Warnings: Smut, implied age difference (reader late 20s, Tony 40s), afab, infidelity, angst, power imbalance, angsty, explicit sexual content, praise kink
Word count: ~5000
Funny warnings (just for me): She said no to his money - and, reader he took that PERSONALLY, emotional constipation, not actually sugar daddy dynamics. Season 1-3 Tony because Season 4 Tony starts to get a little too evil for me (naughty). Once again this trash pile has not been beta'd. I'm a lone ranger on a lonely, horny road.
Summary: NYC, USA, 1999. Reader is a Teaching Assistant at Columbia University. This can be read as a standalone, but continues in the same AU as Extra Credit. What started as a fling with a student’s father has turned into something a little harder to keep casual. Tony Soprano isn’t exactly subtle. He shows up when he wants, stays longer than he should, and has a habit of making himself comfortable in your bed, your kitchen, your life. He also has a habit of trying to fix things. Including you. The problem? You’re not interested in being fixed, which might be the one thing that keeps him coming back to you.
It hadn’t started like something that could last.
That was the first thing you told yourself back when he was just a name Meadow Soprano mentioned in passing. A father who called too much or not at all, who spoiled her in ways that made you roll your eyes. You were her TA at Columbia, still figuring yourself out, still clinging to the idea that right and wrong had clean lines.
In the beginning, it had been all heat and impulse. Late nights. Quick decisions. The kind of urgency that doesn’t leave room for consequences. Tony would show up when he could, unannounced more often than not, and you let him in every single time. You didn’t ask too many questions as to where he’d been, if Carmela knew about your affair. And to be frank, you didn’t want the answers. It had started as a brief fling that should’ve meant nothing. A dinner after the next fling because you were both hungry. A conversation in the after glow that lingered a little too long.
That should have been it.
It wasn’t.
Tony had started to ask more about your work. He listened. Really listened. About your research, your dry jokes, the little details you usually glossed over talking with anyone else. He laughed when you caught him off guard, called you a “fuckin’ Millennial,” shaking his head like he didn’t get you, even as he kept looking at you like he wanted to. Then he’d asked about your family, your childhood, the tiny things you barely noticed. And he treated the memories like they mattered. Like you mattered. You told yourself it was nothing, and at first it was easy to keep it that way, to compartmentalise your life out there, and your affair with Tony Soprano behind closed doors.
But even that didn’t last.
It changed so quietly. Not all at once, and not in any way you could point to and name. The way he stopped wanting to leave so quickly. The way he’d linger in your apartment doorway on his way out. Suddenly his presence didn’t feel so temporary anymore, even when it was supposed to.
And without either of you ever really saying it out loud, his presence started to seep into the apartment. A shirt of his ended up draped over the back of your office chair, like he’d taken it off without thinking and never quite got around to taking it with him again. It looked wrong there at first, too big, too dark, too expensive against all the soft pastels and careful order of your space. Sure, you’d slipped it on a few times, late at night when the apartment got cold, just until the heating kicked in, or you finally caught up with the laundry. Easy excuses. But it stayed. Not because you forgot, but because it smelled like him.
And in the bathroom, tucked behind your skincare and neatly lined bottles, his cologne sits in its heavy glass bottle. It feels out of place among your things, too manly, too dark, all musk and weight where yours is softer, petals and jasmine. Some nights you catch yourself reaching for it without thinking, fingers brushing of the cool glass, a quiet press at your wrist, and then your throat, just enough that it lingers faintly when you move, like it’s decided to stay a little while with you
It lingers there, in the air, long after he’s gone.
In the fabric of your towels.
In the sheets you twist yourself into at night.
To you.
You notice his things the most when he’s gone. The quiet shifts and settles differently. And when you move through the apartment, past his shirt, his cologne, the small traces he leaves behind, you start to understand something you haven’t quite said out loud yet.
He doesn’t belong here. But somehow he’s everywhere now.
Of course, Carmela Soprano existed in everything he didn’t say. All the parts of him that don’t make it to you. In the hushed calls he takes outside. In the nights he can’t stay. In the careful absence of promises he never quite makes, your birthday, that movie you mentioned once, the exhibition you booked and quietly stopped expecting him to come to.
You understood that.
You told yourself you accepted it.
This was what it was between you.
It was contained, defined by its limits.
And yet it isn’t.
Because there were moments that didn’t fit inside those boundaries. The way he looks at you in the mornings before the day catches up with him. The way his hand finds yours like it already knows where it’s going. The quiet stretches where he isn’t performing anything for anyone, just existing there with you. Those are the moments that undo you, because they feel real in a way you can’t quite make fit anywhere else.
