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romana-after-dark · 1 year

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Omg how do you think Joel would react to LO being on her period, do you think he/she’d enjoy some period sex

Joel Miller x Fem!Reader

Takes place in a nondescript point in The Wrong Way universe

CW: SMUT, period sex, blood and blood play... so much blood. so much. Just... every blood warnings lmfaooooooo so many bodily fluids in places they shouldn't be its disgusting but hey. here we are. No refractionary period bc I said so, time and science bend to my whim.

This is NOT necessary to the story at ALL so if messy messy bodily fluid talk grosses you out you can skip!!!

******************

"Fuck, little one, red is a good color on you" Joel mumbles as he kneels before you, fucking into your bleeding cunt. Joel had come home from 'business' as he called it, and he must've had a particularly bad day, because when you tell him you are on your period, expecting to suck him off as per the usual routine when you were bleeding, Joel instead went feral, tossing you on the bed and literally cutting you out of your clothes.

"J-Joel, the mess-" You tried to protest, but he was quick to shush you.

"I'll clean you up baby, I always do"

You were more concerned about the sheets and staining that shitty mattress that you have to sleep on and good, how humiliating it will be when Tommy changes the sheet, but Joel had already started fucking you.

You couldn't deny it, you wanted him, more than usual today. You always did on your period and were left frustrated after taking care of him with your mouth during the weeks you bled... you were happy to get some fucking relief.

Joel was so enthralled by the sight of blood on you, it made you nervous that maybe he liked it enough to draw it out of you. Would the knife that cut open your clothes, cut open your skin?

The slap of skin was obscenely wet, tiny splattering of blood flying away from each snap of his hips, the force of which caused the blood to mark up both of your centers in the fluids coming out of you.

"Fuuuuck!" Joel growls as he pulls out of you and for a moment you are disappointed; Joel never just left you wanting... did you do something wrong?

But sure enough, his fingers were inside you, fingering you hard with one hand as the other smeared blood all over you. "Come on my hand, little girl, I need it nice and wet, gonna paint you up, my pretty little picture." You gushed on him, so sensitive from your period and the way his hands moved over your swollen nipples, covering you in red.

"Mark me, Joel" Never mind the JM literally branded on you, but you begged for more "Cover me" You wanted him, you wanted his touch so bad you didn't care how it came.

As you ride out the waved, Joel did as he promised, painting you like a canvas in a medium of your own blood, sweat and arousal, the sticky solution littering your skin in filth and sex. His large hand pressed on your lower stomach, and you felt more blood come out in a disgusting spurt, oozing from you, but that's what he wanted.

Moving to your side and pumping his cock with lube of your blood, his right hand scooped out what he had drawn out of you, whiping it all over your face until his two middle finger were shoved in your mouth. You gag on the taste of iron on his fingers pumping in your mouth, but god, god you were so worked up you couldn't help it, you take a risk and slip a hand between your legs; you needed to cum again, you needed it.

To the sound of Joel fucking his fist and the soft slop of his fingers in your mouth, you cum as he does; and he cums hard. Legs, torso, face, all covered in his cum and your drying blood.

Joel sits back to look at his work, drying his hand in your hair only to cake onto the sweat that was already there, and you were certain you looked positively wrecked... but that's how you felt, that's what you wanted, this was what only Joel could give you, this connection, permission to be your most base self. You pull him to lay down and climb on top, his hardening cock about ready to go again, as were you. Your walls were to swollen from the brutal thrusts, but you wanted to paint him the way he painted you.

Heaving and dripping with precum, his cock rested against his stomach and with out putting him inside you, you rock your hips over him, feeling the fat tip between your folds. "fuck, Joel" You moan out loudly, feeling every vein on him and the ridge of the head as you touch yourself, every nerve on fire to the point where you were aware of nothing except the feeling of Joel: his firm chest, his soft stomach, the hair on his legs and the gruff sounds spilling out of him as he showered you in praise, sliding his hand underneath you.

"Soak me, little one, soak my hand" You didn't have much of a choice of when and how much your period blood came out, but it was enough to satisfy him as he planted a firm handprint around your neck, squeezing just enough to bring you pleasure, not pain. "Come again, pretty thing, make those gorgeous sounds"

You do as you're told, you always do as he tells you, painting him in blood and slick and salty sweat.

