even more in love, and he'll be so affectionate with her, taking care of her and being all cute. Then, when their child is born, (or Peter or Hank) will declare his love and propose, especially since they'll spend her entire pregnancy already acting like a couple
The Best-Laid Plans
Pairing: Tony Stark x F!Reader
Warning/Rating: 18+; explicit, graphic sexual content (manual stimulation, oral sex, penetration described in vivid detail), unprotected sex, language, pregnancy, references to childbirth
Word Count: 7.2 K
The thing about Tony Stark was that he always had a plan. Usually several color-coded, cross-references, and backed up on at least three servers across two continents.
So when he called you to his penthouse on a random Thursday evening with that particular tone in his voice - the one that meant he was about to propose something either brilliant or catastrophically stupid - you knew to brace yourself.
“Okay, here me out,” he said, pacing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan. The city glittered behind him like a circuit board, all light and possibility.
You settled into the leather couch, wine glass in hand. “That’s never a good opening.”
“It’s a great opening. It’s an iconic opening. It’s the opening to at least forty percent of my best ideas.”
“And sixty percent of your worst ones.”
He pointed at you. “See, this is why you’re perfect for this.”
“For what, exactly?”
Tony stopped pacing. For just a moment, his carefully constructed confidence flickered, and you saw something raw underneath. Vulnerable. It made your chest tighten in a way you’d spent three years of friendship studiously ignoring.
“I want to have a kid,” he said.
You blinked. “Okay. That's… actually pretty normal? Surprisingly well-adjusted for you, even.”
“With you.”
The wine glass paused halfway to your lips. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Not - okay, let me back up.” He ran a hand through his hair, and you realized with a start that Tony Stark was nervous. Actually, genuinely nervous. “I’ve been thinking about this for months. I want to be a father. I’m not getting any younger, despite what my dermatologist claims, and I’ve finally reached a point where I think I could actually be good at it. Or at least not catastrophically bad at it.”
“Tony…”
“But here’s the thing.” He sat down across from you, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “I don’t want to do the whole… thing. The relationship, the expectations, the inevitable implosion when she realizes I’m married to my work and my neuroses. I don’t want to bring a kind into that mess.”
Your heart was doing something complicated in your chest. “So what are you proposing?”
“You’re my best friend. You’re brilliant, you call me on my bullshit, you’d be an incredible mother. We already know we work well together. We like each other. We trust each other.” His eyes met yours, and there was something in them that made your breath catch. “What if we just… did this together? As friends. Co-parents. We’d raise the kid together, share everything, but without all the romantic complications that screw everything up.”
You stared at him. “You want us to have a baby together. Platonically.”
“I know it sounds insane -”
“It sounds extremely insane.”
“But is it wrong?” He leaned back, and there was that trademark Stark intensity focused entirely on you. “Think about it. We’re already in each other’s lives constantly. You’re the person I call when something good happens. You’re the person I want to tell my stupid jokes to. You’re the one who makes sure I eat and sleep like a human being. We’re already doing this, just without the kid.”
“Tony, making a baby requires certain… non-platonic activities.”
Something flickered in his eyes. Heat, maybe. Or challenge. “I’m aware of the mechanics, yes. I have several advanced degrees.”
“So you’re proposing we have sex.”
“I’m proposing we make a baby.” He said it softly, and the distinction felt important somehow. “However many times it takes. And then we raise that baby together, as partners. As friends. As the family we already kind of are.”
You should say no. This was insane. This was Tony Stark at his most chaotically brilliant and potentially self-destructive. This was a plan that could ruin everything.
But you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t thought about it. About him. About the way he looked at you sometimes when he thought you weren’t paying attention. About the careful distance you both maintained, the line you never crcossed, the feelings you never quite named.
“Let me get this straight,” you said slowly. “You want me to agree to have unprotected sex with you, potentially multiple times, with the express purpose of getting pregnant, and then raise a child together while maintaining a purely platonic friendship.”
“When you say it like that, it sounds much more complicated than it needs to be.”
“It sounds like the setup to a romantic comedy.”
“It sounds like a practical solution between two intelligent adults who care about each other and want the same things.” He leaned forward again. “Come on. Tell me you haven’t thought about it. Kids. Family. A little genius running around causing adorable chaos.”
You had. God, you had.
“What if it doesn’t work?” you asked quietly. “What if we try and I don’t get pregnant?”
“Then we’ll have had some pretty excellent sex and we’ll explore other options. IVF, adoption, whatever you want.” His voice softened. “But I have a feeling it’ll work. We’re pretty good at everything else we do together.”
“What if it ruins our friendship?”
“What if it doesn’t?” He reached across the space between you, taking your hand. His thumb brushed across your knuckles, and you felt that touch everywhere. “What if it’s exactly what we’re both too scared to admit we want?”
You looked at him - really looked at him. At the hope in his eyes, the vulnerability he was trying so hard to hide behind confidence and charm. At your best friend, who you maybe loved a little more than friends should.
“Okay,” you whispered.
His eyes widened. “Okay?”
“Okay. Let's make a baby, Stark.”
The smile that broke across his face was like sunrise. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. But we’re doing this right. Ground rules, expectations, all of it.”
“I’ll draw up a contract.”
“Of course you will.”
“Color-coded.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
He was still holding your hand. Neither of you moved to let go.
“So,” he said, and his voice had dropped into a register that did absolutely unfair things to your nervous system. “When do you want to start… practicing?”
Heat flooded through you. “Practicing?”
“Well, we should probably make sure we’re compatible in that area. For scientific purposes. Optimize our approach. I’m very thorough in my research.”
“Tony.”
“Yes, sweetheart?” The endearment rolled off his tongue like honey, and you realized that this was going to change everything, contract or no contract.
“Stop talking and kiss me.”
For once in his life, Tony Stark did exactly as he was told.
He kissed like he did everything else - with complete focus and devastating competence. His hand came up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone as his lips moved against yours with a confidence that made your knees weak. Good thing you were already sitting down.
You'd wondered, sometimes, in the dark privacy of your own thoughts, what kissing Tony would be like. The reality was so much better than the fantasy. He tasted like the whiskey he'd been drinking earlier, warm and rich, and when his tongue traced the seam of your lips, you opened for him with a sound that was almost embarrassing.
"Okay," he breathed against your mouth. "Okay, that's... we're good at that."
"Shut up," you managed, and pulled him back in.
The kiss deepened, turned hungry. His hands slid into your hair, angling your head to take more, and you gripped his shirt, pulling him closer. The physics of the situation - you on the couch, him leaning over from the chair - became untenable quickly.
Tony pulled back, breathing hard, his eyes dark and pupils blown. "Bedroom?"
Your heart hammered against your ribs. "This is really happening."
"Only if you want it to. We can stop. We can wait. We can…"
You stood up, cutting off his nervous rambling with another kiss. "Bedroom, Tony. Now."
"Yes ma'am." He grinned against your mouth, then took your hand and led you through the penthouse.
You'd been in Tony's bedroom before, of course. Movie nights that ran late, nights when you'd crashed after too much wine and conversation. But walking into it now, with intent, with purpose, felt entirely different. The massive bed suddenly seemed to dominate the space, and the city lights streaming through the windows felt like an audience.
Tony must have sensed your nervousness because he squeezed your hand. "We don't have to -"
"Stop giving me outs," you said, turning to face him. "I want this. I'm just... it's you. It's us. It's weird."
"Weird bad or weird good?"
"I don't know yet."
He laughed, and some of the tension broke. "Okay. Honest. I can work with honest." He stepped closer, his hands settling on your waist. "For what it's worth, I'm terrified."
"You? Terrified? Tony Stark, who flew a nuclear missile into space?"
"That was easy. That was physics and acceptable losses and a potentially dramatic sacrifice." His forehead touched yours. "This is you. This matters."
Oh. Oh no. Your heart was doing that thing again, that dangerous, foolish thing.
