Chapter Text
Rapunzel (NSFW)
“Sweetheart,” your father grins. He’s all smiles tonight, and when he takes you under his arm you can smell the bourbon on his breath, “Finally come by to say, ‘hello,’ to the rest of us, huh?”
He was picking at you, and you roll your eyes. Tony loved making you squirm in front of the team, just as much as he loved parading you in front of them.
Steve is your only solace, gesturing between you and Tony helpfully, “Ah, Tony, let her go. She made her appearance, didn’t she?” The Captain purses his lips at you, informing, “He wouldn’t stop talkin’ about it. Half thought he was about to go hunt you down himself.”
“Can’t have a Christmas party without the gift of your company,” Tony shoots back sarcastically.
You offer Steve an appreciative smile at having cut your father’s teasing short for now. Most people seemed to assume you loved parties— you were Tony Stark’s daughter, after all. How couldn’t you? Like father, like daughter, right?
Well, contrary to the tabloids, they were wrong. Everything they printed about you, from that smear campaign about the Stark party heiress to that one time they had printed a completely fabricated story about how you and The Winter Soldier himself were having an affair, was false.
You went to parties when your father asked you to, and sometimes you even enjoyed them, but you certainly weren’t the party girl the papers seemed to think you were. You’d never even gotten drunk, at most a little tipsy, and you were lucky if you could get a date with a guy with the way Tony hovered, let alone have an affair. In fact, your dad had drilled you for a week looking for any truth after the tabloid in question, until he was thoroughly satisfied you weren’t actually running around with Bucky Barnes in secret. You could barely look Bucky in the eye the next time you had seen him.
In actuality, right about now you would much rather be curled up on the couch with Wanda watching the newest episode of The Bachelorette. Maybe if you left a little early, you could catch the last bit of the episode. Wishful thinking.
“Guess you get off easy tonight, kid,” Tony grins at you, and you peck him on the cheek in your gratefulness, the scruff of his beard pricking just a bit. His eyes slip down your dress, a frown setting in as he raises a scrutinizing brow, “Not that you don’t look beautiful— you always are, kiddo— but isn’t that dress a little short?”
“What are you talking about, Dad?” you look down at the dark black that hugged your best features and hid your worst, settling a few inches above your thigh appropriately, “Pepper was the one who picked it out!”
“It could use a couple more inches,” he pouts, and Steve’s too busy avoiding the topic entirely by taking a never-ending sip of his beer to jump in and help you on this one.
Thankfully, Natasha smacks your father’s shoulder, “Let the girl live a little, Tony! She can’t very well come to a party wearing a nun’s habit!” When he seems to consider it for even a moment, her tone flattens as she scolds him dryly, “She can’t.” Turning her attention to you, she ignores the frown she earns from Tony as she compliments, “I think you look great, and that dress is more than appropriate.”
“Thanks, you look amazing, too,” you laugh, and Tony sighs defeatedly, knowing he wasn’t going to win with the Black Widow on your side. You honestly wish you could get away with what she was wearing to this party, but your dad would probably have an aneurysm if you tried it. She was stunning, in a red sequin cocktail dress that was much tighter and shorter than your own, matching red lipstick perfectly outlining her lips. It screamed Christmas party goddess, and was quite the attention-getter. But then again, anything Natasha wore always looked amazing on her.
“Well, dads will be dads, I guess,” he finally concedes, giving you one last peck on the cheek before releasing you to your own devices. “Go have some fun, sweetheart.”
“I will. Probably going to head out after a little bit, after I finish making the rounds for you,” you grin at him. “The Bachelorette’s calling my name, ya’ know.”
“That’s my girl,” you leave Tony lingering with the Avengers, knowing the drill of these parties by now. Greet the partners, mingle with a few higher-ups that worked for Pepper and your dad, then you were home free. At corporate parties like these, especially the Christmas party, you had to put on a good face for the company. Be the girl that would instill confidence in the investors, since you would be running Stark Industries one day, if your dad had any say in it.
It takes all of thirty minutes to find yourself on the other side of the room, near the large windows framing this floor of the Tower and cornered by Janice Lincoln, who seemed determined to milk you for all of your life story. She was nice enough, but you were starting to get a little annoyed with the woman’s prying.
“It must be exciting, being near graduation from M.I.T.,” she giggles, finger tracing the rim of her champagne glass as she leans close like you were good girlfriends. You are not.
“Yes, ma’am,” you awkwardly shift from foot to foot, cursing your choice in heels and the fact that this conversation had gone on longer than you could stand, “I head to campus in the Spring, and then it’s right back here after graduation.”