"Fucking perfect" He mumbles and you fall onto him, your own individual canvases meshing together a swirl of art that only you two can create as he kissed his praise into you.

He cleans on his face of anything that transferred from you to while when you kissed, and went out to heat up water for the bath. You didn't dare clean up, knowing Joel would want to admire his work before he took care of you, and you were right.

He stood above you, large and broad and imposing, his shirt barely buttoned as he watched you spread out before him. Despite the pain and the violations previously, you found yourself open and venerable to him. Why else would you lay there covered in several bodily fluids like Jack the Ripper’s whore while he looked at you like a bloody Caravaggio painting on display for his enjoyment.

You expected for him to clean you up a bit before he wrapped you up; he always did, he always touched you with care and tenderness on all the swollen and aching parts of you, but to your surprise, he simply wrapped you up.

"Joel, Joel the blood-" You express concern again, but this time because it's on your face. Who is out there to see? You can't go out there like this, not with cum in your hair and his hand print marred in blood around your neck. "No-" You whimper as he begins to carry you outside. You don't try to fight him, you know its useless, so you try to burry your face in his shoulder.

Joel yanks your head back. "Don't you dare" his voice was harsh before he sooths the pain by gentle patting down your hair. "Don't hide" it was gentle now…

The good news, only one person was in the living room as you were carried past to the bathroom, and it wasn't Tommy; you couldn't bare for Tommy to see you like this, such blatant evidence on how his brother broke you.

The bad news was it was Lorenzo. You expeced maybe to see envy in his face, jealously that Joel could so clearly do whatever he wanted to you, maybe that look in his eye that Nick always got...

But instead, it was clear disgust. Whether at you or at Joel, you didn't know... but you no longer felt like a painting on display, suddenly you felt like a broken down little freak show to be gawked at, rediculed and humiliated.

'Look at my little toy' Joel seemed to be saying as he paraded you past. 'You heard how loud she moaned for me, look what she lets me do, look how I've broken her in.'

And yet... his touch was ever gentle as he cleaned you, including your face; not a drop of water in your eyes, his hold was still tight and comforting as you rested against him in the tub, and his words were still full of praise.

Maybe you were his toy... but maybe you were his favorite toy... and favorite toys don't stay in pristine condition, they get played with...

Was it so wrong to be a doll getting played with, if at the end of the day you were still the one he picked up?

***********

IDK this was supposed to be a few paragraphs of smut for period sex and I got carried away.

Also I wanna know which one of y'all voted wanting Little One to end up with Lorenzo and i just wanna know why. Theres no wrong answer im just curious!

@my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @howaboutcastiel @tidlewav3 @bunnnyy-dummy @slutfortimotheechalamet @foggymoonbanana @dinsbaby @miraclesabound @jenna-ortega @primosworld @marclovers @threeheadedlamb @secretwriterpp @the-fox-den

@bitchyglitterfox @0bsessedwithfictionalcharacters @alloftheboysivelovedbefore @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @lunar-ghoulie @pedritosdarling @dreamonseems @alwaysdjarin

#Joel Miller #Joel Miller smut #tw rape #dub con #non con #dark joel miller #romana after dark #dark!Joel #the last of us hbo #joel miller fic #joel miller reader #joel miller reade smut #dark joel miller reader #joel miller you #joel miller x reader #fem!reader #fem reader

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probablyevilrpgideas · 3 years

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The Vasharan- cartoonish villains, made better

"Vasharans as written suck. But they co-

*drop kicks Maxwell Lord*

"SHUT THE FUCK UP"

Anyway.

So, in the 3e Book of Vile Darkness, the Vasharan were introduced as an example of an evil race of humans (well, culture. But they say race, because... *sigh* D&D), akin to how the drow are evil elves, derro are evil dwarves, and so on. And they have a compelling concept-

But it turns into a really shitty, cartoonish idea of "vile evil" really quickly. Which honestly is a constant problem with this book and what keeps me from actually loving it. There's some cool stuff in the Book of Vile Darkness, but then almost everything becomes this really weird, immature depiction of evil that you would see in, like, if Frank Miller tried to write "heinous despicable fantasy evil."