"Kiss me again," you whispered. "And this time, don't stop."
The second kiss was different from the first. Slower, deeper, weighted with intention. His hands slid under your shirt, palms warm against your skin, and you gasped into his mouth. He smiled against your lips and then he was walking you backward toward the bed.
"I should warn you," he murmured, lips trailing down your neck, "I'm very good at this."
"Cocky much?"
"Confident. There's a difference." He nipped at your pulse point, and your knees actually buckled. "But I'm open to feedback. I'm very trainable. Eager to please. Some might say obsessive about perfecting my technique."
"Oh my god, stop talking."
"Make me."
So you did, pulling him down onto the bed with you, and suddenly it was a tangle of limbs and breathless laughter and fumbling with buttons. Tony's shirt came off first - you'd seen him shirtless before, but touching was different. You spread your palms across his chest, feeling the arc reactor's subtle warmth, the definition of muscle, the way his breath hitched when your fingers traced lower.
"Your turn," he said, voice rough, and helped you out of your shirt with surprising gentleness. His eyes went dark as he took you in. "Christ. You're so beautiful."
"Tony…"
"No, I mean it. Do you have any idea how many times I've thought about this? About you?" His hands skimmed up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts through your bra, and you arched into the touch. "I've been a gentleman for three years. A goddamn saint. Do you know how hard that's been?"
You laughed breathlessly. "Poor baby."
"I know, right? The suffering. The restraint." He was kissing down your sternum now, hands working the clasp of your bra with ease. "I deserve a medal. Or at least a really excellent orgasm."
"You're ridiculous."
"You like it." The bra came off, and his mouth was on your breast, tongue circling your nipple, and coherent thought became difficult. "You like me."
You did. God help you, you really did.
The rest of your clothes disappeared in a blur of heat and need and Tony's running commentary that should have been annoying but was somehow endearing instead. He made you laugh even as he made you gasp, kept things light even as the tension coiled tighter and tighter between you.
"Protection," you managed when his hand slid between your thighs. "We need - oh god - we need to -"
"Kind of the opposite of the point, sweetheart." His fingers circled, teased, and you couldn't remember what you were saying. "The whole goal here is no protection. Maximum biological efficiency. Though I'm clean, full panel, tested last month, because I'm a responsible adult sometimes."
"Me too," you gasped. "Clean. Responsible. Tony, please -"
"Please what?" He was kissing down your stomach now, and you knew where he was heading, and your brain short-circuited. "Use your words."
"You're the worst."
"I'm the best. You're about to find out how much." And then his mouth was on you, and words became impossible.
Tony Stark ate pussy like he built Iron Man suits - with intense focus, innovative technique, and an obsessive attention to detail. His tongue worked you with devastating precision, finding every sensitive spot, learning what made you gasp and what made you moan. When he slid two fingers inside you, curling them just right, you came apart with a cry that probably scandalized his AI.
"That's it," he murmured against your thigh, working you through it. "God, you're gorgeous like this. I want to see it again. Can I make you come again?"
"Tony, I need… I want -"
"What do you want, sweetheart? Tell me."
"You. Inside me. Now."
He groaned like you'd hurt him. "Best words I've ever heard." He kissed his way back up your body, settling between your thighs, and you could feel him, hard and ready. "You sure about this?"
You pulled him down into a kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue. "Make me pregnant, Stark."
"Fuck," he breathed, and pushed inside you in one slow, perfect thrust.
You both froze. The sensation of him filling you, stretching you, skin to skin with nothing between you, was overwhelming. Intimate in a way that went beyond physical. His forehead dropped to yours, breath coming in short pants.
"Okay," he managed. "Okay, this is... you feel incredible."
"Move," you whispered. "Please move."
He did, pulling out slowly and sliding back in, setting a rhythm that was gentle at first, almost careful. But as you wrapped your legs around his waist, urging him deeper, the careful control started to fray. His thrusts came harder, faster, and you met him stroke for stroke, nails digging into his shoulders.
"That's it," he groaned. "God, you're taking me so well. So perfect. Like you were made for this. Made for me."
The words should have been just dirty talk, just heat-of-the-moment nonsense. But they felt true. This felt true. The way your bodies fit together, the way he seemed to know exactly what you needed, the way your name sounded on his lips like a prayer.
"Tony," you gasped. "I'm close, I'm -"
"Come for me." His hand slid between your bodies, fingers finding your clit. "Want to feel you come on my cock. Come on, sweetheart. Let go."
You shattered, clenching around him, and he followed you over with a groan that sounded like your name. You felt him pulse inside you, filling you, and the intimacy of it - the purpose of it - made your chest tight with something that felt dangerously like love.
He collapsed beside you, pulling you against his chest, both of you breathing hard. His hand traced lazy patterns on your shoulder, and you could feel his heart hammering against your cheek.
"So," he said eventually. "That was..."
"Yeah."
"We're definitely doing that again."
"That's kind of the plan."
"I mean like, immediately. Give me twenty minutes and some water."
You laughed, tilting your head to look at him. His hair was a mess, his lips were swollen, and he was looking at you with something soft and warm and terrifying.
"This doesn't change anything," you said quietly. "We're still friends."
"Right. Friends. Best friends who just had incredible sex for procreative purposes."
"Exactly."
"Totally normal."
"Completely."
He kissed your forehead, and it felt more intimate than anything that had come before. "Get some rest. We've got a lot of practicing to do."
You fell asleep in Tony's arms, and if it felt like coming home, well. That was something you'd worry about tomorrow.
The practicing became a regular thing. Frequent thing. Enthusiastic thing.
"You know," you said three days later, sprawled across Tony's kitchen counter while he made you scrambled eggs at two in the morning, "I'm pretty sure we don't need to do this quite this often for it to work."
"Are you complaining about the frequency of our sexual encounters?" He gestured with the spatula, wearing nothing but pajama pants and looking unfairly good. "Because I can cut back if you need recovery time. I'm a giver. I'm sensitive to your needs."
"I'm not complaining. I'm just saying, biologically speaking, there's a window."
"Are you trying to bring science into this?" He slid the eggs onto a plate and set it in front of you. "Because I will pull up charts. I will show you data. I will prove, conclusively, that more practice equals better results."
"That's not how conception works."
"It's how everything works. Practice makes perfect. Malcolm Gladwell. Ten thousand hours." He leaned across the counter, stealing a kiss that tasted like the coffee he'd been drinking. "Besides, are you really going to tell me you want to stop?"
You couldn't. Because the truth was, you were addicted. To the sex, yes - god, the sex was incredible - but also to the intimacy. The way he held you after. The way he learned your body like he was studying for the most important test of his life. The way he made you laugh even in the middle of it, kept things light and fun and easy even as they felt increasingly profound.
"That's what I thought," he said smugly, reading your silence correctly. "Eat your eggs. You need your strength."
"For what?"
"Round four. Obviously."
It was round five, actually, and it happened in the shower, with you pressed against the glass and Tony on his knees, proving once again that he was very, very good with his tongue.
Two weeks in, you woke up in his bed - your bed now, really, since you'd been spending every night there - to find him watching you.
"Creepy," you mumbled, still half-asleep.
"Observant," he corrected. "There's a difference. I'm studying the way your nose scrunches when you're dreaming. It's adorable. I'm cataloging it for future reference."
"What future reference?"
"When I need to remember why I'm doing this." His fingers traced your cheekbone, gentle and reverent. "Why I asked you. Why it had to be you."
Your heart stuttered. "Tony..."
"Go back to sleep," he said softly. "I'm going to make you breakfast. The real kind, not the two-AM post-coital kind. Pancakes. I'll even cut up fruit like a responsible adult."
"You don't have to…"
"I want to." He kissed your forehead. "Let me take care of you."
He was doing that more and more. Taking care of you. Bringing you coffee in the morning. Making sure you ate. Rubbing your shoulders when you were stressed. Small gestures that felt enormous, that felt like more than friendship, more than a arrangement.