Too real for something that wasn’t supposed to be.
Sunday mornings with Tony Soprano feel softer than the rest of the world allows him to be. He’s already awake when you stir, propped up against your headboard, one arm slung lazily behind his head, the other draped heavy across your waist. The TV hums low in the background, some History Channel special on WWI he isn’t really watching, though his attention keeps drifting back to you anyway.
It always does in these moments.
“Bout time, Sleeping Beauty” he murmurs when you start to wake, his voice rough with sleep and something warmer underneath from the night before.
You don’t open your eyes right away, just make a quiet sound in response and nuzzle closer into his chest, away from the strip of sunlight slipping through the curtains. His hand finds you immediately, settling at your side like it’s been there all along, thumb moving in slow, absent circles that feel more instinct than thought.
“You’re up early,” you mumble.
He lets out a soft huff of a quiet laugh. “Early? It’s almost ten.”
“That’s early for a Sunday.”
“For you, maybe.”
When you finally look up at him, squinting a little against the light, he’s already watching you. Not even pretending otherwise. There’s something unguarded in it, softened around the edges in a way you don’t see anywhere else.
“What?” you ask.
He gives a small shake of his head, like he’s caught himself, and drifts his gaze back toward the TV. “Nothin’,” he says, but it doesn’t land convincingly. After a beat, his hand comes up, brushing a stray piece of hair from your face, fingers lingering just a second longer than they need to. “You just… you look good like this.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Like what? Half asleep?”
“Yeah,” he smirks, eyes flicking back to you, “Less mouth on you.”
You let out a quiet laugh, nudging him lightly with your elbow, but he just scoops you up closer in response, arm tightening around your waist like he’s decided he’s not done with yet.
“C’mere,” he murmurs, already pulling you in.
His mouth finds yours without urgency, just a slow, familiar kiss that belongs to a Sunday morning more than anything else. It’s not about heat this time, not like last night, just closeness. He lingers, like he’s got nowhere else to be, like this moment isn’t something he has to step out of.
When he pulls back, his hand stays at your jaw, calloused thumb brushing your cheek in an unthinking, steady motion.
“You sleep okay?” he asks.
“Mhm. You?”
“Better here.”
It’s said so casually, but it sits heavier than that.
You study him for a second, then smile faintly, “You always say that when you stay over.”
“Yeah?” he gives a small shrug, gaze drifting away again like it’s easier than holding yours. “I mean it. Your place is quieter. No bullshit from Carm or AJ.” A beat. “Don’t get used to it.”
You don’t push.
Instead, you shift down slightly, resting your chin against his chest, tracing the pad of your index finger along the edge of his tiger tattoo, ink faint and smudged with age. He watches your hand for a moment, then catches it without thinking, lacing your fingers together and bringing them up to his lips.
It’s an absent gesture. Thoughtless.
That’s what makes it feel like something.
“Hungry?” he asks after a beat.
“A little.”
“I could order us somethin’.”
“You say that every time,” you tease, lightly swatting at his chest. “And then you complain about whatever place you picked.”
“That’s ‘cause nobody knows how to cook fuckin’ eggs right anymore,” he grumbles. “It’s all eggs and avocado toast with overnight oats and all that shit.”
You smile, narrowing your eyes at him. “You could try.”
He gives you a look. “What, you want me in there makin’ a mess of your kitchen?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, but there’s no real fight in it. His hand slides down your arm again, slow and warm. It was a constant with him, small touches.
A hand at your waist. Fingers brushing your back. Always something.
You tilt your head, watching him with interest now, toying lightly with his fingers where they’re still tangled with yours. “You don’t have to go anywhere today?”
He shakes his head, looking down at you through his eyelashes in a way that makes something in your chest ache. “Not right away.”
That means something.
You feel it in the way he doesn’t move to get up, doesn’t reach for his phone, doesn’t start mentally leaving before he’s even gone. In the way he just stays, settling deeper into the bed, pulling you with him into the mess of sheets like the rest of the world can wait.
“Good,” you say softly.
His brown eyes flick back to yours, and for a second, something quieter passes between you something that doesn’t quite get spoken. Then it breaks, easy as ever, with that familiar smirk tugging at his mouth as he nudges your leg with his.
“What, you got big plans for me?”
“Maybe.” You grin, biting your lip, eyes locked to his.
“Oh yeah?” His hand slides to your hip, squeezing lightly. “Should I be worried?”