Basically, the vasharan as depicted in the book as "born out of rape, anger and pain" and "(loving) to kill and maim." It says they don't understand "concepts such as mercy, kindness, or love--not even towards each other." It says these concepts are completely alien to them they rarely think to use them as leverage with others. And then throws in some stuff about them not having typical societal taboos-- they don't have any taboos against incest or rape, no aversion to filth or gore, and "have no distaste for creatures such as insects, serpents and worms."

Which... as I write this, I'm just thinking about an internet friendly acquaintance of mine who keeps leeches as pets. And like, not to mention that people keeping snakes and insects as pets is a thing. Pet snakes are just, like, a thing. You can get them at Petsmart. Pet hissing cockroaches are unusual, but not unheard of, and even people that think keeping a six inch long "beetle that shares a name with that thing we see in kitchens and associate with filth" is weird will often see keeping mantises as pets to be unusual but innocuous.

And I'm just realizing a whole new level of this book's, like, cultural egocentrism?

Anyway, they're humans, and the book ....gets points? For not portraying them as a single specific skin tone. They live on a particular remote, isolationist plateau which, like Thymiscera in DC, has an array of skin tones among their one race. Which always confuses me with Thymiscera, but I approve even if it makes the science side of my brain say "wait, what?" I guess in the vasharans' case that tone diversity probably comes from them capturing and keeping slaves and... being what the book has already said that I don't want to repeat.

Although I do want to point out one thing in Vasharan lands that I'll just quote-

"A council of elders elected through democratic means rules Vashar--the Vasharans would never abide a despot and would all die before submitting to tyranny."

But they keep slaves.

I guess they still have cognitive dissonance.

Anyway.

So, what's the point of all this? They seem like a pretty shitty write culture, right?

Well... Ok, I'm a Satanist. You drop something about fantasy adventurers killing gods in my lap, and I'm already breathing heavy. Add in that they lack common societal taboos, and I'm nearly there.

I find something promising in the concept behind the Vasharans. I prefer to leave the whole R-thing on the table, because... there's evil, because you deal with demons and create undead, and want to kill Pelor for not doing things right, there's being a bit too willing to kill to get things done (hi, virtually all D&D adventurers!) and then there's malevolence and violation of one's person. My evil characters might shoot an NPC in the head because they're in the way and I'm having a bad day. They might torture an enemy as a way to punish someone truly reprehensible. But my evil characters respect consent. Weird line to draw, but I do.

Re-writing the Vasharans

So what do we do with the Vasharans? Oh, an aside--I don't quite have a good handle on how Vashar, Vasharan and Vasharans gets used. Generally, I see Vashar as the name of the culture, and it looks like WotC uses it as the name of their home plateau, vasharan as the word for an individual of it, and then vasharans as the plural of that. Like Germany/German/Germans. But I know I don't always get this right in my own writing. So bare with me if you get confused, because, honestly, I'm a bit confused.

So what do we do with the Vasharans?

Well, I think the whole "wanting to kill the gods" thing is the big hook you want to hold onto, but it can be done better, and it has. On a forum I post on, a fellow poster responded to my question about how to do the vasharans and evil cultures better with... a lot of stuff, but he really improved on the origin myth-