You were falling for him. Had probably been falling for him since long before this started. And that was definitely not part of the plan.
Three weeks in, you were in his workshop - a place that felt as intimate as his bedroom, maybe more so - sitting on his workbench while he stood between your legs, kissing you like he was trying to memorize the taste of your mouth.
"We should go upstairs," you murmured against his lips. "The bed is more comfortable."
"Too far." His hands slid under your shirt. "Need you now."
"Tony, we're in your workshop. What if someone -"
"JARVIS, lock it down. No one gets in. No calls, no interruptions, no world-ending emergencies for the next hour."
"Of course, sir," the AI replied, sounding almost amused. "Shall I play music?"
"JARVIS, I love you. Something good. Something sexy."
Marvin Gaye started playing through the speakers, and you laughed against Tony's mouth. "You're ridiculous."
"You're beautiful." He was working your jeans open now, sliding them down your legs. "And I'm going to make you come on my workbench. Add it to the list of places we've christened."
The list was getting long. Bedroom, shower, kitchen, living room, the guest room, his office, the gym. You were running out of locations in the penthouse.
"We could try the roof," you suggested breathlessly as his fingers found you, already wet and ready.
"I like the way you think." He pushed two fingers inside you, thumb circling your clit, and you gasped. "But right now, I'm thinking about how pretty you look when you come. How you say my name. How you clench around me."
"Then stop talking and make me come."
He did, with his fingers and his mouth and his filthy words whispered against your ear. And then he was inside you, fucking you against the workbench with a desperation that felt new, urgent, like he couldn't get close enough.
"Mine," he groaned, and you should have corrected him, should have reminded him of the boundaries, the rules. But instead you pulled him closer and whispered, "Yours."
Later, much later, when you were cleaned up and dressed and curled against his side on the workshop couch, he said quietly, "What if it's already happened?"
"What?"
"What if you're already pregnant? What if it worked?"
Your hand went to your stomach instinctively. "It's only been three weeks. It's too early to know."
"But what if?" He covered your hand with his. "Would you be happy?"
"Yes," you said honestly. "Terrified, but happy. You?"
"Same." He was quiet for a moment. "And also maybe a little disappointed."
"Disappointed?"
"That we'd have to stop practicing." He grinned at you, but there was something vulnerable in his eyes. "I've gotten kind of attached to the practicing."
"Tony, we can still have sex after I'm pregnant. That's allowed."
"Really? That's a thing?"
"Yes, you idiot. Pregnant women can have sex. It's safe, it's normal, it's - why are you looking at me like that?"
"Just updating my mental database. Adding new categories. Pregnant sex. Sex while you're carrying my baby. That's... that's really hot, actually."
"You're impossible."
"You like it." He pulled you closer. "You like me."
You did. You really, really did.
And that was becoming a problem.
Four weeks in, you took the test.
Your period was late - only by a few days, but you were regular as clockwork normally. You'd bought the pregnancy test on the way to Tony's, hands shaking as you paid, and now you were locked in his bathroom, staring at the little stick like it held the secrets of the universe.
Three minutes. The box said three minutes.
They were the longest three minutes of your life.
When you looked down, there were two pink lines. Clear as day. Unmistakable.
Pregnant.
You were pregnant with Tony’s baby.
"Oh my god," you whispered to your reflection. "Oh my god."
A knock on the door. "Hey, you okay in there? You've been in there for like twenty minutes. If you're pooping, it's fine, I don't judge. Well, I judge a little, but affectionately."
You opened the door, test in hand, unable to speak.
Tony's eyes went to the test, then to your face, then back to the test. "Is that... are those two lines? Does two lines mean -"
"I'm pregnant."
For a moment, he just stared. Then a smile broke across his face like dawn, bright and beautiful and full of joy. "You're pregnant. We're pregnant. Holy shit, we did it!"
He picked you up, spinning you around, and you laughed despite the tears suddenly streaming down your face. "Tony, put me down, I'm going to throw up on you."
"Morning sickness already? That's my overachiever." He set you down gently, hands cupping your face. "Are you okay? Are you happy? Tell me what you're feeling."
"I'm terrified," you admitted. "And excited. And overwhelmed. And really, really happy."
"Yeah?" His thumbs brushed away your tears. "Me too. All of those things. Especially the happy part." He kissed you, soft and sweet. "We're having a baby."
"We're having a baby," you repeated, and it felt real for the first time.
Tony dropped to his knees, and for a second you thought he was proposing, and your heart stopped. But instead, he lifted your shirt and pressed a kiss to your still-flat stomach.
"Hey in there," he said softly. "I'm your dad. I'm going to be your dad. And I'm going to be so good at it. I'm going to give you everything. I'm going to love you so much. You and your mom both."
Your heart cracked open. "Tony..."
He looked up at you, and there were tears in his eyes too. "Thank you. For this. For trusting me. For being the most incredible person I've ever known."
"We're supposed to be friends," you whispered. "This is supposed to be simple."
"I know." He stood, pulling you into his arms. "We're still friends. Best friends. Who are having a baby together. Totally normal. Completely uncomplicated."
You both knew it was a lie. But neither of you was ready to face the truth yet.
The first trimester was rough. Morning sickness hit you hard, and Tony was there for all of it, holding your hair back, bringing you crackers and ginger ale, researching every possible remedy with the same intensity he brought to building Iron Man suits.
"Okay, so according to this study, vitamin B6 can help. And small, frequent meals. And avoiding triggers. What are your triggers? I'll make a list. I'll eliminate them from the penthouse. I'll eliminate them from the entire building if necessary."
"Tony, you can't ban coffee from Stark Tower."
"Watch me. Your comfort is more important than the caffeine addiction of my employees."
He was attentive to the point of obsession. He came to every doctor's appointment, asked a million questions, took notes. He baby-proofed the penthouse even though you were only eight weeks along. He started designing a crib that was probably smarter than most adults.
And he touched you constantly. A hand on your back. Fingers laced through yours. His palm on your stomach, even though there was nothing to feel yet. Like he couldn't quite believe you were real, that this was happening.
"You don't have to do all this," you said one night, curled up on the couch while he massaged your feet. "I'm pregnant, not dying."
"I want to." His thumbs worked into your arch, and you groaned. "Let me take care of you. Both of you."
"We're supposed to be co-parents. Equal partners."
"We are. But right now, you're doing all the hard work. Growing a human. The least I can do is make sure you're comfortable." He looked up at you, and there was something fierce in his eyes. "You're carrying my baby. You're the most important person in the world to me. Let me show you that."
The most important person in the world. Not the baby. You.
"Okay," you whispered.
He smiled and went back to rubbing your feet, and you fell a little more in love with him.
At twelve weeks, you heard the heartbeat for the first time.
The doctor moved the doppler over your stomach, and suddenly the room filled with the rapid whoosh-whoosh-whoosh of your baby's heart. Tony's hand tightened around yours, and when you looked at him, there were tears streaming down his face.
"That's our baby," he said, voice cracking. "That's our kid."
"That's our kid," you agreed, crying too.
The doctor smiled. "Strong heartbeat. Everything looks perfect. Your baby is developing beautifully."
You felt tears spill down your cheeks as the reality of it washed over you. This was real. This was happening.
Tony brought your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles gently. "Our baby," he whispered, and there was such wonder in his voice that it made your heart ache.
After the appointment, he took you to lunch at your favorite restaurant, then shopping for maternity clothes even though you didn't need them yet, then to the park where you walked hand-in-hand like a real couple.
"We should talk about logistics," you said, watching the sun set over the city. "Where I'm going to live. How we're going to handle custody. All the practical stuff."
"You're already living with me."
"I'm staying with you temporarily. Until we figure things out."
"So stay permanently. Move in. Officially. There's plenty of room. I'll give you your own space if you want it, but..." He turned to face you. "I like having you here. I like waking up with you. I like coming home to you. Stay."