“Any plans for after that? Will you be working under your father? I’m sure he must have big plans for you,” she presses, either not noticing or not caring that you’ve been trying to politely end the conversation for the past five minutes.
“Possibly, I was thinking of taking a little break, first, though,” you hated talking about your plans for the future. Everyone seemed to want to know them, but you felt as if you had barely lived at all up until now. Your whole life had been school, or helping your father. Then there was the whole saving-the-world thing that left you at the end of your rope with worry for your family whenever some new villain popped up.
You wanted to just relax for a month or two, in all honesty, but the pressure to live up to your father’s expectations and the Stark legacy loomed over your every move, forcing you onwards and into a productive future. Not that it was a bad thing, but questions like this did get tiring, especially when you knew any answer you gave would either taste like a lie, or disappoint the person on the receiving end of it.
Janice is in the midst of telling you all about how you should not take a break, and she has some great project you could cut your teeth on, if you’d only tell your father about it, when your eyes are drawn to your left. Across the floor, near the open bar, you capture the gaze of a man. His dark brown hair is perfectly styled, but you can tell there’s a little bit of length to it. His blue eyes, trained on your form in a way that only told you he had been watching you for some time before you’d noticed him, and, oh, so blue with the way the twinkling lights from the nearby fir tree caught in them. A dinner jacket covers broad shoulders, fitted in a way that could only be tailored, but the shirt beneath is a simple crew neck sweater, his gold chain glinting in the low light of the party and catching your eye. He looks delicious, and sparks something you didn’t often feel, deep in your belly. Your attention snaps back to Janice when he smirks and holds up his glass in a sort of greeting, catching your stare. You're under no disillusion that he had missed the way you had checked him out.
He was gorgeous, and you were blushing madly.
“I’m sorry,” you apologize, interrupting her. You hadn’t heard a word she’d said since he had caught your attention, “What was that you were saying?”
“Oh, I was just talking about the project, dear! It’s really quite interesting—” God help you, you can’t focus on a single word, because in your peripheral he has abandoned his spot at the bar to take up a leisurely pace towards you, closing the distance with each step of his long strides.
“Janice,” his voice is soft, unexpected as he interrupts her upon getting close enough to place a gentle grip on her shoulder, “how have you been?”
“Ah, Quentin,” she smiles up at him fondly, and that’s when it clicks for you just who he is. You hadn’t even recognized him without the beard. “I’ve been very good! Merry Christmas!”
He returns the sentiment, but his eyes quickly slip back to find yours, and suddenly you manage to think that The Bachelorette can wait a little while longer, when he offers you his hand, “Quentin Beck. We met, but it was a couple of months ago—”
You take it, trying not to focus on how much larger it is than your own, and how warm he is, or the firmness to his grip that seems to linger with his handshake, “When I was last in town, during fall break. I remember you, Mister Beck. Your work is on holographic systems, isn’t it? From what I remember of my father’s explanation, it sounded interesting.” As if you could forget him. Even in the brief introduction you had all that time ago, in the span of a few moments as you breezed through your father’s office, you had thought Quentin Beck to be quite the looker.
His eyes seem to light up as you mention his work, and his hand returns to his side, “Yeah, but who wants to talk shop at a party?” He did, clearly, but his gaze slips to Janice instead, almost accusatory with his mild suggestion as he watches her beyond the next sip of his drink.
She sighs, looking at you in a hint of apology, “That is true. I’m afraid I get carried away sometimes, but if you do decide to take me up on my offer, let me know.” She glances towards the bar, holding up her empty champagne glass, “I’m going to get another drink. Excuse me, won’t you?”
“Sure,” you both mimic, laughing at the coincidence as she abandons you both in favor of the bar.
“You looked like you needed some saving,” Quentin begins, moving a careful step closer.
“You could tell?” you sigh, rubbing your forearm with a guilty self-consciousness, “I’m not too good at this, I guess.”
“Good at what?”
“Pretending to be interested,” you felt bad about it, really you did, but you could only hide how you felt for so long. Your father always did say how you would be a terrible politician, because your face gave you away every time.
“Ah,” he sighs in understanding, lips quirking upwards at your confession. “Honestly? I’m not either.” He shrugs, sipping his drink, before he seems to come up with an idea that has him grinning down at you in all mischievous intent, “Hey, how about we make a deal? You don’t pretend to be interested and neither will I.”