The First Man If he had a name, it was Man. He needed no other because there were no others of his kind. The gods made him to serve them and he did so without question for thirty times three-hundred years. He loved his creators. He toiled at their command. He venerated them every waking moment. He even worshiped them in his dreams. Their whims were the beginning and end of his world and he was happy, at first. Over time the First Man grew lonely. The gods had each other for companionship. The animals had companions. Even the demons in the Abyss had companions. Yet he was all alone. And so it came to pass in the First Man asked the gods to give him a companion. The Wise One heard his plea said that the gods should create a Woman in the image of the goddesses. But the other gods were filled with rage and would not hear him. "Are we not good enough for you?" they asked their Man. "Don't you love us?" "Is our infinite grace insufficient for you?" Cowed, the First Man fell to his knees and professed his love to his creators. "You are more than enough" he said. "You're are all I'll ever need." In his heart he felt sadness. He didn't understand the emotion then, for he had never felt it before, but it would grow. For thirty times three-hundred years he toiled for the gods. He venerated them. He worshipped them. But every day the sadness grew in his heart. Vasha One day, while tending the fields of ambrosia that stretched from shore-to-shore in the before-age as was his duty, the Man found a woman. By the standard of Second Men, she was ugly beyond imagining. To simply look upon the Obyrith would shatter the soul of a lesser being, but the First Man was more perfect than the imitations that came after him. Rather than being repulsed by the demon as an inferior man would be, he felt compassion. "I am Vasha," she said. "I have been overthrown by my evil slaves and cast up into the harsh light of the gods. Now I shall surely die." Her wounds were great and her poison life-blood spilled out into the ground. It withered the divine crops and created a dead-zone where nothing would ever grow again. The Man knew that she would die if he did not save her. He also knew that the gods would want her to die. Her very existence was anathema to them and she undid their works simply be being.He knew this, and he acted. For the first time in his long life he called upon the gods power to serve his will alone and her wounds were healed. The gods knew immediately. "Slay her," they commanded him. "She is evil. She will bring ruin to all of our works." He refused. They raged. "Slay her." "No." "Slay her." "No." "Slay her." "Never." The gods tried to smite the First Man, but Vasha hid him in the dark places where they cannot see. As the gods rage above them, they grew to love each other. For three years the gods unleashed their fury upon the Earth and for three years the two loved each other in their hiding place. The Wise One intervened and calmed his siblings and they returned to Heaven unsatisfied. The First Man remained in hiding for another three years and when he came out he carried three horns. " I repent! he cried. I have slain Vashar and brought her horns as tribute. Please forgive me." "See," the Wise One said to his brothers. "I told you that he'd come back." The gods accepted the demon's horns and forgave their wayward creation, but they made him suffer a terrible penance. The gods agonized him for three years and three years more before they allowed him to return to his duties. He served the gods faithfully for another thirty-three years and then disappeared. "Where did he go?" the gods asked. "Where is our Man?" "Demons are vile things," The Wise One said, "but they understand revenge. One of her kin must have unmade him in anger." The other gods saw the wisdom in his words and agreed. Then The Wise One went to stoke the Divine Fire, lest his siblings see that an Ember was missing, while the other gods went back to their bickering. Eventually the gods forgot about the Man, all but The Wise One who saw the Man

steal the Ember but was wise enough to keep his mouth shut. The City That Was The First Man used the stolen Ember to burn an layer of the Abyss. In the blink of an eye, the Divine Fire reduced infinity to ash. From that ash the First Man and his mutilated demon bride constructed the City That Was. For three-hundred times three-hundred years it was a paradise where no one suffered and all were happy. It couldn't last. The gods discovered their creation's treachery and he could not hide from them. His soul was destroyed and so was his wife. The City was returned to ash. Some of the First Children escaped the destruction and hid, Vasha taught them about the secret places where the gods cannot see. Then the gods decreed that all created things shall die in time and the First Children began to wither in their hiding places.

(--Written by Hyzmarca, the gaming den)

Personally, I prefer to make the first human ...the best term I'm aware of is intersex, but I always feel weird about using it this way, but, yeah. I prefer to say the First Human was not a man. Or a woman. They are were a "whole human." Possessing both male and female characteristics. But otherwise, I use this write up as is. It gives the First Human a reason to turn on the gods, and it gives their children, the Vashar, a reason to carry that hatred onwards.

He goes on to sketch a culture with a philosophy that.. has a slightly "Dark Buddhism" cast to it, they believe that to exist is to suffer, because the gods are dicks. But where Buddhism seeks to end suffering by ending desire, what they see as the cause of suffering, vasharans embrace suffering as a part of the condition of existence (though they still seek to end what they see as the cause of suffering). Their culture practices a huge variety of scarification rituals as a sort of... testament to this idea that existence means suffering and their willingness to embrace that. They believe that through suffering, we are made strong-

(sorry, I had to)

-and that the defining trait of their culture is to endure unjust suffering.

Being that they see suffering as... not necessarily a good thing, but a positive one, at least, they don't practice torture of their enemies, captives, criminals, etc. In fact, someone in Vasharan captivity will be giving every comfort possible, and executions are quick and clean, and as painless as possible, because they see suffering as a privilege.

