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stuffedfroggie · 4 years ago

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Doctor Strange - An Out-of-Body Experience (Baby Blues & Tattoos II)

A/N & WC - The love I received on Baby Blues & Tattoos is incredible. Thank you so much for the support. I wasn't planning on making a part two, but I've had so many inbox messages about this, asking me to write a sequel and after some time and deliberation, I did: here it is. This is a celebration and a show of gratitude for 7k+ notes on 'Baby Blues & Tattoos', and for more than 3.5k followers. Though it's a sequel, it can be read as a standalone. 6.9k words.

PLEASE REBLOG!!!

Warnings - Swearing, bickering, teasing, mentions of scars, one mention of vomit, smut: daddy kink, unprotected sex, questionable use of the cloak, oral (f rec), so much choking, panty ripping, mild gagging, teasing, tattoo kink, almost getting caught & mild exhibitionism, he calls reader a prick tease once, and an out-of-body experience. 18+

Summary - You plan on getting Stephen to snap tonight, knowing exactly what you want. But he has wants of his own, and ideas to bring to life, and things he isn't afraid to do in the middle of the Sanctum... (Baby Blues & Tattoos - Part I)

THE SANCTUM GROWS QUIET as the dark creeps in, like an impending mist enveloping the small Bleecker Street building in a blanket of calm. Tonight, with stars twinkling and blinking within view of the Eye, you’re on duty with Stephen—Sorcerer Supreme, and pain in your arse extreme.

“Can you move out of the damn way?” he asks with a huff, floating in mid air, the Cloak of Levitation billowing behind him. He’s reading two books at once, and apparently, by sitting down to enjoy your cup of tea, you’re utterly in his way. His legs dangle, poised, too close to your head for your liking.

“No,” you retaliate, “go around me.”

“Why should I? I’m in charge here,” he says, scoffing as though it’s the most obvious fact in the world.

His baby blue eyes twinkle with venom, but you know your next move will have his pupils dilating until barely a thin ring of cerulean will be left to outline them. You stand up. Boldly, you reach for the reams of belt that tie your robes together and tug, allowing them to unravel, the material falling open and revealing your tattooed body, bare but for some scraps of sheer material one might call underwear. Standing, you approach his descending frame, his feet catching on the floorboards as he lands.

“You didn’t seem to think that last night.” You smirk unabashedly at his paling face. “Oh! Y/N! Please…” you mimic, even dropping your jaw wide and tossing your head back just for dramatics.

He clamps a hand, scars running down each finger, protruding from his skin, over your mouth the second it opens again, and he runs you up against the wall, caging you, trapping you helpless between his arms, between his heating body and the bricks.

“I’m warning you,” he growls.

His voice is a rumble that vibrates through your chest and straight down to your core. Heat skittles over your skin as his eyes roam your body lacking any semblance of shame, his gaze catching on one of your newer tattoos. He’s obsessed with them, to the point you can barely see the more detailed ink through the bruising hickeys he’s littered all over you. He lifts his hand from your mouth when your tongue darts out to lick his palm.

“Or what, daddy?”

It clamps around your neck instead. His calloused skin is rough against your sensitive neck, and the pressure, oh that heavenly pressure, not choking you, but just restricting your airflow enough to drive you insane. You use that name teasingly, you have ever since the first day, but it still gets to him. His lips come down on yours harshly, kissing you with such great intensity that it snatches your breath more than ‘erotic asphyxiation’ ever could. Only, you’re interrupted before his tongue can even steal between the seal of your lips.

“Guys!” Wong shouts. “Come on, please. Keep it in the bedroom.”

Stephen removes his hand from your neck with a tremble and his lips from yours, but instead of jumping away, he presses his body to yours, shielding your bare flesh. He covers you. He turns his head, half smiling apologetically before leaning his forehead against yours. Once Wong’s footsteps recede, along with his under-breath mutterings about how you must get a kick out of the exhibitionism, Stephen steps away from you, and begins to wrap your robes around you once more. Your cheeks burn as you tie the belt, wrapping it multiple times around you, not even wincing when it catches on your belly button piercing.