You scoff, blurting before you thought better of it, “I don’t think pretending to be interested is anyone’s problem when it comes to you, Mister Beck.” Your eyes go wide when you realize what you’ve said, barely able to meet his amused observation as you look to the view beyond the window instead.
“I could say the same for you,” he moves a little closer, and you can smell his cologne. He contemplates you with a bit more scrutiny, until he asks, “How much longer are you planning on staying? You usually leave these things pretty quick, I’ve noticed.”
“Oh, you’ve noticed, have you?” you raise a brow at him. How many parties had you gone to that he had been at, without you knowing? In the sea of people who would attend your father’s soirées, you weren’t surprised you had missed him, but you were surprised he had kept an eye out for you.
“It’s hard not to notice you, princess,” Quentin chuckles, and you feel yourself heat up from head to toe. You weren’t stupid enough to miss his flirting, but the fact that he was flirting at all with you is enough to have you melting into a puddle of embarrassment. There’s a tease in his voice as he adds, “When your father lets you out of the Ivory Tower, that is.”
“He’s just a little protective,” you defend, but the look he gives you tells you he’s right, and you know it. “It’s just the way he is.”
“Sure, sure,” he begins, but you know enough to be suspicious of his complacent tone. In good judgement, too, because a smirk bites at his lips as he jokes softly not a moment later, “I bet you do whatever Daddy tells you to, don’t you?” It’s so screwed up how his tone and the way his gaze lingers on yours suggestively sends a shiver of lust rushing down your spine, arousal pooling in your belly. You don’t give him the dignity of an answer, but he doesn’t seem to need you to, content on teasing you just a little bit more, “Don’t tell me you’ve never been a little rebellious.”
Your face must give away more than you want it to, yet again, because he raises a brow as he lets out a huff of a laugh, “Really? Not at all? Not even once?”
“I didn’t say anything,” you try your best to glare at him, but you can’t, not with the way he was looking at you, and just how reciprocated his interest was on your part.
“You have to have had a rebellious phase. Everyone does,” he hums, trying to figure you out as he squints at you a bit, “Okay, let me guess, you snuck out of the house?” He must not get the answer he wants in your eyes, because he continues, “Took a boy up to your room?” Wrong again. He sighs, “You’ve gotta’ have done more than just a little backtalk here and there! I can’t believe you’re that innocent, honey.”
“What can I say,” you laugh, shrugging as you turn to lean against one of the beams between the windows, facing him, “I’m just a sweetheart, I guess.”
“No-one’s that perfect.”
“Not perfect,” you correct, breathing slowly as you try to steady the racing of your heart, “just obedient.”
Quentin leans close, and you find yourself relishing in the way his hand comes to rest on the window beside your face, a bit of a dare in his tone, “Come on, Rapunzel, don’t you ever want to let down your hair?”
Your laugh is strained, but your voice isn’t as shaky as you had expected it to be, your attention flickering down to catch the smirk framing his lips, “And how would you suggest I do that, Mister Beck?”
“Well,” he draws it out, as if tasting the word on his tongue, considering it, despite the fact that he’s planned his proposal since the moment he laid eyes on you, “it’s never too late for a little rebellion. Where do you want to start?”
“I wouldn’t know the first place to start,” you confess.
“It could start with you getting out of here with me,” there it is, his offer, out in the open, and yet polite enough for you to reject him if you wanted. But Quentin Beck seems pretty smug that you weren’t going to refuse him, or push him away from the short distance he had acquired in these past few minutes shared between you, and the way he’s looking at you is anything but polite. At your stunned silence, he prompts, voice low enough to set your soul on fire, “What do you say, Rapunzel? Don’t you deserve a little freedom?”
This was hardly your first time being propositioned, but it was your first time heavily considering it. It was so unlike you, really, but you wanted to give in to him. Call it the one drink you had at the start of the party, or maybe the fact that Quentin Beck was drop dead gorgeous in his own right, but either way, you find yourself managing a self-conscious nod. Yes.
Tonight, you were sick of being the girl locked in the tower. Tonight, you wanted to live a little.
“Let’s get out of here, then.”
“Good choice,” his grin only widens, the bright white of his teeth grazing his bottom lip before you reach out to take his drink from his hand. It’s almost empty, no more than a sip, but you knew well enough that you were going to need it to get you to the elevator without chickening out.
You knock it back, finishing it, before brushing it back into his fingers, “This way.”
You don’t wait to see if he’s following you, the heat of his gaze on the low cut of the back of your dress is all the confirmation you need. You don’t get too far ahead of him before he catches up, a hand finding the small of your bare back as he deposits his glass along the counter of the bar on your way towards the elevators.