“Definitely.”
That low chuckle of his follows right away, like you knew it would. He leans in again, kissing you slower this time, unhurried. Familiar. Easy.
He doesn’t pull far when he speaks again, voice dropped lower, almost teasing against your mouth. “‘Definitely’, huh? That’s all I get?” His forehead hovers close to yours, fingers tightening just slightly at your hip like he’s anchoring you there.
Suddenly Tony grabs your thighs with those large hands of his, flipping you over onto his lap in one practiced movement so you’re riding his lap. You squeal, half laughter, half protest as he settles you there, pulling you flush against him.
“Tony!”
“Mm,” he hums, like he’s not listening.
You wriggle just slightly to tease him back and the reaction is immediate, his hand tightening at your waist, a low growl slipping out of him, half warning, half something else entirely. His eyes rake over your naked body. “You’re pushin’ it, sweetheart” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear.
His hands roam, sliding up to cup and squeeze at your ass. The teasing melts into something heavier as his fingers slide over the small of your back, tracing slow, deliberate patterns. Then he leans in, lips ghosting along your jawline, then the curve of your neck, lingering just long enough that your breath catches. And when you tilt your head back slightly into him, he lets out a low groan tugging you flush against him again.
Then a boyish and mischievous glint flashes in his eyes, before he pushes up on his forearms, mouth claiming yours hungrily, his tongue licking into your mouth with ease. His eyes find yours mid-kiss, dark and unguarded, like he’s trying to tell you something he can’t quite say. You feel it anyway. The weight of him. The quiet certainty of wanting you without him ever having to spell it out.
And somehow, that’s enough.
Every touch, every kiss, speaks a language you’ve learned without words over the last few months, the same one that keeps pulling you back to him, again and again.
His hands travel lower, fingers threading around your hips to grind you against him, his mouth tracing every line he can reach. Your soft gaps fill the air of your bedroom as you tease yourself on the thick length of him stirring beneath you. Your hips find a sensual rhythm, rocking slow circles over his cock, against the sweet spot between your legs.
He lets out a low groan which you capture in your mouth and throat, the hardness of him pressing up insistently against the wet heat of you. “That feel good?” He pants up against your mouth, “Your big plans involve this?” he growls, reaching between your bodies to drive his thick cock home into you. He doesn’t tease, it wasn’t his style after all, sliding up into your heat with one slick pump, the stretch of him drawing a broken whine from your lips.
“Yeah? Now ride it, baby.”
Each pump of him into you makes the bed creak, the wooden headboard crashing into the thin wall of your apartment. And when he reaches up to link your fingers with his either side of his head, the shift in angle has you seeing stars as his cock bullies into your g-spot, hard and fast.
It really was a wonder he hadn’t broken your shitty IKEA bedframe by now.
It wasn’t long before you were there, again, third round in 24 hours, blissfully spent and spread on top of him, in what had become an all-too-familiar rhythm.
You come back to yourself slowly, pressed against him in the quiet aftermath, chest to chest, the room dim and still except for the distant hum of the city outside your window. His arm stays draped heavy across your waist, his fingers moving in slow, absent lines along your back. He presses lazily kisses into your hair, lingering a second longer each time, and for a moment, all of the teasing, all the desire, collapses into a stillness.
He doesn’t need to say anything.
Neither do you.
The bed shifts softly beneath you, a quiet protest with every small movement, while the city outside carries on as if nothing has changed, as if nothing ever does. But here, in the dim stillness of your apartment, it feels like there’s a version of him that only exists in this space.
Your Tony.
And that’s the part that settles in hardest when everything else goes still.
He wasn’t yours.
And he never would be.
It’s later, after coffee has gone cold in its cups and been left half-forgotten on the counter, after the two of you have drifted in and out of conversation in front of the TV without really watching it.
The mood shifts before anything is said.
You’re perched at the breakfast bar by the window, glasses slipping slightly down your nose, his shirt hanging loose over your shoulders, falling just far enough to hint at skin beneath. Your hair is wild from the morning, tousled and soft, the exact way you know Tony likes. Papers are spread out in front of you, half-finished notes and numbers you’ve been avoiding all week.
He’s in the armchair behind you, unusually still. A cigar sits between his fingers, unlit, forgotten.
“What’s all that?” he asks at last.
“Nothing,” you say lightly exhaling through your nose, nibbling at the end of your pen before scribbling again. “Just… life.”
That earns you a look. A real one. The kind that sees through things.