The two of you have been… for lack of a better phrase that isn’t utterly crude, ‘canoodling’, for some weeks now, and though your relationship is by no means a secret, especially with all the ridiculously loud and blasphemous sex that can be heard despite enchantments and wards, you can’t let it impact your work. Though Stephen is in charge and could bend the rules for the two of you, there’s far too much at stake should either of you trip up. It’s a tough divide, especially when you’re in contrasting shifts, but you make it work because, well, you have to, and now you’ve started with Stephen, you’re loath to stop or find anyone else again. He makes you feel.

“Get to work,” he tells you once you’re ready. “You know what you have to do.”

“Myeh, you know what you have to do,” you mimic.

He rolls his eyes as he stalks away from you, nudging your shoulder. You can feel his smirk though, sensing that he’s got under your skin with the way your eyes burn into his back. He takes some long strides, but then he’s floating, and locked in his head, the eye on his chest glowing in finely tuned emerald hues, boring through the matching eye on the front of the building. Something’s coming, clearly, but now he’s locked in his head, a threatening serenity emanating from him,

You’re going to get him to break tonight, you’re convinced of it. You’ll snap his resolve and have him a horny, blathering mess by the time you’re done with him. But for now, you straighten your robes, and get to work on your own.

—

As a newly qualified Master of the Mystic Arts, having finished your training younger than most, you still have a lot to learn. Hence why, after perusing the library for half an hour, your fingertips gathering dust as you run them along the spines of all the ancient grimoires, you settle with two books in one of the high-backed leather chairs, alert. One of the books purrs to life as you open it, stroking the thick cover with all its unique ridges and bumps. When you read books like these, it feels as though they’re talking to you, like the magic within them is speaking down your ear in a low whisper, telling you everything you need to know. This particular book is on weapons, and the chapter that’s drawn you in, on Ebony Blades. You possess many of them, more than the rest put together, because you’re so skilled in them. Whatever fight approaches, your weapon of choice is your blade, it’s only right you read more about them.

It’s like you’re sucked into a vacuum, lost to the book until you’re nearly finished, only a chapter and a half from the end of the grimoire, when a dangerous clatter of wood and metal echoes down the stairs and has your neck snapping upright, your skin stippled with goose-bumps as the information bleeds in. Instantly, a dagger is pulled from your holster, and a protective field us up around your fist, orange glowing and bouncing off the ancient mirrored artefacts.

“Down, girl!” Stephen shouts, and the smirk on his face contorts his words to have a certain broad quality, “I just dozed off and fell.”

You release a sigh of relief, let the shield flicker out and fall, and stash your blade back away. Rolling your eyes, you grab the grimoire and fall back into your chair.

“Sorcerer Supreme, everyone!” you bellow in reply, ensuring your words are heard by the building itself.

“You know what? You’d better hope I don’t come down there and teach you a God-damn lesson.”

You click your tongue, falling back into that calm headspace to finish reading, “Whatever you say, Doctor.”

—

Darkness has fully enveloped the Sanctum by the time you stir from your reading induced reverie, only noticing that all the stars have winked out and so you can’t read the twisting words in the grimoire any longer.

“Stephen, lights!” you call.

Nothing happens, no light, not even the whisper of wind to notify you he’s nearby, just dead silence. Until he’s right there next to you

“What are you reading?”

The lights flicker on. You mask it well, but your heart jumps to your throat, your grimoire slamming shut and hissing—literally hissing—at Stephen. He glares at the worn leather cover and it shuts up, but you’re trying too hard to maintain composure to take much notice of the darkening of his baby blues.

“None of your business,” you say.

“I asked,” he leans down, lips right next to your ear, his voice low and growling, “what you’re reading.”

“'Beyond the Realm.' Reading more about the Astral Plane.”

His smirk is enticing, and you find yourself drowning in his sapphire blue eyes as they scrutinise every line of your face, every miniscule expression.