"Tony, that's not what we agreed…"
"Fuck what we agreed." His hands cupped your face. "Our baby should have both parents under one roof. That's what's best for them. That's what I want. Don't you?"
You did. God, you did.
"Okay," you said. "I'll stay."
His smile was brilliant. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. But I'm keeping my apartment. Just in case."
"Just in case of what?"
Just in case this falls apart. Just in case you break my heart. Just in case this stops being enough for you.
"Just in case," you repeated.
He kissed you, there in the park with the sunset painting the sky gold, and it felt like a promise. Like a beginning.
Like something that was supposed to be temporary becoming permanent.
The second trimester was better. The morning sickness faded, your energy returned, and your body started to change in ways that were both fascinating and terrifying.
Tony was obsessed with your growing bump. He talked to it constantly, told it stories about his day, played it music. He built a playlist of songs for the baby - everything from AC/DC to Mozart to embarrassing pop songs he claimed were "culturally significant."
"You're going to have excellent taste," he told your stomach. "And if you don't, I'll disown you. Kidding. Mostly."
"You're ridiculous."
"You're beautiful." His hands spanned your waist, thumbs brushing the curve of your belly. "Seriously. You're glowing. Is that a real thing or just something people say?"
"It's probably just hormones and increased blood flow."
"Sexy. Tell me more about your increased blood flow."
You laughed, swatting at him. "Don't make it weird."
"Too late. Everything about this is weird. Weird and perfect and terrifying." He pulled you closer, and you could feel him against your hip, already hard. "Can I show you how beautiful I think you are?"
"Tony, I'm getting fat."
"You're growing our baby. That's the hottest thing I've ever seen." His lips found your neck. "Please. Let me worship you properly."
He did, taking his time, mapping every change in your body with his hands and mouth. He was gentle, reverent, like you were something precious. And when he finally pushed inside you, it was slow and deep and perfect.
"God, you feel different," he groaned. "Tighter. Wetter. Is that normal?"
"Increased blood flow," you gasped. "More sensitive."
"I love science. I love your body. I love -" He cut himself off, but you heard what he didn't say.
I love you.
You heard it in every touch, every kiss, every whispered word of praise. He loved you. And you loved him. And neither of you was brave enough to say it.
At twenty weeks, you found out you were having a girl.
Tony cried. Actually sobbed. "A daughter. We're having a daughter. I'm going to have a little girl."
"Are you okay?" you asked, laughing through your own tears.
"No. Yes. I don't know. A girl. I'm going to be a girl dad. I'm going to have to beat off boys with a stick. Or girls. Or whoever she likes. I'm going to need bigger sticks."
"She's not even born yet."
"I'm planning ahead. I'm strategic." He pulled you into his arms. "A daughter. Our daughter. She's going to be so loved. So protected. So spoiled."
"Tony -"
"I'm building her a princess castle. With actual turrets. And a moat. And probably some repulsor technology for home defense."
"You're not building our daughter a weaponized castle."
"Our daughter. Say that again."
"Our daughter," you repeated, and his smile was blinding.
He kissed you, deep and thorough, and then dropped to his knees to kiss your bump. "Hey, princess. Your mom says I can't build you a weaponized castle. We'll discuss this later. When you're on my side."
You ran your fingers through his hair, overwhelmed with love for this ridiculous, brilliant, wonderful man. "I love you," you whispered.
He froze. Looked up at you. "What?"
Oh god. You'd said it out loud. "I… I mean -"
"Say it again." He stood, hands framing your face. "Please. Say it again."
"I love you," you said, louder this time. "I'm in love with you. I have been for a while. Maybe always. And I know that's not the deal, I know we're supposed to be friends, but I can't - I can't keep pretending…"
He kissed you, cutting off your rambling. "I love you too. So much. Since before this started. Since before I asked you. You're it for me. You and our daughter. You're everything."
"Really?"
"Really. I'm an idiot for thinking we could do this and not fall in love. We were already halfway there." He pressed his forehead to yours. "I love you. I'm in love with you. And I want this to be real. Not an arrangement. Not a friendship. Real."
"Okay," you breathed. "Yes. Real."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He kissed you again, and it felt like falling and flying at the same time. Like coming home.
"Move in with me," he said. "For real this time. Not as a co-parent. As my partner. My girlfriend. The love of my life."
"I already live here."
"Then stay forever. Marry me. Eventually. When you're ready. No pressure. But also, marry me."
You laughed, crying, overwhelmed. "Are you proposing?"
"Not yet. Not properly. But I'm putting it out there. I'm stating my intentions. I want forever with you."
The third trimester was hard. You were huge, uncomfortable, and emotional. Everything made you cry: commercials, songs on the radio, the way Tony looked at you when he thought you weren't paying attention.
But he was there for all of it. Rubbing your back when it ached. Massaging your swollen feet. Helping you out of bed when you couldn't manage it yourself. He assembled the crib, painted the nursery a soft lavender, hung pictures and shelves and a mobile that played lullabies.
"It's perfect," you said, standing in the doorway at eight months pregnant, one hand on your aching back.
"She's going to love it." He came up behind you, arms wrapping around you, hands settling on your bump. "Just like she's going to love you."
"What if I'm bad at this?" you whispered. "What if I don't know what I'm doing?"
"Then we'll figure it out together. That's what we do. We're a team." He kissed your temple. "You're going to be an amazing mom. I know it."
"You're going to be an amazing dad."
"Damn right I am. I've been practicing my dad jokes. Want to hear one?"
"Not really."
"What do you call a fake noodle? An impasta." He paused. "Get it? Impasta? I'm pasta?"
You groaned. "Our daughter is going to be so embarrassed by you."
"That's the plan. Embarrassing your kids is like, seventy percent of parenting."
You turned in his arms, or tried to - the bump made it difficult. He helped, always so careful with you, and then you were face to face.
"I love you," you said.
"I love you too." His hand cupped your cheek. "Both of you. My girls."
He kissed you, soft and sweet, and you felt the baby kick between you. Tony laughed against your mouth, hand moving to your stomach.
"She's saying hi."
"She's saying she wants you to stop kissing me and get her some ice cream."
"Your wish is my command, princess. Both of you." He kissed you once more, then headed for the kitchen. "Rocky road or mint chip?"
"Both."
"That's my girl."
At thirty-nine weeks, your water broke.
You were standing in the kitchen, arguing with Tony about whether the hospital bag was adequately packed (it was - he'd checked seventeen times), when you felt the gush of fluid and looked down in shock.
"Tony."
"I'm telling you, we need more -" He looked at you, saw your face, saw the puddle on the floor. "Oh. Oh shit. Is that… are you -"
"My water just broke."
For a second, he just stared. Then he snapped into action, grabbing the hospital bag, his phone, your phone, the folder of important documents he'd prepared.
"Okay. Okay, we're doing this. We're having a baby. Right now. Today. Oh god."
"Tony, breathe."
"You breathe. I'm fine. I'm totally fine. JARVIS, call the doctor. And Happy. We need the car. Now. Emergency. Code baby."
"Sir, perhaps you should -"
"JARVIS, I swear to god."
You grabbed his hand. "Tony. Look at me."
He did, and you saw the panic in his eyes. The fear. The overwhelming love.
"We've got this," you said. "Together."
He took a breath. Nodded. "Together. Right. We're a team."
"We're a team."
He kissed you, quick and hard. "Let's go have a baby."
Labor was long. Painful. Exhausting. Tony stayed by your side through all of it, holding your hand, whispering encouragement, letting you squeeze his fingers until they went numb.
"You're doing so good," he said during a particularly bad contraction. "So strong. So amazing. I'm in awe of you."
"I hate you," you gasped. "This is your fault."
"I know. I'm sorry. I'm the worst. You're never letting me touch you again."
"Damn right."
"Totally fair. Completely reasonable. I'll just admire you from afar. Pine tragically. Write poetry about your beauty."