He leans forward to snatch one of the papers before you can stop him, eyes scanning it once, then again, his jaw tightening almost instantly.
“Student loans?” he mutters.
You let out a small sigh. “Tony-”
“How much?”
“It’s handled.”
“That ain’t what I asked.”
There’s a shift in the room now. Subtle, but familiar. You can feel the room tilt the way it always does when he decides something matters. Or when something pisses him off.
You hesitate just long enough for a not so subtle frown to etch into his features.
“C’mon,” he pressed, voice lower now. “What are we talkin’ here?”
You tell him, quietly. Like it doesn’t weigh on you as much as it does.
Tony leans back and exhales through his nose, already shaking his head with that familiar, determined look settling in. He was so used to getting his way and it drove you up the fucking wall.
“That’s nothin’,” he sniffs rubbing at his chin in thought. “I could take care of that tomorrow.”
And there it is. Simple. Certain. Just like he’s offering to pick up dinner on the way home, not changing the shape of your entire life. .
You soften your voice. “Tony…”
“No, I’m serious.” He insistently gestures with the paper flapping about, the idea of me paying for anything like that irritating him. “Why are you even stressin’ about this? I make a call, it’s gone.”
You look at him then, really look at him.
At the expectation beneath the offer. It isn't just confidence, it isn't even arrogance exactly. It’s something much more complicated than that. Something tied up in how he understands care. How, for him, love looks like removal of burden. He’s offering you safety in the only language he fully trusts. Through money.
“I know you could,” you say gently, reaching out to brush your fingers along his jaw, grounding him for a second without pushing.
“Then what’s the problem?” he shoots back, quick now, frustration flickering through the concern. “I’m tellin’ you, it’s done. One call.”
You take a breath, steadying yourself, and meet his eyes head-on.
“I don’t want you to.”
The silence that follows is immediate. Not dramatic or loud. Not explosive as you’d seen with him before after a long day. Just… final.
He stares at you like he didn’t hear it right at first, hand on his hip and eyebrows raised. “Don’t want me to,” he repeats, slower this time, rougher around the edges. Testing it.
“It’s mine,” you explain, softer but firmer now. “I’ll handle it.”
“That’s stupid,” he says automatically, but there’s no bite behind it yet. Just confusion and disbelief. “I’m serious, Y/N, it’s stupid.” Then it builds. “Why would you wanna carry that?” His voice raises, not angry yet but strained. “Huh? I’m sittin’ right here, I can fix it. Why carry it?”
You stand your ground again, meeting his gaze steadily. “Because it matters to me.”
He exhales, jaw working, like he’s trying to chew through a knot he doesn’t know how to untangle. And just for a second, the weight in his eyes softens. Frustration and care tangled together, impossible to separate.
Hurt.
“What, you don’t trust me or somethin’?” he asks, he asks, voice rough but quieter than before.
“That’s not it,” you say at once, stepping closer, hands coming up to his face without thinking, steadying him the way you always seem to.
“Then what?” His eyes stay on you, searching, refusing to let it go even as his voice roughens again. You don’t look away.
“I don’t want to be with you because of what you can fix.”
It lands between you.
You see it happen, the way his expression tightens first, then stills, like something in him has been caught mid-motion. For a moment, there’s a shadow there, quick and quiet, and then he looks away, jaw locking once again.
“I ain’t sayin’ that’s what this is,” he mutters, more to himself than to you.
“I know that, Tony…” you reply steadily, thumbs brushing slow, grounding circles along his cheeks, keeping him here with you..
“Then why-”
“Because I want this,” you cut in gently, gesturing between you both, “to be about us. Not that. Not money.”
He leans back slightly, not fully pulling away, but enough to break the spell of your hands on him. His own hand drags over his face, slow, like he’s trying to reset, like the weight of it is settling deep in his chest.
“Unbelievable.” he mutters at last, barging out of the front door.
You don’t push it.
You’ve learned when not to.
—
The next night he stays over, he’s different.
There’s a tension in him when he pulls you into bed, something unspoken sitting just beneath the surface. His hands still find you like they always do, and he fucks you hard, but his mind feels elsewhere, just out of reach.
And now, after, it’s quiet.
You’re tucked against him, skin still warm, your head resting just below his collarbone. The room is quiet in that heavy, post-midnight way, everything slowed down and softened at the edges. His breathing was shallow, evening out slowly, but you can tell he’s not asleep.
Neither of you are.
His fingers move along your side in slow, absent strokes. Up. Down. Up again. The same rhythm he falls into when something’s working through him that he hasn’t decided how to say out loud yet.