Janice is sitting at the end of it, and for a moment you’re worried she’ll see you leaving with him, but she’s too enthralled in speaking with the bartender to even notice your escape. You silently thank whoever’s listening, because the last thing you needed in your life was more gossip. Or worse, for your father to find out.
The elevator opens with the push of a button, and as you step into it, you feel Quentin pull you flush against him, lips in your ear, “I’ve wanted to get my hands on you all night.”
“F.R.I.D.A.Y.,” your voice does shake this time, with the way his lips blazed against your throat; you swallow, willing yourself to be steadier, “take me to my floor.”
He’s spinning you in his arms, pressing you against the wall of the elevator, before she can even finish her proper, “Yes, Miss Stark.”
Quentin Beck is not your first kiss. Let’s get that straight right here and now. No, your first kiss was in your sophomore year of college, with a boy who you were far too enthralled by the experience of having your first kiss to worry about whether he was any good at it or not, or whether you liked him for more than that moment.
No, Quentin Beck may not be the first man to have ever kissed you, but he certainly is the first man to ever kiss you like this. Hand at the base of your neck, resting there as his lips capture yours, dominant against you as he presses his growl onto your tongue and his teeth graze your bottom lip just enough to remind you they’re there. He kisses you like he’s prepared to ravage you, right here in this elevator, the floor dinging off in announcement, and he still doesn’t stop.
Not until the elevator opens, and he’s utterly satisfied with the look of dazed bewilderment in your eyes.
“Honey,” he chuckles, “don’t tell me, you’ve never been kissed before?”
“I have,” you breathe, as he brushes his thumb along your neck and raises a brow like he doesn’t quite believe you. You don’t dare to tell him the whole truth of it, but it doesn’t seem to matter.
Quentin nods to the open elevator door, “Show me around, won’t you, princess?”
“Yeah, right,” you fumble, moving onto your floor, still dazed by his kiss. You could still feel the warmth of his lips, taste him on your tongue. All you can think about is kissing him again, when you move into the open space of your living room.
“Wouldn’t expect anything less,” he scoffs behind you, and you raise a brow at him. His eyes slide from their scrutiny of your home to you, as he offers an explanation, “Daddy dotes on you, huh?” You’re about to answer, but the shadow to his gaze stops you, as he steps forward, hands reaching for your hips to tug you flush against him.
You’re breathless, and he’s breathing against your lips, “You’re Daddy’s little girl, aren’t you?”
When you nod against him, his smirk returns, his hands slipping around your body, reaching behind you to grasp the zipper of your dress, and you let him tug it down, “Wonder what Daddy would think, if he knew what his little angel was about to do for me?”
The gasp you let out is as much from shock at his words as it is in arousal, and you feel your dress slack against your body. Quentin’s hands slip up your arms, to the straps of the dress, pushing it down with a devilish satisfaction. He had you right where he wanted you.
“It’s okay, honey. Daddy doesn’t have to know,” he coos, and your dress falls to your ankles. He leans back, taking a nice long, from your head to your toes, look at you. If the breeze along your bare nipples didn’t stiffen them, his gaze certainly did. It makes you flush, and the incessant urge to cover yourself from his gaze gnaws at the back of your mind, but you subdue it.
When Quentin’s eyes snap back to your own, he levels you with the husky tone to his voice, and the dirty question on his tongue, “Think you can be a good little girl for me, too, princess?”
Your voice is weak, a soft whisper, as you play his game happily, “Y-Yeah.”
His thumb and forefinger find your chin, tilting your head back so he can place another kiss on your lips, but this one is more subdued, lasting only long enough to leave you wanting more. When he lets you go, he moves to sit in the middle of your couch, and when he settles, he gestures you over with the crook of his index finger.
“First, why don’t you take those pretty little panties off for me, honey?” his legs were spread just enough for you to stand between them and, if he saw the panic flash over your features, he doesn’t acknowledge it.
Slowly, warily, you hook your fingers into the straps of your underwear, slipping them down your thighs as instructed and, when they’re at your ankles, you step out of them. Kicking them to the side.
Quentin’s leaned back, hand resting along his jaw as he watches you strip for him, the tent in his pants and the smirk at his lips his only signs of appreciation until, finally, he tells you what to do next, “Good job, honey. Now, turn for me. Let me take a good look at you.” You think he’s just as bad as your father— he just likes to watch you squirm.