He cocks his head, and rests his elbows on the crown of the chair, “In that case, why are you singing some trashy pop song I could listen to on any radio in the city?” he asks.

“To piss you off.”

He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, rolling his baby blue eyes. “I hate to concede that you’re succeeding.”

“And besides, it’s actually a song the book made me think of,” you protest, arms folding over your chest after settling the grimoire on the side table.

“Really?” He arches a brow, utterly unabashed, pulling a gnarled hand through his short, salt & pepper beard, “I’m sure it did.”

You smirk: it was a somewhat subconscious move to start humming while you read, but you knew what you were doing. Stephen hates noise, especially the music you like. It usually ends in some... fun.

“We can forget about the noise. That is…” you trail off, taking him by the lapels of his robes in order to stand up, “if you’re up for breaking the rules,” you drop your voice to a husky whisper, and yank harshly to bring him to your height in order to purr, “daddy.”

Your wrists are wrenched by his hands a moment later, and he holds a surprisingly strong grip on you, cornering you with wide strides on the old creaky wooden floor until you’re falling backwards over the arm of the chair. His eyes are dark, his cheeks sucked in, his lip drawn dangerously between his teeth. Every rigid line in his body screams to give into you, to punish you, to fuck you. But he’s on duty. So he pulls you up with a gentler hand, pulls at his fingers, and averts his gaze. At least his robes hide his boner.

“Get back to work, Rookie,” he says as nonchalantly as though it’s a passing comment, but you hear the strain in his voice.

Time to pull out the big guns.

“Actually, if you’re okay on your own for five, I was gonna head to the all-night Bodega, get some stuff. You need anything?”

Obviously you can’t go in your sorcerer robes, no, that would be insane. So you start to strip for the second time tonight. Except this time, no matter how hard he tries, Stephen can’t hide how turned on he is. His high cheek bones begin to grow the same red as his cloak, his pulse thudding hard enough to be felt outside his body. One up to you.

“Can you actually, um, summon my clothes? I think I left them on my dresser chair.”

As he’s stumbling over his words, clearing his throat, and doing what you’ve asked, you remove the Ebony Blades stashed at your hip and in your boots, keeping only the one in your lace thigh holster that you know drives Stephen insane.

Since he’s away with the fairies, his eyes transfixed on your pert nipples showing through your bralette, he lets your pile of clothes slam straight into your face. They drop to the floor with a sigh and a flutter.

“Oh my God I’m so sorry!” he says, rushing to your aid, but you’re shouldering past him, leaning down to tug your jeans on while giving him a full view of your cleavage. “I— um, I don’t need anything from the Bodega farm. Be safe.”

You tug your hair out from the neck of your shirt before you go, smiling at him, even winking, adding a sway to your hips as you strut around the sanctum, down the grand staircase, and across the great wooden hallway, blowing a still transfixed Stephen a kiss over your shoulder as you go.

—

Heading both into and out of the store, you can feel his eyes lasering into you the whole way, and you wouldn’t have been surprised if he had some kind of spell cast to track you while you were in there. You stay inside the walls just long enough to have him irate, almost as though you can feel his nerves bubbling on edge. As you exit though, even halfway up the street, you let your eyes flicker to the Eye of Agamotto, distinguishing your old brick house from the rest of the almost-identical buildings lining the street with exquisite architecture on this end of the concrete jungle you and one-point-six million other people call home. They don’t get to live in a magical Sanctum with their boyfriends. Your boyfriend is still watching you as you totter down the street, so you withdraw a banana from your bag, peel it, and start eating. Chuckling to yourself, there’s pep in your step heading back in.

The second the great oak doors swing open, you know there’s hell to pay: it lingers in the air. But just to rile him up further, you tug your shirt off in one brisk move, polishing the fruit off in one swift, sensual bite. He’s floating at the top of the stairs, his fingers flexed, his face apoplectic, his neck rigid. Even his cloak is standoffish with his attitude this way.