You tilt your head slightly, glancing up at him in the dark. “You’re quiet.”
“Yeah?” he mutters, twisting a strand of your hair with his finger absentmindedly.
“Yeah.”
He doesn’t answer right away. His gaze stays fixed somewhere above you, jaw tightening and loosening in small tells you’re starting to recognise too well.
You rest your head against his chest, listening to his heart. It was thumping hard, and not just from fucking you.
“You’re mad at me,” you murmur.
“I’m not mad,” he answers immediately.
You tilt your head up, giving him a shrewd, sceptical look.
He lets out a breath through his nose. “Alright,” he admits after a beat. “I’m a little mad.”
“Why?”
He shifts, clearly irritated at the question, like he doesn’t have the words lined up the way he wants them. “I’m tryin’ to do somethin’ good for you here,” he says. “You won’t let me.”
“I am letting you,” you reply softly. “Just… not like that.”
He scoffs, but there’s no real conviction in it. “You always make things harder than they gotta be,” he mutters. I don’t get that.”
“Maybe,” you admit, shifting slightly closer to him, your voice still even. “But with this I need it to be mine.”
He goes quiet again. For a long moment, all you hear is the low hum of the TV in the other room, the city outside, distant and uncaring. Then, more quietly than before, “I don’t like it.”
You glance back up at him. “You dealin’ with all that.” That’s the truth of it. It isn’t anger. Not anymore. It’s something closer to unease and something far more personal.
You feel it settle between you, different from before. Warmer. Heavier in a way that pulls you in instead of pushing you away. You shift closer without thinking, your hand resting flat over his chest.
“I’m not struggling or anything,” you say gently. “I’m working.”
He lets out a breath, like that difference matters more than he expected.
“And you don’t gotta prove nothin’ to me,” he says after a beat, rough around the edges again, like he’s trying to steady himself.
“I’m not proving anything to you,” you say. “I’m just… being me.”
Another pause. Then, softer, “You really wouldn’t take it?” he asks.
You shake your head against him answering immediately. “No.”
A beat.
“Not even a little?”
You smile faintly. “Not even a little.”
Tony lets out a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh that breaks the tension. His hand, which had been resting loosely on your arm, tightens slightly, pulling you closer. His thumb brushes absentmindedly against your skin.
“I mean it,” he continues abruptly, looking down at you now. There’s something unsettled in his expression. “That kinda thing… most people, they don’t even think twice.”
“I’m not most people.”
He lets out another breathy laugh at that, still trying to reconcile it.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I’m startin’ to figure that out.”
Your fingers trace lightly against him, grounding, steady. “Does it really bother you that much?”
He hesitates. You feel it in the way his chest rises under your hand before he answers, “…Yeah,” he admits finally. “A little.”
You shift just enough to look up at him properly. “Why?”
He looks at you for a long moment, like the answer’s there but he doesn’t quite want to hand it over. “Because,” he starts, then stops, shaking his head faintly. “I dunno. It’s just-” He exhales sharply, frustration bleeding through, “I’m used to bein’ able to do things,” he says. “Fix things. Make stuff… easier.”
His hand moves slightly between you, vague, searching for the right shape of what he means. “And with you,” He pauses again, jaw tightening. “You don’t… want that.”
“I want you,” you admit quietly, the words soft against his chest.
His eyes drop to yours right away, searching your face like he’s trying to understand what exactly you’ve just given him. Like he’s not sure where to put it. There’s a long pause.
“Yeah,” he says finally, quieter now. “But why?”
It’s not dismissive. It’s genuine and more fragile than anything he’s ever said to you before. The simplicity makes your chest ache once again.
You hold his gaze. “Because it’s you.”
He lets out a small, incredulous laugh, like that answer doesn’t make sense in the world he knows. “You got any idea,” he murmurs, “what I usually gotta bring to the table for people to stick around?”
You don’t answer.
Because you don’t need to.
His hand tightens slightly at your waist to pull you closer to his side. “I mean, Jesus,” he goes on, quieter now, “you’re sittin’ here turnin’ down- what, a clean slate? No stress, no nothin’, tens of thousand of dollars, and-”
“I wouldn’t be turning you down,” you interrupt gently. “Just the money.”
“Same thing, ain’t it?”
“No. Not in the slightest.”
He looks at you again, and that boyish look which attracted you to him in the first place starts to slip through the cracks again. He could be so uncertain at times, like a little boy.