Despite the pain, you laughed. "Shut up."
"Make me."
The doctor checked you again. "Okay, we're at ten centimeters. It's time to push."
Terror flooded through you. "I can't. I can't do this."
"Yes, you can." Tony's hand cupped your face, making you look at him. "You're the strongest person I know. You can do anything. And I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."
"Promise?"
"Promise. I love you. Now let's meet our daughter."
You pushed. And pushed. And pushed. Tony counted with you, breathed with you, was your anchor in the storm. And then, after what felt like forever, you heard it.
A cry. High and indignant and perfect.
"She's here," the doctor said. "You did it. She's here."
They placed her on your chest, this tiny, perfect, screaming bundle, and the world stopped. She was real. She was here. She was yours.
"Oh my god," you breathed. "Oh my god, Tony, look at her."
"I see her." His voice was thick with tears. "She's perfect. You're perfect. You're both so perfect."
He cut the cord with shaking hands, and then he was leaning over both of you, one hand on the baby, one hand on your face, tears streaming down his cheeks.
"Hi, princess," he whispered. "I'm your dad. I've been waiting so long to meet you."
The baby's cries quieted, like she recognized his voice. Her tiny hand wrapped around his finger, and Tony made a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob.
"She knows me."
"Of course she knows you. You've been talking to her for months."
"I love her so much already. Is that normal? To love someone this much when you just met them?"
"I think so." You looked down at your daughter, at her tiny features, her dark hair, her perfect little fingers. "I think that's exactly how it's supposed to feel."
They took her to clean her up, weigh her, do all the necessary checks. Tony went with her, refusing to let her out of his sight, and you watched him through exhausted, happy tears. He was already the best dad. You'd known he would be.
When they brought her back, cleaned and swaddled, Tony settled into the chair beside your bed, cradling her like she was made of glass.
"Seven pounds, four ounces," he said. "Twenty inches long. Perfect Apgar scores. She's a genius already, obviously."
"Obviously."
"We need to name her."
You'd discussed names, made lists, but nothing had felt quite right. Now, looking at her, you knew.
"Stella," you said. "Her name is Stella."
Tony looked up at you, eyes shining. "Stella Stark. I love it. It's perfect." He looked back down at the baby. "Hi, Stella. I'm your dad. And I'm going to love you forever. I'm going to give you everything. I'm going to be the best dad I can be. And your mom -" His voice cracked. "Your mom is the most incredible person in the world. You're so lucky. We both are."
He stood, carefully, and brought Stella over to you. You took her, settling her against your chest, and Tony sat on the edge of the bed, his arm around you, the three of you together.
"We made her," you said softly. "We made a whole person."
"Best thing I've ever built." He kissed your temple. "Thank you. For her. For this. For everything."
"Thank you for asking me. For trusting me. For loving me."
"Always." He was quiet for a moment, just watching Stella sleep. Then he said, "Marry me."
You looked at him. "What?"
"Marry me. For real this time. Not someday. Not eventually. Now. Soon. As soon as possible." He shifted, pulling something from his pocket - a ring box. "I've been carrying this around for months, waiting for the right moment. And I realized, this is it. This is the moment. Our daughter is here. Our family is complete. Marry me. Please."
He opened the box, and inside was the most beautiful ring you'd ever seen. Simple, elegant, perfect.
"Tony..."
"I love you. I'm in love with you. I want to be your husband. I want Stella to have parents who are married, who are committed, who are a team. I want forever with you. Both of you." He took your hand, careful not to jostle the baby. "So what do you say? Will you marry me?"
You looked at him - this brilliant, ridiculous, wonderful man who had given you everything. Who had asked you to have a baby and ended up giving you a family. Who loved you and your daughter with his whole heart.
"Yes," you said. "Yes, I'll marry you."
His smile was brighter than the arc reactor. He slipped the ring onto your finger, then kissed you, soft and sweet and full of promise.
"I love you," he whispered against your lips.
"I love you too."
Stella made a small sound, and you both looked down at her, this perfect little person you'd made together.
"Welcome to the family, princess," Tony said softly. "We're going to be so happy. The three of us. I promise."
And looking at him, at your daughter, at the life you'd built together, you believed him.
This was never the plan. But it was so much better than anything you could have planned.
Six months later, you married Tony in a small ceremony in the penthouse, with Stella as the youngest attendee and the most important guest. She slept through the vows, woke up for the kiss, and spit up on Tony's tux during the reception.
"She's got timing," he said, laughing as he cleaned himself up. "Just like her mom."
"Are you saying I have bad timing?"
"I'm saying you're both perfect." He pulled you close, careful of the baby between you. "My girls. My family. My everything."
"Sap."
"You love it."
You did. You loved all of it. The chaos, the mess, the sleepless nights and endless diapers and the way Tony sang off-key lullabies at three AM. You loved the life you'd built, the family you'd made, the love that had grown from friendship into something infinite.
"I love you," you said.
"I love you too." He kissed you, then kissed Stella's head. "Both of you. Forever."
Main Masterlist | Robert Downey Jr Masterlist | Tony Stark Masterlist | Hank Palmer Masterlist | Nathan Gardner Masterlist
A/N: Needed some fluff for myself
Content warnings: None. Emotional hurt/comfort, family bonding, references to anxiety and fear of harming loved ones (no graphic violence). Pure fluff and reassurance.
Taglist is open! (Tagging my favourites/regulars for now)
You stepped through the front door, still shrugging off your work bag, and the silence hit you like a wall. Usually, by this hour, there was noise—the clatter of Tony tinkering in his workshop, the hum of FRIDAY’s voice, the distant laughter of your son chasing one of the bots. But today, nothing. Just the soft tick of the grandfather clock in the foyer and the faint whisper of the air conditioning.
Your heart lurched. It had been weeks—long, draining weeks—of Tony pulling away. Not just from you, but from Theo too. He’d come home late, leave early, bury himself in the lab with excuses about "Avengers stuff." You’d told yourself it would pass. It always did, didn’t it? His moods came in waves, crashing against the shores of his conscience before receding again.
But this time felt different. This time, the distance had a weight to it. A sorrow.
You dropped your bag by the stairs and moved through the ground floor quickly, checking the kitchen, the living room, the den. Empty. Even the coffee mugs in the sink were from this morning, untouched since. A cold knot tightened in your stomach.
Where are they?
You remembered Theo’s orange bathing suit draped over the towel rack this morning. He’d been begging to use the pool, but you’d told him to wait for Daddy. And Tony had just… left for work without a word.
Your feet carried you up the stairs, then down the hallway toward the master bedroom. The balcony doors were wide open, letting in the warm evening breeze. And there—finally—you saw them.
Your breath caught.
On the large beach seat you’d bought last summer, the one with the thick white cushions and the wide canopy, Tony was curled up with Theo. Your son was wrapped in that bright orange bathing suit you’d thought he’d never get to wear today, his small body tucked against Tony’s chest. Tony’s arm was wrapped around him, his hand splayed protectively over Theo’s back. They were both facing the ocean, the golden light of the setting sun painting their silhouettes in soft amber.
Tony’s head was bowed, his forehead resting against Theo’s hair. You could see his shoulders rise and fall in slow, measured breaths. He wasn’t asleep. He was holding on.
You stood frozen in the doorway, tears pricking at your eyes. This was what you’d been missing. This was the man you loved, the father you knew he could be. But you also saw the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers clutched the fabric of Theo’s suit like he was afraid to let go.
You didn’t interrupt. You just watched, your hand pressed over your mouth, until the light shifted and Tony finally stirred. He murmured something to Theo, who nodded sleepily, and then they both stood. Tony lifted your son easily, cradling him against his chest, and turned to come inside.
When he saw you, his eyes widened for a fraction of a second. Then a shadow of guilt passed over his face. He managed a thin, tired smile.
“Hey, honey,” he said softly. “Didn’t hear you come in.”