The one ritual that Hyzmarca elaborated on in his posts is The Scarifice of Vasha, whereby vasharan women gain the distinctive red markings on their scalps they are known for-

(WARNING. THIS SECTION DESCRIBES RITUALISTIC MUTILATION, DONE TO CHILDREN. IT'S NOT MALEVOLENT, BUT IF YOU DON'T WANT TO READ IT, SKIP AHEAD TO THE NEXT ALL CAPS LINE)

Vasharan girls are secured into elaborate frames which hold them immobile, so that an ur priest (vasharan clerics who steal magic from the gods rather than praying for it) can peel back her scalp, and carve delicate, incredibly small passages from a series of epic poems of the vasharans into the bone. This can go for several days, during which the child is cared for to ensure she is not permanently harmed, but is left to feel the intense pain. Because suffering makes one strong. Once the inscription is complete, molten gold will be used to fill the carvings and allowed to cool and harden, then the skin is replaced, and a dark red paste which promotes highly visible scars is applied.

(YOU'RE ALL GOOD. DESCRIPTION OF RITUALISTIC SCARIFICATION IS DONE.)

Which seems very extreme, even compared to the various tribal rites of passage we see in the real world that are often used as some kind of colonial shock porn. But, mind you, in D&D, magical healing exists. Hell, magic that tracks a person's vitals and allows people to survive extreme bodily harm exists. So you can go way harder than "woven palm gloves full of bullet ants." And unlike certain real world practices that even people from the regions that practice them are trying to end (which I won't name, but will use the initialism of, FGM), this causes no lasting harm. Admittedly, Because Magic, but it's fantasy, so I think that's fair, whereas even if it were in a fantasy setting the practice I'm not going to name has "permanent lasting harm" as its entire point.

Though the Vashar hate the gods, they are not areligious, instead practicing, essentially, ancestor worship, though I imagine they would balk at the terminology (and come to think of, I would think real people who practice "ancestor worship" would also balk at the term, but I don't know). Vasharan temples are mostly store fronts, selling "ghost goods" which might be anything from symbolic representations of money, to clothes, tools, even sex toys, which are burned in temple fires to transfer a spiritual copy of the item to a vasharan's ancestor inside the Ilkanac, a soul gem which contains vasharan souls keeping them safe from the punishments of the gods. These same fires also allow vasharans to communicate with their ancestors. This communication is charged for, as the ghost goods are sold at cost.

So, that's mostly just stuff I'm sharing, rather than my particular take on Vashar. I did however add some of my own things for the Greyhawk game I'm working on and hope to be running soon (just as soon as my players get their damned characters done... I kid. I don't have an adventure ready yet, so they're good).

Being a queer satanist, I added the idea that, due to being the descendants of the first human (who was created "before the sexes were split) and demons, I decided that vasharans exhibited pretty much every configuration of sexual characteristics, from none at all to all of them, and that gender is nearly a foreign concept to them. They have no gender roles, they treat masculinity and femininity as just aesthetics, and fluidity between them is completely unremarkable. Some vasharans present a solely masculine or feminine aesthetic their whole life, while others might change at some point, or use whichever aesthetic they feel like on a given day or for a given task. And whichever aesthetic they adopt has nothing to do whatever configuration of sexual characteristics they have.

Not only that, but the Vasharan language has absolutely no gendered pronouns. They have terms, honorifics, and pronouns that denote relative statuses- dominant, submissive, subjugated, or equal, and whether the subject is divine, profane, or mortal, and whether the speaker favors, despises or has no particular feeling about the subject, but they have no gendered based pronouns.

Finally, on the subject of sex, gender and sexuality, there is no real "norm" in vasharan sexuality, or perhaps their norm is pansexuality, but only by slight plurality, and their marriages can have any number of participants (even one, though in this case it's mostly a legal artifice).

In the BoVD, it says vasharans absolutely cannot be divine spellcasters, but I don't like that, since there are so many ways to be a divine spellcaster without worshipping a god in D&D. I say they can easily be druids, rangers and shamans, and they can also be cause clerics, championing an idea rather than being devoted to a god. I also want to write up a paladin equivalent for them, but that's for later.

--------------------

D&D has a serious, ongoing problem with portraying real world cultural practices which happen to fall outside of white, christian societal norms (or even just Western norms) as somehow inherently evil, and that's basically all over Book of Vile Darkness and Book of Exalted Deeds in 3e. In fact, BoED even goes further to indulge in some serious moral relativism by saying it's evil to use poisons and diseases, but then details special magical ones which only work on evil characters and actually basically work by literally torturing their victims for their evil, and one spell that imprisons the souls of evil targets (soul trapping is also generally considered evil in D&D, so another case of "EXCEPT WHEN WE DO IT"), and then torments the soul for a year before forcible converting their alignment to Good.