“That’s what I don’t get,” he admits.
You reach up without thinking, brushing your fingers along his jaw, softening the tension there.
“You don’t have to get it,” you say. “Just… believe me.”
Another pause. His eyes drop briefly to your hand, then back to your face.
“I do believe you,” he says, quieter than before. “That’s the problem.”
You blink slightly. “How is that a problem?”
He huffs a faint breath, almost a laugh but it doesn’t quite make it there. “Because it means…” He trails off, searching for the words. “It means you’re here. For me.”
You soften further, shifting closer, your leg brushing his as your hand slides to the back of his neck, “I am.” you say simply.
“You know,” he says after a while, voice lower now, “most people wouldn’t say no to an offer like that..”
“I know.”
“They’d jump at it.”
“I know.”
He turns his head, looking down at you in the dim light of the room, streetlights catching in his eyes so they glow warm, almost amber. There’s something different in his expression now. Less guarded and searching yours with a vulnerability you weren’t used to with him.
“You didn’t.”
You meet his gaze without flinching. “No, I didn’t.”
A beat stretches between you. Then another. His large hand comes up, brushing your hair back from your face. He doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t tease it away like he normally would. Just lingers, fingers threading through your hair in steady, absent strokes, memorising the feeling.
“You really don’t care about that stuff,” he says quietly.
You shake your head slightly against his gentle strokes. “Not the way you think.”
Something in him softens in a way that’s almost imperceptible, but you feel it in the way he’s touching your face. He studies you like he’s trying to understand something new. Something he didn’t expect to find here with you in this dingy NY apartment, or in that dusty classroom at Columbia.
“Y’know,” he starts, then stops. His thumb lingers against your cheek, paused.
“I…” he tries again, voice rougher now.
And then- nothing.
The words don’t come.
Instead, he exhales, shakes his head slightly, like he’s frustrated with himself, and leans in to capture your lips.
His kiss takes your breath the second it happens. One second you’re there, the next your thoughts don’t quite line up anymore, like your body’s already answered and your mind is a beat behind. His hand is already at your waist, steady and familiar, pulling you in with an ease that feels earned. There’s history in his touch, the arguments that never fully resolved, the quiet moments where he stayed longer than he needed to, the way he always seemed to come back to you. It all sits underneath the way he holds you now, shaping it without either of you having to explain anything.
His mouth meets yours warm and unhurried, and the first thing it gives you isn’t urgency, it’s certainty. A simple, unspoken set of three words you both weren’t ready to hear. The taste of him, coffee, smoke, and something distinctly Tony, lands softly and stays there, grounding and unsteady all at once, like it settles you even as it makes your heart race faster and faster.
Your fingers slip into the back of his neck and he exhales into the kiss, low and quiet, the sound disappearing between you. His grip at your waist tightens just slightly, holding you closer without rushing anything, just keeping you exactly where you already are.
Your forehead brushes his for a second when you both pause for breath, too close to really separate, and there’s this awareness of him that sits everywhere at once: the warmth of his skin, the faint scrape of stubble against you when he kisses you, the way your own body leans into him before you’ve even decided to. Somewhere in it, his mouth curves faintly against yours, a small, unguarded smile that you feel before you see it. It doesn’t feel staged or thought through, and somewhere in that smile, there’s this quiet sense that neither of you is pretending this is casual anymore, even if nothing’s been said out loud.
Later, when you’re tucked against him in the early hours of the morning, he presses a quiet kiss into your hair.
“You’re good for me,” he murmurs.
It isn’t ‘I love you.’
It’s the closest thing he’s given you, and maybe the closest he knows how to give.
And in the dark of the room, laying in his arms, you let yourself believe that this, whatever it is, is enough.
Sorry for the delay on this update, life got a bit in the way, but I’m really glad to finally be able to share this chapter with you all. Thank you so much for your patience and for reading, it genuinely means a lot.
I’m also currently working on a Tony x Melfi one-shot 👀 so that should be up next if all goes to plan!
{I guess this is my first official fic on my account so don’t be too harsh 😔. Thanks to @lostfallenangelsblog for this scrumptious idea, I hope I did it justice!}
“Con… I don’t wanna go out looking like this…”
Dresses of all varieties lay scattered across the bed, each abandoned dress an extension of your exasperated hopes, laying there like insults being pelted at you. You stared at your reflection as if It’d make you like what you were seeing, except you didn’t like what you saw, what you saw made you wish the earth would open to swallow you whole. Tonight was supposed to be your chance to show your boyfriend the fun parts of human life, a nice little dinner date together, but with every minute your excitement was turning into a court of judgement, and your body was on trial.