You stepped aside as he carried Theo toward his bedroom. “I just got home. I was looking for you two.”
“We were just… having some air,” Tony said, his voice rough. He laid Theo down on his bed, pulling the covers up over the little boy’s still-damp suit. Theo was already half-asleep, his fingers curling around the edge of the blanket.
Tony stood there for a long moment, staring down at your son. His hand hovered over Theo’s head, trembling slightly, before he finally pulled it back. He turned and walked past you, his steps heavy.
You followed him into the kitchen. The silence stretched like a rubber band about to snap.
You moved on autopilot—filling the kettle, pulling down two mugs, scooping coffee grounds into the French press. The familiar ritual helped steady your nerves. Tony leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching you with that same hollow look he’d worn for weeks.
When the coffee was ready, you poured two cups, set one in front of him, and wrapped your own fingers around the warmth of the mug. You didn’t drink. You just stood there, looking at him.
Then you set your mug down and reached out.
“Tony,” you said quietly. “Hold my hand. Please. I need it.”
He flinched. For a moment, you thought he’d refuse. But then his hand lifted, and his fingers intertwined with yours. They were cold, rough with calluses from years of metal and machinery. But they held yours like a lifeline.
“I’m sorry, love,” he whispered. “I know I’ve been unfair. I know you see it. You always see it.”
You squeezed his hand. “I know you’re going through something. But you can’t shut us out. Not me, not Theo. We’re your family.”
He let out a shaky exhale. “You’re right. You’re always right.”
You guided him to the living room couch, both of you sitting down with your knees touching. You kept his hand in yours, thumb stroking over his knuckles.
“Tell me,” you said. “What happened?”
He stared at your joined hands for a long time. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.
“I almost hurt him.”
Your blood ran cold. “What? When?”
“A week ago. In the lab.” He swallowed hard. “I was testing a new gauntlet prototype. I don’t even remember what I was trying to do—some impulse repulsor modification. Theo came in to show me a drawing he made. He was so proud of it. A picture of our family.” Tony’s voice cracked. “I was distracted. I didn’t see him reach for the table. The gauntlet discharged. Missed him by inches. The blast hit the wall behind him.”
You felt your own hand tremble. “Tony…”
“He didn’t even realize. He thought it was a sound effect. Laughed it off.” Tony’s jaw clenched. “But I saw it. I saw how close I came to—to hurting my own son. Because I wasn’t paying attention. Because I let my work blind me.”
He pulled his hand from yours, rubbing his face with both palms. “I’ve been over it a thousand times. What if he had been three inches to the left? What if I hadn’t pulled back in time? What if, what if, what if…”
You reached out and gently pulled his hands away from his face. “Tony, look at me.”
He did. His eyes were red-rimmed, glistening.
“You did pull back,” you said firmly. “You didn’t hurt him. You caught yourself. You’ve spent your whole life building things that could destroy, and every single time, you choose not to. You choose us.”
“But what if I don’t next time?” His voice was raw. “What if I’m not fast enough? I’m not a good man, Y/N. I’ve done terrible things. I have a list of sins longer than my bank account. And Theo—he’s so small. So innocent. He looks at me like I’m a hero. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what I really am.”
You moved closer, cupping his face in your hands. “He knows you’re his father. That’s all he needs to know. And you are a good man, Tony. Not perfect. None of us are. But you love him. You love me. That’s what matters.”
He let out a shuddering breath. “I’m scared.”
“I know.” You pressed your forehead against his. “But you don’t have to carry it alone. Let me help. Let me be your anchor.”
For a long moment, he just breathed with you, his hands coming up to rest on your waist. Then he tilted his head and kissed you—soft, slow, desperate. A kiss that tasted of salt and apology.
You kissed him back, pouring every ounce of reassurance you had into it. When you finally parted, you were both trembling.
“You’re not going to hurt him,” you whispered. “Because you’ll be careful. You’ll be present. And when you feel that fear creeping in, you’ll come to me. We’ll handle it together.”
He nodded, his thumb tracing your cheek. “I love you. I love him. I don’t know how to say it right.
“You just did.”
You stayed like that, wrapped in each other, until the coffee grew cold and the stars came out beyond the balcony. Then you stood, took his hand again, and led him back to Theo’s room.
The little boy was sprawled on his bed, still in his orange bathing suit, one arm flung over his head. His lips were parted in a peaceful sleep.
Tony knelt beside the bed, and you saw the change in his face—the tight lines softening, the fear giving way to something gentler. He pressed a kiss to Theo’s forehead, then to his tiny hand.
Write another part of "The Transformation of Sherlock Holmes"? I would love to see him become a dad 😭. After some time of being married, she'll get pregnant, and Sherlock will notice before she does. We know he's very observant and detail-oriented, right? So he'll notice the little details, the small mood swings, the small changes in her body, and he'll conclude that she's pregnant and tell her, "I think you're pregnant," SUPER happy, and explain why. When he explains, she realizes her period is late. After they confirm she's pregnant, they'll be very happy and, of course, they'll make love, and he'll find it even more enjoyable after knowing she's pregnant and they have to have a girl, a carbon copy of her mama, just to make him even more crazy in love with the two loves of his life ❤️
The Greatest Deduction
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x F!Reader
Warning/Rating: 18+; explicit, graphic sexual activity (manual/oral stimulation, penetration, orgasm described in detail), unprotected sex, language, domesticity, depictions of pregnancy, childbirth
Parts 1/2
Word Count: 3.7 K
Four Months Later
You were curled up in the armchair by the window, reading, when you felt Sherlock’s eyes on you. It wasn’t unusual - he often watched you with an intensity that might have been unsettling from anyone else. But this felt different. More focused. More… analytical.
You looked up to find him standing across the room, his head tilted slightly, his eyes moving over you with the same meticulous attention he gave to crime scenes.
“What?” you asked, setting your book aside.
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he crossed the room with deliberate steps, coming to stand before you. His hand reached out, fingers gently tilting your chin up so he could study your face more closely.
“Sherlock, you’re being strange. Even for you.”
“When was your last monthly course?” he asked abruptly.
You blinked, taken aback by the question. “I - what? Why would you -”
“Humor me,” he said, his voice soft but insistent. “When?”
You tried to think back, but honestly, you’d never been particularly regular, and with the whirlwind of married life, you hadn’t been paying close attention. “I don’t know. A few weeks ago? Perhaps longer? I’m not always regular, you know that.”
“Six weeks,” he said with certainty. “It’s been six weeks and three days since your last menstrual cycle.”
“How could you possibly -”
“Because I pay attention to everything about you,” he said simply, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “But that’s not the only indicator.” He sat on the arm of your chair, his hand moving to rest gently on your shoulder. “May I?”
At your nod, his fingers traced along your collarbone, then lower, ghosting over the swell of your breasts through your day dress. You shivered at the touch, but his expression remained clinical, observant.
“Your breasts are fuller,” he said matter-of-factly. “Noticeably so. And more sensitive - you flinched slightly when I touched you just now, even through the fabric. You never do that normally.”
Your breath caught. “That doesn’t mean -”
“There’s more.” He stood, offering his hand to help you up. When you were standing, he stepped back slightly, his eyes traveling down your body. “Your waist is slightly thicker. Only by perhaps an inch, barely noticeable to anyone who doesn’t know your body as intimately as I do. But it’s there. And your hips -” his hands settled on your hips, thumbs brushing your hipbones through the layers of your dress, “- they’re fuller as well.”
“I’ve probably just gained a little weight,” you protested weakly, but your heart was starting to race.
“You’ve also been tired,” he continued, his voice taking on that rapid-fire quality it got when he was in the midst of a deduction. “More than usual. You’ve been taking naps in the afternoon, something you never did before. Three times this week alone, i’ve found you asleep on this very chair.”
He was right. You had been more tired lately.