You take a careful, calculated breath, desperate to keep a semblance of composure as you stand before him in nothing more than your heels, before doing as he asks. Slowly, you turn, and by the time you're more than three-fourths of the turn through, his hands are slipping up your thighs, urging you closer as he looks up at you like a man starved.
“Beautiful,” he admires, and you don’t care if it’s real or not, because right now all you want him to do is tell you that while he fucks you until you aren’t anymore.
“Quentin,” you whisper, for the first time, arms lounging around his shoulders as he pulls you to settle in his lap, and he kisses you again. Really, truly kisses you this time. No teasing, or games, just unadulterated passion as his tongue slips along yours and you sit flush along the straining of his dick in his trousers.
He was big, you could tell through the fabric, and the thought both excites and frightens you.
Then he’s turning, hands on your back, until he lays you down on the cold leather of the couch beneath him, groaning into your kiss as your fingers mess up the careful brush of his hair. You want him, more than you’d wanted anything, you decide, and you would have him.
When his hand slips from your thigh to between them, you mewl into his mouth, jolting at the feeling of his fingers pressing along your clit, rubbing you crazy. His stubble scratches, as he kisses down your jaw, to your ear, groaning darkly there.
“Has anyone ever touched you like this before, honey?” The answer catches in your chest, and his fingers press harsher as he glances at you from the corner of his eye, “Answer me.”
“N-No,” a confession on the edge of a moan, and you don’t know whether to be proud or ashamed of your virginity in this moment. Would he want the inexperience you had to offer him? Would it turn him off?
Your worries are short lived, because he groans deep, nipping at your neck as he slips a finger knuckle-deep within you, leaving you gasping for air as he grits between his teeth, “I’m going to absolutely ruin you.”
Mewling under his fingers, feeling so hot you can barely stand it, you dare him, “Do it.”
His hand between you stops, pulling out, but for him to spread you further as he pushes your knees up, ordering with a stern look from between them, “Keep them there, and don’t you dare try to keep any of those sounds quiet, princess. I want to hear them all.”
You nod dumbly, about to ask what he was going to do, but when he bends to kiss at your inner thigh, you get the picture pretty damn clearly. You can barely believe it, and you almost close your thighs around his head as a reflex, until he shoots you another warning glance.
Quentin kisses at your clit, and you let out a shaky breath, “You’re so wet, honey.” He grazes his teeth along your inner thigh, pushing his finger back within you teasingly, “Who are you so wet for?”
His voice is too damn steady, far too innocent sounding, for him to be saying such filthy things.
“You,” you murmur, and he licks you slow as reward.
“I’m sorry, you’ll have to speak up,” he taunts, “I can’t hear you from down here, Rapunzel.”
You huff out a laugh, before admitting a little louder, head falling back into the couch cushions as he starts to eat you out in earnest, “You— Quentin— it’s for you— ah…” Your hand flies to his shoulder, gripping into his dinner jacket, as you feel his fingers and tongue working you over from the inside out. Sure, you had gotten yourself off before, but everything about this was new, uncharted territory. He was so big between your thighs, everything about him so masculine— all man, from the size of his fingers within you to the scratch of his stubble on your inner thighs.
You were going to lose your mind at this rate.
He has you a mess in record time, using a second finger to stretch you a little more and leave you begging for… what? What were you begging for, other than the desperate please, Quentin, please dripping from your tongue over and over again?
All you knew, was it definitely wasn’t for him to stop.
He moans into your cunt, when you tug at his hair, pulling him closer and he gives it to you. Fingers drawing out your pleasure on his tongue, drowning between your thighs and the scent of you, he groans just as deep as before, and the feeling shakes you to your core.
You cum before you even think to tell him about it, arching from the cushions, gasping for air, thighs quaking around his head as he keeps you steady through it. Up until the very moment your body relaxes, collapsing into an exhausted heap, he kisses you gently, too pretty between your thighs for the sins he’s blazed along your skin.
And, God, you want to go again when he rasps, “You taste as good as I imagined,” fingers slipping from your aching cunt and offered to you to take between your own lips. You don’t even hesitate, opening your mouth for his fingers like you were born to do it, moaning around them as his nose presses into your jaw and his mouth blazes your skin, his hips grinding against the wet mess of your core, not caring for whatever stain you were certainly leaving along his pants.
“You look so pretty when you cum, princess,” Quentin huffs, pulling his fingers from your lips in favor of claiming them with his own. Gasping between your heated kisses, “Make me want to keep you to myself.” His gold chain grazes your chest, “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
You nod hastily, gripping the collar of his jacket and begging, not caring if you sounded desperate, “I need you, Quentin.”