This dress was supposed to smooth out the pudgy tummy and hide your back rolls, instead it decided to accentuate all those features, making you resemble something closer to a busted can of biscuits than a woman. Not to mention having no coverage for your arms, not even a jacket could save this, how could you possibly be seen in public looking like this?
Conquest on the other hand wasn’t even thinking about dinner anymore, not when he was staring right at his dessert, his pretty little morsel just begging to be devoured. He’d noticed your building frustrations by the fourth dress you’d tried on, it didn’t take rocket science to see the thoughts running in your head, he just didn’t understand why you were thinking them. Of course you were meant to be all soft and squishy, humans were the weaker species after all, so why were you so upset about it? The older man moved across the room to stand behind you, reaching down to wrap his hands around your waist and pull you back against him, leaning down to whisper in your ear.
“Lookin’ like what, kitten? You look good enough to eat, yet you’re over here lookin’ at yourself like that. What's got you so worked up, hm?”
You instinctively wanted to melt into Conquest’s embrace, usually you’d be a blushing, giggling mess by now. But the bitter self hate simmered deep in your chest, a lifetime of critiques both from others and yourself weighing you down, making you feel completely unworthy of the attention. Why would he ever pick you? Conquest was the closest thing to perfection, having existed long before she was even a thought, he could have anyone he wanted yet he was in a relationship with you. Tears pricked the corners of your eyes, looking away from the mirror, the words spilling out in a choked up mumble.
“I look… awful. Nothing fits right, I can’t go out with you looking like… this. Guys don’t want a fat girlfriend, they want a girlfriend they can pick up and carry around, someone they can treat like a princess. Why would you pick me when… fuck, when you could get any woman you wanted?”
The feeling of his hand grabbing your chin forced your attention back to the reflection in the mirror, and when your eyes locked with his good one you froze, molten heat pooling in your belly in an instant. The way Conquest was looking at you was nothing short of ravenous, both insulted that you’d question why he chose you, and offended that you forgot just who you belonged to. His tone had shifted completely now, so had the air in between them, thick enough to cut with a knife.
“Oh? Is that so, pet? And who are you to tell me what I should or shouldn’t want, hm?”
You swallowed around the lump in your throat, heat crawling across your skin at his growl, breath coming in short and sharp gasps. The size difference was even more obvious in this position, trapped against the fortress of his body, making you feel smaller than you usually did. The urge to argue your point sat in the back of your mind now, that had died the moment he looked at you like that, like you were the only woman in the entire universe.
“I… I um…”
Conquest cut off the stuttered whisper with a tut, slowly trailing his hands down towards your thighs, his prosthetic hand teasing the hem of the dress while the left gripped the plush flesh of your thigh. That pulled a groan from the older man as he nuzzled his nose into the crook of your neck, savoring the sweet scent of your skin, that warmth that he’d happily drown in. Returning his gaze to meet yours, he tugged at the hem of your dress, looking for your permission despite the intensifying hunger.
“Take it off, princess. Let me show you exactly why I chose you, since you’ve forgotten already.”
Yeah… so much for that dinner date. You were sure you were disturbing the entire neighborhood with the noises you were making, the smell of sex and endless obscene, wet smacks filled the bedroom. You’d already given up on watching your reflection, too fucked out and drunk on his cock to lift your head, let alone keep your eyes open for long. Conquest had his hands wrapped tight under your thighs, knees pulled up towards your chest to keep you completely spread open, your back against his bare chest while he used you.
“You’ve got… some fuckin’ audacity, pet. Questioning my choices… my strength… you think your weight is anything to me? Don’t ever insult my capabilities…”
Conquest snarled in a ragged laugh as he admired your reflection in the mirror, his amber eye glued to the way your soft body moved with his thrusts, how your flesh spilled through his fingers. The thought of the bruises he was leaving on you made him feel feral, getting to mark up this plump, perfect, fertile body of yours. He watched your sticky, fat pussy swallow his girthy cock with each bounce, soaking his length in your juices that dripped down his balls. Why would he pick a woman who would break if he fucked her like this, when you took him like your pussy was starving for him, just begging to be filled and fucked every chance it got.
“I chose you because you don’t break… you take what I give you and beg for more. I’m flattered you treat me like a man, but I’m a conquerer, and I’ll always remind you who’s claimed this tight pussy of yours.”