“Your eating habits have changed,” he went on, beginning to pace now, his energy building. “You’ve developed an aversion to coffee - you used to drink two cups every morning, now you can barely stand the smell. Yesterday, you actually left the room when I made myself a cup. And you’ve been craving strange combinations - pickles with your tea two nights ago, which you insisted was perfectly normal despite never having eaten such a thing in all the time I’ve known you.”
“Lots of people enjoy pickles,” you said, but your voice was faint.
“You’ve been more emotional,” he continued, turning to face you. “Not dramatically so, but I’ve noticed. You cried while reading the newspaper last week. An article about orphans. You never cry at such things.”
“It was a sad article,” you mumbled.
“And this morning,” he said, coming to stand directly in front of you again, his hands cupping your face with infinite gentleness, “you were sick. You tried to hide it, but I heard you retching in the washroom. You’ve been nauseous for the past week, mostly in the mornings, though you’ve been attempting to conceal it from me.”
Your eyes widened. You had been feeling queasy, but you’d attributed it to something you ate, or perhaps stress.
“And finally,” he said, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper, his eyes shining with an emotion so intense it made your breath catch, “there’s the way you’ve been touching your stomach. Unconsciously, when you think no one is watching. Your hand rests there, protective, as though you’re already -”
He stopped, his voice breaking slightly. When he spoke again, it was with a certainty that left no room for doubt, but also with a joy so profound it transformed his entire face.
“Darling,” he said, his thumb brushing away a tear you hadn’t realized had fallen, “I believe you’re with child.”
The world seemed to stop.
“I -” you started, but your mind was racing, pieces clicking into place. The fatigue. The nausea. The sensitivity. And your courses - when was your last monthly bleeding?
“Oh my God,” you whispered, your hand flying to your stomach. “Oh my God, Sherlock, I think you’re right. I think I’m -” You couldn’t even finish the sentence, emotion overwhelming you.
“You’re pregnant,” he said again, and this time his voice was thick with unshed tears. “We’re going to have a baby.”
And then he was kissing you, his hands cradling your face like you were made of spun glass, and you could feel him trembling, could taste salt and realized you were both crying, both laughing, both completely overwhelmed.
“We need to confirm it,” you said when you finally broke apart, your hands clutching his waistcoat. “We need to be sure.”
“I am sure,” he said with absolute conviction. “But yes, we’ll confirm it. I’ll send for Dr. Morrison immediately.”
An hour later, Dr. Morrison arrived at Baker Street, his black medical bag in hand. He was an older gentleman with kind eyes and a reassuring manner, someone Sherlock trusted - which was saying something.
“Mrs. Holmes,” he greeted you warmly. “Your husband tells me you may be expecting. Shall we conduct an examination?”
You nodded, suddenly nervous, and Sherlock squeezed your hand.
“I’ll wait outside,” he said, though you could see the reluctance in his eyes.
"Actually," Dr. Morrison said with a knowing smile, "given Mr. Holmes's medical knowledge and his obvious concern, he may remain if you're comfortable with it, Mrs. Holmes."
"Please," you said, grateful. "I'd like him to stay."
The examination was thorough but respectful. Dr. Morrison asked you questions about your symptoms, felt your abdomen through your loosened corset and dress, and performed a careful internal examination while you lay on your bed with Sherlock holding your hand.
Finally, Dr. Morrison straightened, a broad smile on his face. "Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes. You are indeed expecting. I would estimate you're approximately six to seven weeks along. Everything appears perfectly healthy."
Sherlock's hand tightened on yours, and when you looked at him, you saw tears streaming down his face.
"You're certain?" he asked, his voice hoarse.
"Quite certain," Dr. Morrison confirmed. "The signs are unmistakable. Your wife's uterus is enlarged, her cervix has the characteristic bluish tint of pregnancy, and combined with all the symptoms you've described, there's no doubt. You'll be parents by late spring, I should think."
After Dr. Morrison left with instructions for your care and a promise to call again in a month, you and Sherlock stood in your bedroom, simply holding each other.
"We're having a baby," you whispered against his chest.
"We're having a baby," he repeated, his voice full of wonder. His hand moved to rest on your stomach, even though there was no visible change yet. "Our child is in here. Growing. Right now."
The reality of it hit you both at once, and suddenly you were kissing again, desperate and joyful and full of so much love you thought you might burst with it.
"I love you," he said against your lips. "I love you so much. Both of you."
"We love you too," you whispered back, and his smile was brighter than you'd ever seen it.
Over the following weeks, Sherlock became even more attentive than before. He'd already begun reading every medical text on pregnancy and childbirth he could find, had consulted with three different physicians about your care, and had begun making lists of things you would need.
The great detective had a new case, and it was the most important one of his life.
One evening, about two months into your pregnancy, you stood in your bedroom as Sherlock carefully unlaced your corset, his fingers gentle on the stays.
"You're even more beautiful," he said softly as the garment fell away and he could see the slight swell of your belly through your chemise. "Knowing you're carrying our child - you're radiant."
"I don't look much different yet," you said with a small laugh.
"You do to me," he insisted. "You're glowing. You're perfect. You're everything."
He kissed you then, slow and deep, his hands moving over your body with renewed wonder. Every touch felt weighted with meaning, with the knowledge of what was growing inside you.
"I want you," he murmured against your neck. "I need you. Is it - can we -"
"Yes," you breathed, understanding what he was asking. "Dr. Morrison said it's perfectly safe."
He lifted you into his arms, carrying you to the bed with a gentleness that made tears prick your eyes. He laid you down like you were precious, like you were sacred, and the way he looked at you made you feel like the most cherished woman in the world.
"Tell me if anything feels wrong," he said as he slowly removed your remaining undergarments, pressing kisses to each inch of exposed skin. "Tell me if I need to stop."
"I will," you promised, but you knew you wouldn't need to. Sherlock was always attentive, always careful with you, but now there was an added layer of protectiveness, of tenderness that made every touch feel like worship.
When you were both naked, he paused, his hand splaying across your stomach where the smallest curve was beginning to show. "Our baby is in here," he said, his voice full of awe. "We made this. Together."
"We did," you agreed, covering his hand with yours.
He kissed your stomach, soft and reverent, before moving up your body. When he entered you, it was slow and careful, his eyes never leaving yours, watching for any sign of discomfort.
But there was none. There was only pleasure, only love, only the overwhelming rightness of being connected to him like this.
"You feel incredible," he breathed, moving with slow, deep strokes that made you gasp. "So perfect. So beautiful. Carrying my child. Our child."
The words sent shivers through you. There was something primal about it, something that made the pleasure even more intense. You were his, and he was yours, and you'd created life together.
"Sherlock," you moaned, your hands sliding up his back, feeling the flex of muscle as he moved. "Don't stop."
"Never," he promised, his pace increasing slightly. "I'll never stop loving you. Never stop wanting you. You're everything to me. Everything."
His hand slid between your bodies, finding that sensitive bundle of nerves, and the added stimulation made you cry out. He watched your face with rapt attention, cataloging every expression, every sound, learning what made you feel good in this new phase of your body.
"That's it," he encouraged as you began to tighten around him. "Let go, darling. I've got you. I'll always have you."
Your climax washed over you in waves, your body clenching around him as pleasure coursed through you. He followed moments later, groaning your name as he came, his body shuddering with the force of it.
Afterward, he held you close, his hand never leaving your stomach, as though he couldn't bear to break the connection with the life growing there.
"I didn't know it was possible to love someone this much," he said quietly. "And now there will be two of you. How will my heart even contain it?"
"It will," you assured him, pressing a kiss to his chest. "Love expands. It doesn't divide."
"Wise words from the mother of my child," he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice.
You fell asleep like that, wrapped in his arms, his hand protective over your stomach, both of you dreaming of the future.
"Sherlock, I'm fine," you said for the hundredth time that week as he adjusted the pillows behind your back for the third time in as many minutes.
"You're nine months pregnant," he countered. "You're carrying a significant amount of extra weight, your center of gravity has shifted, and you're experiencing regular false pains. You are decidedly not 'fine.'"