“I’ve got you,” he hums against your lips, before leaning back to rip the jacket from his shoulders. He tosses it to the floor like it wasn’t expensive, even though you know better than that, but your fingers are too busy unbuckling his belt to care for the messy heap of clothes you’re making off the end of the couch. He’s not even out of his trousers when his dick slips, hot and heavy, into your hand, and you know enough to stroke him a bit, despite how careful you’re being. He chuckles, kissing you again, voice laced with arousal, “You can go harder than that, honey.”
Quentin reaches down, hand encompassing your own, and shows you what he means. Holds you a little tighter, strokes a little faster, and by the time you get it he’s pistoning his hips into your grip, breathing heavy above you, and you’ve never felt more proud than right now, reducing this man to such a state with just your hands.
When your thumb runs over the head of him, he groans low, “You ready, honey? ‘Cause I’m gonna’ fuck you until you can’t walk tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” you breathe, letting him slip you a little closer by a grip on your thighs.
“You let me know, if you want me to stop,” he kisses at your chest, and you feel the length of him running through your folds, hitting your clit only to repeat the motion, until he was good and wet with your arousal.
You nod, shifting your hips to catch him at your core, and shocking a startled breath from his lips as the head of him sinks, just a little, into you, “Give it to me, Mister Beck.”
“Fuck, princess,” he groans, holding your hips and easing himself a litle further breathlessly, “you talk awful dirty, for a good girl like you.”
The feeling is like nothing you’ve ever felt before. He’s so big, and you’re so full, and he’s not even all the way in yet. You’re grasping at his arms, scraping your nails down his chest, grasping for anything to ground yourself as he pistons his hips and hits you a little deeper with each sway of his hips that sends him inch after inch into you. It’s excruciating, in the best way possible, and by the time he moves again, any pain is far overpowered by the pleasure the fullness brings.
He’s not faring much better, a mess in your arms and when he bottoms out, he bends over you, pressing you down with the weight of his chest against yours. You can barely breathe, but it only adds to the pleasure, as his hand finds your hair while the other arm wraps around you, bring you tight into his thrusts.
You can barely think anything other than, you hope this isn’t a one time thing. You’re in trouble now.
“Faster,” you murmur in his ear, and his moan vibrates from his chest to your own, as his hips pick up their pace. You can feel every bit of him, the curve of his dick, the rub of his pelvis against your clit when he bottoms out— it leaves you dizzy in the head, fucked up beyond all belief.
“Tell me,” he pulls back, to get a good look at you, wiping the hair from his eyes and begging in his own right, “how you like it, honey.”
“Just like this,” you mewl, mouth parted, panting, gasping, moaning his name. It’s the truth, and you can’t wait to see what else you manage to discover, with him buried deep inside you. “Just like you give it—”
“That’s right,” he groans, gasping as his hips smack lewdly against your own, “who does this tight, little, pussy belong to, baby?”
Your back arches, as he licks the pads of his index and middle fingers only to slip them between you to rub tight, focused circles on your clit, your voice breaking with the force of it, “You— You, Quentin—!”
“You gonna’ cum? Go on, cum all over me, princess,” he urges, hitting you deep and fast with far more of an overbearing intensity with the added stimulation of his fingers at your clit. You were no doubt getting there, on the verge of another orgasm, all thanks to him.
Your fingers run down his back, holding him close, as you beg softly, “Kiss— kiss me—”
“Gladly,” he growls, and comes crashing down upon you, wave after wave of pleasure accompanying his lips in an overwhelming peak that has you gasping your moans into his mouth as he drinks you in, hips hitting you over and over as deep as he can, and sending your body into overdrive as the bliss wipes your mind clean for a fantastic few moments, your walls spasming around him until his own pace falters. His sounds, though? They’re something you can’t get enough of, moaning just as filthy against your tongue as he hastily pulls out, spilling along the curve of your stomach and the dip of your navel.
“How’s that,” he breathes, labored, against your lips as you hold onto him in the aftermath of your orgasm, his hand at your throat turning the lull of your head to face him, “for freedom, Rapunzel?”
It was exhilarating, but you weren’t going to tell him that.
“Good enough,” you grin up at him, still with enough decency to look bashful as you ran a finger along your stomach, through the remnants of his own release, “to go again, Mister Beck.”
He chuckles, bending to kiss you again. Yeah, he was going to ruin you, Mister Stark’s sweet little girl, alright.
Neither of you can wait.