The thing you focus on isn’t his anger, his lust, but the intimacy of you standing with only the staircase between you, each revealed in your own little ways. Stephen is gradually getting more and more confident with the use of his hands in the bedroom, more comfortable with the appearance of them, so when it’s just the two of you on duty, he’ll forgo the gloves. Soon, maybe, he’ll actually go gloveless for more occasions than sex and Sanctum dates.

You prop your hands on your hips, tilting your head teasingly, reaching for the hem of your trousers. He blinks his eyes.

“Are you just going to stand there and watch me, or are you going to fuck me the way I know you want to, Doctor Strange?”

In a blanket of darkness, you’re whipped around the building, and the small of your back is pressed to the chair you were reading in. His lips waste no time teasing you, instead colliding with yours with a burning passion that ignites a bonfire in your belly. His tongue slips between your lips, exploring urgently, hurriedly. He doesn’t waste a second in yanking your bottoms off, shucking them down your legs, not even caring about your Ebony Blade in its special lace holster. His hands then begin to roam your back, a single finger running up your spine, cupping the wings of your shoulder blades almost tenderly, only for him to then snap your bra off. You try to gasp, but his skilful tongue slips further into your mouth, deepening the kiss to the point of his devouring you mind, body and soul. Your hand in his hair, you use the other to create some semblance of leverage, your knees buckling beneath you. And as lovely as it would be to fall to your knees on this sanctimonious, hallowed ground within these ancient walls to suck off your handsome sort-of-boyfriend, that doesn’t exactly seem like his plan, not with the fervour with which he’s grinding his clothed member against your weeping core. Your panties are soaked to an uncomfortable level.

“My little Rookie… it’s abysmal, your behaviour. Can’t go five minutes without getting horny for me, can you?” he inquires rhetorically, shirking off your advances.

The look you share is almost clandestine, telling of all your night-time obedience, your impatience, his crystal eyes twinkling with the secrets you share.

“Well, you know what gets me going Doctor,” you say with feigned composure, although you both know that no amount of composure can truly disguise the wanton fire dancing in your eyes. He cocks his head, his hair falling with the movement, an errant lock of dark hair falling across his creased forehead. “That stupid fucking goatee.”

Your smirk drives him to a level of irritation you’ve never seen on him. It’s preposterous, but he looks fucking gorgeous, his high cheekbones flaring crimson. How does his sex appeal only increase when he’s seething? He was irate the first time the two of you slept together and he did not disappoint (not that he has since, it’d just be nice to recreate the passion). You’re transparent around him, though.

“I know it makes your thighs tingle, baby.”

Despite your flustered state, you know he’s right, though mainly (only) when it's glistening in your translucent juices after going down on you with his perfect, thick tongue. The burn is so fucking delectable…

“I didn’t always have it,” he explains, casual all of a sudden, one gnarled, scarred hand rubbing up and down your thigh almost affectionately.

“Really?”

“Yeah, I had no facial hair.”

“I wouldn’t have gone for you otherwise, bub, I’m sorry. I just… no.”

His other hand brackets your throat not a second later.

“You’re gonna pay for that one,” he purrs.

Of course it was a ploy. Of course he was going to trip you up so he can take you how he wants to: like a man starved. One all… but at this point, you’re as riled up as you were trying to make him… You can’t swallow down your petulance anymore, so you glower at him, ignoring the goose-bumps stippling your arms from the lack of oxygen to your brain, only furthered by the rough skin of his hands on the sensitive flesh of your neck, bitten and bruised and inked within an inch of its life.

“My little prick tease…”

Using your neck he turns you around and lets go a moment later, your stomach pressed to the high back of the chair, the material scratchy against your new belly piercing. Though you can’t see it, you can feel him surveying you, every available inch, tattoos old and new and covered in love bites that he ghosts his fingertips over, eyeing one spanning your hip and upper thigh filled with old runes and sorcery imagery, only to crouch in order to examine a floral display covering your entire left calf. A wave of pleasure heats your blood when his lips meet your skin in what feels like forever.