You couldn't help but smile. Pregnancy had turned your already attentive husband into something approaching a mother hen. He'd read every book, consulted with every physician, and had become so protective that Watson had started calling him "the guard dog."
Your pregnancy had been relatively easy, all things considered, but Sherlock had treated every symptom, every change, with the utmost seriousness. He'd been there for every moment of morning sickness, had rubbed your swollen feet, had talked to your growing belly every night, telling your child about the world they would soon enter.
Dr. Morrison had examined you just last week and declared, with a knowing smile, that based on the way you were carrying and the strength of the heartbeat, he believed you were having a girl.
"She's going to be just like you," Sherlock had said afterward, his eyes bright with unshed tears. "Beautiful and brilliant and perfect."
Now, as you sat in your living room, your belly enormous beneath your loosened dress and your back aching, you watched your husband pace with barely contained anxiety.
"Sherlock, sit down. You're making me nervous."
"I'm simply -" he started, but then stopped, his eyes narrowing as he looked at you. "You just had a contraction."
"It's just false pains," you said, but even as you spoke, another one hit, stronger this time, and you couldn't quite hide your wince.
He was at your side in an instant. "How far apart?"
"I don't know, I haven't been timing -" Another contraction, and this time you gasped.
"I'm sending for Dr. Morrison and the midwife," he said firmly, already moving toward the door to call for Mrs. Hudson. "Now."
"Sherlock, it might be false labor -"
"Your waters just broke," he said, pointing to the wet spot spreading on the sofa beneath you.
You looked down at the dampness seeping through your skirts. "Oh. Well. I suppose we are having a baby then."
Mrs. Hudson was dispatched immediately to fetch Dr. Morrison and Mrs. Brennan, the midwife. Within the hour, your bedroom had been transformed into a birthing room, with clean linens, hot water, and all the necessary supplies.
If you'd thought Sherlock was protective before, it was nothing compared to how he was during your labor. He held your hand through every contraction, breathed with you, encouraged you, and looked absolutely murderous at anyone who seemed to be causing you pain.
"You're doing brilliantly," he kept saying, pressing kisses to your forehead, your cheeks, your hands. "So strong. So brave. I'm in awe of you."
Mrs. Brennan, a capable woman who'd delivered hundreds of babies, worked efficiently alongside Dr. Morrison. "Your husband is quite devoted, Mrs. Holmes," she said with an approving smile. "Most men won't even stay in the house during a birth."
"He's not most men," you managed between contractions.
Twelve hours later, exhausted and sweaty and in more pain than you'd ever experienced, you heard the most beautiful sound in the world.
Your daughter's first cry.
"She's here," Mrs. Brennan said, and suddenly there was a tiny, perfect baby being placed on your chest, all pink skin and dark hair and absolutely furious at being evicted from her warm home.
"Oh," you breathed, your hands coming up to cradle her. "Oh, she's perfect."
But when you looked at Sherlock, you found him frozen, staring at your daughter with an expression of such profound emotion that it made your already overwhelmed heart crack wide open.
"Sherlock?" you said softly.
He reached out with a trembling hand, one finger gently stroking your daughter's tiny cheek. A tear rolled down his face, then another, and then he was crying in earnest, his shoulders shaking with the force of it.
"She looks just like you," he managed to say, his voice broken. "She's - she's perfect. She's absolutely perfect."
And he was right. Your daughter was indeed a carbon copy of you—the same nose, the same mouth, even the same shape of her eyes. She was you in miniature, and the way Sherlock looked at her, you knew he was completely, utterly lost.
"Would you like to hold her, Mr. Holmes?" Mrs. Brennan asked gently.
Sherlock looked terrified. "I… what if I drop her? What if I -"
"You won't," you assured him. "Sit down."
He sat in the chair beside the bed, and Mrs. Brennan carefully transferred your daughter into his arms. He held her like she was made of glass, his eyes wide, his entire body rigid with the effort of being careful enough.
And then your daughter opened her eyes - your eyes - and looked up at him.
Sherlock made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "Hello," he whispered. "Hello, little one. I'm your father. And I promise you, I will spend every day of my life making sure you know how loved you are. How precious. How absolutely extraordinary."
Your daughter made a small sound, her tiny hand reaching up, and when her fingers wrapped around Sherlock's thumb, you watched your brilliant, logical, often cold husband completely fall apart.
"I love you," he told her, his voice shaking. "I love you so much already. You and your mother - you're my whole world. My everything."
"Holmes, I need you to look at these case files -" Watson stopped short as he entered the living room, taking in the scene before him.
Sherlock was on the floor, lying on his back, holding your daughter above him and making absolutely ridiculous faces at her. Your daughter was making delighted sounds - almost like laughter - her little hands waving in the air.
"Not now, Watson," Sherlock said without looking away from his daughter. "Can't you see I'm occupied?"
"You're making faces at an infant," Watson said flatly.
"I'm bonding with my daughter," Sherlock corrected. "It's important for her development. There are studies."
"You've read studies on making silly faces?"
"I've read studies on everything related to infant development," Sherlock said, finally glancing at Watson with a look of such dismissive coldness that Watson actually took a step back. "Now, unless someone is actively dying, I suggest you leave. You're interrupting our time together."
Watson looked at you where you sat on the sofa, and you just shrugged with a smile. This was normal now.
"Right," Watson said. "I'll just... go then."
"Excellent deduction," Sherlock said dryly, his attention already back on his daughter. "Look at that, darling," he cooed, his voice transforming completely. "You smiled at me. Yes, you did. You're so clever. Just like your mama."
Watson shook his head in amazement as he left. "Unbelievable," you heard him mutter.
Once he was gone, Sherlock carefully sat up, cradling your daughter against his chest. She immediately snuggled into him, her tiny fist clutching his shirt, and you watched your husband's face soften into an expression of such pure love it made your chest tight.
"She's asleep," he whispered, standing slowly and walking over to you. He sat beside you on the sofa, your daughter still cradled in his arms. "Look at her. Look at how perfect she is."
"I know," you said softly, leaning your head on his shoulder. "You say that approximately fifty times a day."
"Because it's true," he said seriously. "She's the most perfect thing I've ever seen. Well, second most perfect. You're still first."
You smiled, pressing a kiss to his jaw. "You're a wonderful father, you know that?"
"I'm trying," he said, his eyes never leaving your daughter's sleeping face. "I want to be worthy of her. Of both of you."
"You already are," you assured him.
He looked at you then, and the love in his eyes was so intense it stole your breath. "I never knew," he said quietly. "I never knew I could feel like this. That I could love like this. You changed everything. You and her… you're everything I never knew I needed."
"We love you too," you whispered. "So much."
Your daughter stirred in her sleep, making a small sound, and Sherlock immediately began rocking her gently, humming softly. You recognized the melody - it was the same one he'd hummed to your belly during your pregnancy.
As you sat there, watching your husband cradle your daughter with such tenderness, such devotion, you thought about the man you'd married. The brilliant, cold, often difficult man who kept the world at arm's length.
That man still existed - Watson and everyone else still saw him. Still experienced his sharp tongue and sharper mind, his impatience and his dismissiveness.
But you and your daughter? You saw someone else entirely. You saw a man capable of profound love, of gentleness, of complete and utter devotion.
The great Sherlock Holmes had been transformed by love, and as you watched him press a soft kiss to your daughter's forehead, his eyes closing in contentment, you knew that this - this right here - was his greatest achievement.
Not his cases, not his deductions, not his brilliant mind.
But this. The family he'd built. The love he'd learned to give and receive.
"What are you thinking?" he asked softly, opening his eyes to look at you.
"That I'm the luckiest woman in the world," you said honestly.
"Incorrect," he said with a small smile. "I'm the lucky one. I have you. I have her. I have everything."
And as your daughter slept peacefully in her father's arms, as Sherlock held both of you close, you knew he was right.