Book of Vile Darkness might have a serious problem with saying that being fat, ugly, heavily pierced or tattooed, or even just being into sadomasochism is evil, but at least it doesn't play the moral relativism of BoED.

But ultimately, I consider these books to be better as prompts, giving you some ideas to run off and do your own thing with, and some cool mechanics (like the Sacrifice rules in BoVD). I'm hard pressed to think of such a mechanic in BoED that I like as is, but I suppose there is one spell in it that I do like, if only for the imagery. Both books have their own special category of aligned spells that can be used by any spell caster of the appropriate alignment, Corrupt and Sanctified spells. Both categories require you to pay a cost to use them, which is usually some ability damage. Book of Exalted Deeds has a Sanctified spell called Exalted Fury, which has the Sacrifice cost of "you die." The effect of the spell is that you explode in a 40-foot radius burst of holy power that deals damage to evil creatures in the area (in 3e, literally any creature of evil alignment) equal to your current hp+50. I really want to play an epic level paladin with this spell at the ready some day (paladin for the d10 hit die, and it would have to be epic level because it's a 9th level spell, and a paladin would need to take the epic feat Increased Spell Capacity five times to get 9th level spells).

#Dungeons and Dragons #Book of Vile Darkness #Vasharan #Taking WotC's ideas and doing my own thing with them to make them better #CW: mention of rape #CW: mention of extreme body modification

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im-a-goner-foryou · 5 years

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Combination of these two prompts: sugar daddy tony/ sugar baby peter + peter being a little shit basically

This is actually just a chapter of an old fanfic that I've rewritten-

"Can I take you somewhere tonight?"

Peter looks across at him from his sprawling position on the couch, A.P Cal textbook in hand, legs dangling over the armrest as he drapes himself in what he hopes is an enticing manner over the cushions.

He succeeds, if the ravenous look in those deep-set eyes are anything to go by. Hiding his pleased smile behind the cover of his notebook, he plays up his fixation on the pages as though they held something interesting, more so than Tony himself— all part of the act, of course. "Where?"

The man shrugs. “I was thinking about Italian, someplace fancy. It’s been a while since I brought you out for dinner.”

"Oh, I don't know..." Peter pretends to muse. He pushes himself off the couch, sauntering over to Tony and perching himself atop the side of his armchair; instinctively Tony reaches out to stabilize him with a grip on his waist, running a thumb slowly down his side.

"I promise I'll get you home in time," Tony teases silkily, rough fingers sliding underneath his shirt, running over the bump of his ribs and drawing a giggle from the back of Peter’s throat. God, he’s hopeless. "Just-- let me take you out for dinner. Please?"

And there’s no possible way Peter’s saying no, especially when Tony’s gazing up at him with one of those smiles that crinkle the edges of his eyes, that makes his heart flutter like crazy in his chest. "Yeah, okay."

---

In classic Tony Stark fashion, and because ‘ostentatious’ is clearly the man’s favourite word out of his entire vocabulary, their mode of transport to their “little dinner date” ends up being by flight: more specifically, an actual fucking helicopter with his name emblazoned across the door and everything.

"I can't believe you," Peter says breathlessly, shaking his head as Tony buckles him in like the true gentleman he is; strong gusts of wind whip through his hair and make a tangling mess out of his once carefully-styled curls—he feels disheveled, dizzy with exhilaration. “You arranged all of this? Just for tonight?”

Tony settles himself in beside him, looking rightfully smug even from behind the red aviators he has on. "What's the point of owning a helicopter if one doesn't use it?" he quips, leaning over in what began as an attempt to tame his unruly curls but quickly changes into fingers winding into the roots at his scalp to haul him closer, bring their lips together into a windswept kiss.

---

Dinner later turns out to be at a restaurant near the beach, Peter huddled close beside Tony, head resting on his shoulder. He can feel the weight of pointed stares on him, hushed whispers from the other table, the other patrons looking upon them with sharp, narrowed eyes and taking in the way he’s practically sitting on the older man’s lap— in another timeline, a time before all of this, Peter Parker would have shied away from all the pointed looks; but now he merely presses closer to the solid wall of Tony’s chest, lips curling into an easy smile.