He kisses up your body harshly, biting, bruising, and stops when he reaches your bum. A rip cleaves the air.

“Stephen—”

“Doctor,” he corrects, drawing you up short. You can’t fathom a thought right now, let alone words. “Are you gonna be a good little Rookie? Take what I give you?” He pauses, realising that your knees are starting to buckle, your top half almost falling over the other side of the chair. He yanks you up again, impelling you to find the strength. “Do you want this?”

“Yes!” you cry out. “Yes, plea—”

Your panties are stuffed in your mouth before you can finish speaking, fingers digging into the chair for the purchase you so desperately require. Your body has decided to let you play, judging by the drool spilling from the corners of your mouth and the slick dripping down your thighs, but so has his, because if he’s gagging you, he’s come to play, and he won’t tease you much longer, even if it was only fair recompense for how you teased him earlier in the evening…

You have to cast a look over your shoulder to catch the sight, but it’s one you wouldn’t miss for the whole God-damn world. He drops his pants and there it is, his thick cock hanging heavily between his strong thighs. Pre-ejaculate drips from his end. You can’t describe it, he just looks… virile, his member thick and long with a slight curve… The next moment, it’s sweeping through your sex. He flexes his dick in approval of you wiggling your arse for him, slowing it to bounce up and hit your ass cheek. Your muffled squeal goes straight to his stalk of flesh. His eyes, glowing with fire, are the ultimate aphrodisiac. Spitting out your knickers, you smile, smile, when he begins to sink in, kissing your neck following your rumble of assent, but it doesn’t last long, not when your fucked-out state invokes the devil in him. When he slams in hard, all the air leaves your body. The chair rocks, the legs squeaking and grating on the floor. He’ll have to clean it, polish it, or magic it better, but you don’t even think about what he’ll do when he’s fucking you raw. He’s won, fair and square.

“Tell me how you feel,” he commands.

You gasp, his deep voice sending a pleasurable chill rippling down your exposed spine. His harsh grip on your waist as he tugs your body back onto him, using you for his own pleasure, impels you to speak the unutterable: your mind.

“Vertiginous…”

“Awww,” he coos, his tone condescending the way it was when he first had you ride him in that hotel bed, his breath heavy on your shoulder blades. “Look at my Rookie, all mine, using big words.”

“Yes, Doctor,” you cry, hiding a wince at the rough press of the chair into your stomach.

He hits his hips back in like a jackhammer, and your nipples tighten almost painfully as you’re driven into the high-backed chair.

His sexual prowess is impressive, and you’d be more than happy to stay this way, letting him take you from behind and bent over whichever surface took his fancy that minute, but this chair is really digging in…

��Stephen, stop.”

Prior to your comprehension, his weight is no longer hovering over you, his hands no longer spanning every inch of flesh they can reach, and his cock is standing in front of his stomach, the curve of it matching his frown quite ironically.

“I’m so sorry. What do you need?” he asks hurriedly.

His concern is palpable, driving sympathy to punch you deep in the gut where an orgasm was beginning to build, only for discomfort to edge you. The hands he so hates are quivering, half hidden by the shadow of his head hung low, his anxiety inordinate. You smile in an attempt of reassurance and push up from the chair, turning to face him and folding your arms over your exposed chest. One step over the old, glossy parquet floor to reach him, two.

“You did nothing, I promise.” He visibly deflates at that, his hands halting their trembling as he tucks them behind his back. “That chair was just really uncomfortable, the height and all…”

His exhale is long, and a sheen of perspiration dusts your bodies already from the exertion. He looks like a God. He is a God.

“I can remedy that. I’m sorry,” he laments, a note of hope in his tone.

Before you can quite process it, his signature crimson cloak is in his hands, tapping at his wrist with the embellished corner, only for it to then lie out flat. Stephen’s eyes search yours for confirmation, his marked fingers tugging at his dark beard. You nod and let him lift you.

Poor cloak, the things it's seen and is yet still bound to. It’s a wonder it still considers Stephen a worthy master.