You couldn’t help but whimper at the sheer heat of him, not just from the way he was using you like a living fucktoy, but because of the raw desire in his words. Conquest’s cock was bullying your insides with every thrust, the tip hitting your cervix with ruthless precision, you’d already lost count on how many times he’s made you cum already. Tears of bliss cut trails through the makeup you’d spent an hour on, lipstick smeared and mascara staining around your eyes, a beautiful, broken mess of ecstasy.
“Con-! Please… I can’t… it’s too muchhh…!”
Your pleas fell on deaf ears when Conquest held you tighter, squishing you against his torso to drive his cock in deeper, forcing squeals and babbled sobs from your parted lips. The pace he was going could rival that of a feral beast, heavy and rough with the eagerness of his thrusts, growls and grunts against your neck as he marked your skin in bruising bite marks. When the gummy, velvety walls of your cunt clenched down on his cock he kept up his assault, fucking you through yet another earth shattering orgasm.
“You can and you will take it, girl- I’m not stopping until you’re so full of my cum you can’t think—!”
His words were muffled against the skin of your shoulder, ragged and low with his own building pleasure, feeling his balls pulling up tight as he reached the edge. Moving to capture your lips in a sloppy kiss, his hips stuttered before stilling completely, buried to the hilt in your trembling heat. Conquest grunted into your mouth when he came hard, thick ropes of his seed shooting deep inside you, pressed right up against your cervix. The Viltrumite felt a jolt of pride at filling you up, maybe this time it would take, there’s nothing he’d love more than to see you carry his legacy.
When the waves of pleasure slowed to a warm buzz, you pulled away from the kiss to catch your breath, gasping and panting as your head fell back against him. It was a messy scene, sweat slicked skin and sticky juices connecting their bodies, you looked completely fucked out in his arms. Easing his grip just enough so you could be more comfortable, Conquest leaned in to press a kiss to your flushed cheek, baring his crooked teeth in a mockingly sweet smile. You never looked as beautiful as you did every time he broke you, all sated and boneless against him, his soft little human.
“Con…”
That’s all you could manage to mumble against him, still trying to come back down to earth from cloud nine, your mind a blissful, goopy haze. If you’d been self conscious before you definitely weren’t now, you had completely forgotten about the date, about the dresses left discarded around the room from your earlier dilemma. All you could think about was that he was buried balls deep in your pussy, his cum leaking out around his girth, and the fact he was still hard as a rock. His next words just confirmed that, whispered in your ear with a teasing, cocky purr, both a threat and a promise.
“Don’t give up, kitten… I'm just getting started.”
If you can’t find a place on your blog for Patrick Stewart in a bathtub dressed like a lobster, then your blog probably doesn’t deserve such majesty anyway.
The Victor fuckers can only hope and pray that he has age/mutation related erectile dysfunction because he is NOT a ride you will survive. It’s all going right off the rails immediately
i feel like he would definitely have a pussy inspection kink, and not in the most obvious way way…
sure he’d love to do a full doctor/patient role play with the stirrups and a speculum and the clinical poking and prodding but he has something of an obsession with your pussy that would carry into all of your sexual sessions.
first, he loves to get really close to your core, breathing deeply over it and just enjoying the musky smell of your pheromones; he could honestly soak you in for hours.
he’ll move on to examining you with his fingers; spreading and unspreading your folds, using his pointer finger to very gently circle your clit, poking his middle finger in and out of you to test your tightness, and then hooking both of his middle fingers and stretching your hole, almost as if he’s trying to test the flexibility.
if he’s really feeling like indulging himself, he will conduct further research by seeing how you react to certain toys. his favorite is to test your reactions to vibrations; starting with a tiny bullet vibrator fastened over your clit, working all the way up to using a rabbit on you (he loves seeing how overstimulated you get with it on full power), he’ll catalogue the wide array of different sensations and remember the combinations that make you cum the hardest.
and while he does really love stretching you open with his cock (he never gets tired of the feeling), he gets turned on by fitting objects in your pussy so he can fully examine how you clench down on them and record the point when your muscles can no longer tighten (a liquor bottle is the closest he’s gotten to mimicking his cock)
after he cums in you, you’ll find him gazing appreciatively at your leaking hole, sometimes even bringing it closer to inspect; to him, your pussy is an altar, and pervertedly, he loves to defile it as much as worship at it. seeing his copious amount of cum, the product of his arousal, painting your cunt, is the sexiest thing in the world to him.
oh and if you get embarassed at any point, just know that turns him on even more
origamiaround
blakekathryn
romaincrisis