"Can I try?" Peter asks, even as he’s already reaching for the cold glass of Scotch cradled between Tony’s fingers. The man reflexively stretches his arm away, ice cubes clinking and amber liquid sloshing over the lip; some spills over his wrist.

"Nope," he says plainly, popping the ‘p’ and ignoring Peter’s pout. "It's alcohol, sweetheart."

Peter rolls his eyes. "Yes, I know what whiskey is, Tony. I'm seventeen, not seven."

That only earns him a wan smile, so before Tony can react Peter's hand lunges out to grab his arm and pull it closer. The man opens his mouth, a warning clearly on the tip of his tongue as he deftly plucks the glass out of his grip; but it quickly dies as soon as Peter begins to lick the rim of it, pink tongue running across the cool surface to catch stray drops from the spill and the barest hint of scotch.

He hums softly in appreciation, grinning around his wandering tongue before offering the glass back to the now frozen-stiff man.

"A little taste won't hurt," Peter says, teeth catching on his bottom lip, fluttering his lashes just so, as if daring him to make a move-- and of course Tony does.

---

“Mmph-!”

“Shh, quiet now,” Tony rasps hoarsely into his neck, coarse stubble dragging across oversensitive skin— and that of course only serves to pull more noises from Peter, his whimpers echoing high and needy within the marble walls of the bathroom. If in any other circumstance Peter would be dying of mortification at the endless stream of girlish sounds falling from his open mouth; as it is however, he’s too busy holding on for the ride as Tony fucks him from behind, right up against the sink of the restaurants’ bathroom, hissing into his ear filth that could make him cry. “Yeah, that’s a good boy, don’t want anyone hearing those pretty little cries of yours, do we? ‘Cause only I get to hear them, sweetheart, hear how fuckin’ desperate you get with a fat cock in you—"

“Tony,” he pants, fingers aching from how hard he’s gripping onto the counter, trembling as his back arches from the force of Tony’s brutal thrusts. The next sob nearly chokes him. “Please—please—"

“I got you, doll,” the man grunts, then suddenly a warm calloused palm’s wrapping around his cock and stroking him with steady pumps, room quickly filling with the obscene sounds of wet skin slapping together and the gasping moans that wrench their way past Peter’s throat with every forceful snap of Tony’s hips.

A particularly rough thrust drives Tony impossibly deeper inside him, blunt head of his cock nudging against that bundle of nerves; eyes flying open and rolling backwards from the frisson of pleasure that shoots through him. “Oh god, Mr. Stark!”

Tony stiffens against him-- Peter lets out a needy whine in protest, more of a mewl than anything else—before fucking him harder, sloppier, hips snapping forward without finesse. “Fuck.” A ruined voice rasps into his bare throat, low and guttural; Peter saves this interesting new piece of information for later. “Christ kid, trying to kill your old man here? Fuckin’ hell.”

“Mr Stark- can I come?” Peter cries out, distantly aware that drool’s slipping past his lips and dripping down his chin, that he’s reduced to nothing more than a pitiful wreck from Tony’s cock and words alone. “Please, Mr Stark, please Sir—"

“Shit, yeah, ‘course you can baby, been such a good boy for me. You’ve earned it.”

Those last few words have barely left Tony’s mouth, and Peter’s falling apart with a weak sob, slumped under the larger body pinning him down, helpless but to ride out the waves of pleasure; writhing from overstimulation as Tony grinds his hips in rapid succession before spilling with a growl, teeth sinking into the already bruised skin of Peter’s bared neck—it’s only in the silence that follows, save for their panting, does he finally realise just how loud they’ve been.

"D'you think they heard us?" Peter finally asks after regaining his breath. Tony snorts into the crook of his neck where his head’s buried in.

“Doesn’t matter, their silence is paid for.”

Yet another perk of fucking a billionaire, Peter supposes.

As they walk out of the restroom together afterwards, Tony's arm slung lazily over the boy's shoulder and swirling patterns into his crinkled suit, Peter catches the disapproving stare from a woman seated nearby and thinks 'yeah, I could get used to this.'

#starker #peter x tony #drabble #prompt #this is so all over the place and im: so sorry???#a mess just like my life #sorry for taking so long with the prompts too :(#family unfriendly #sugar daddy tony #sugar baby peter

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