You know why it’s in use, to levitate the two of you, allowing him to take you the way he wants without worrying about too much strain on his hands, still not used to bearing so much weight during times of hearty exertion. Stephen’s smirk is just discernible in the dim lights, the silver streak in his hair making him appear wise. He sheds his remaining garments, and steps closer to you, trailing his calloused thumb up the sensitive inside of your ankle, up your calf, around your thighs, hips, across your belly and up your ribs until he’s palming at your tits and all but kneeling before you, his abs as chiselled as his jaw.

With his positioning, you expect him to go down on you, but you can’t say you’re surprised when he presses his tongue flat against your belly button, a pleasured hiss escaping you.

He’s besotted with your body, completely, utterly and irrevocably besotted. His current chosen point of interest before he slips back in is your navel piercing. You got it done the second he expressed an interest in such, having wanted one for so long: you finally had a reason to. He hasn’t left it alone since. He worships every inch of you.

“Are…” you sigh, keenly aware of his hand hovering over your clit, “are you gonna fuck me?”

He straightens himself up, inwardly berating himself for denying you both the pleasure, his cock inexorably hard now. He hoists your thigh around his torso indecorously, and winks, his baby blues twinkling with a salacious lust only you can quench. It’s a long shot, teasing him and riling him again tonight after everything you’ve already tried, but it damn well works. His remaining resolve disintegrates before your eyes when you snake your thumb down to your throbbing pearl and press once, a torrent of pleasure washing through you. In the thrall, you don’t see him shuffling around and positioning at your entrance, carefully balanced at the edge of the cloak. He tips his head back and slams in hard, his beautiful face contorting.

Lust sinks it’s fangs into your belly and his heart, crackling like electricity the moment he’s balls deep within you, circling his hips patiently to ease you into it, allowing you to adjust to his size. After all this time, it’s still a little uncomfortable without proper preparation.

“You can move, baby,” you tell him, reaching up to clasp at his damp shoulders.

You could swear he whispers, “I’m gonna fucking ruin this pretty pussy all over again,” under his breath, but you can’t be sure, not with the pleasure that overtakes you as soon as he bucks his pelvis. Thus far he’s made good on his promise from that first night: he has completely and utterly ruined other men for you, and there’s not a single doubt in your mind about the fact you’ll stay with Stephen.

His thrusts start off languorously, spreading your legs wider with a strong grip as his eyes roam your body, unable to focus on one thing. It evades all of your logic, his obsession with your tattoos, but your obsession with his stunning, crystal baby blues evades him also.

“You’re so warm, darling,” he hisses, his breath hot on your boobs, “squeezing me so good.”

You toss your head around a little, your neck supported by the cloak, snug around your back, murmuring, “I need your hands, Doctor, I need your hands on me so bad. Please touch me.”

His smile flickers but is firmly back in place when he speaks, low and gravelly, “Focus on me, yeah?”

You do, enthralled by the enigma written in every feature of his, the twinkle in his eyes and the slight peek of his teeth when he smiles a certain way, like he is right now, an innocent smile for such a sinful act. He’s a walking juxtaposition, or, right now, a fucking one.

The emotion darkening his baby blues is purely primitive, rapturous. Your soul is already listing in his direction forever, and there’s no reversing it. His scarred hands wrap around your inked thighs and hike them up with verve. You watch him temporarily lose his trail of thought in the swirls of ink on your legs when he removes them from the scarlet of the cloak and, on a long withdraw from your tensing cavern, places them up over his shoulders, eliciting a mix between a shrill cry and a gasp from your suddenly dry throat. When he gets you in this position, you know you’re in for it, so dig your nails into his broad shoulders, leaving crescent moons in their wake. He makes haste in driving into your sex with carnality, the full access pleasing him almost as much as your pleading whimpers.

“You can do better than that,” you tease, swallowing your words with heated cheeks once his pelvis grinds ever so perfectly against your engorged clit, desperate for any attention it can get.

He repeats the move multiple times, his salacious instincts not erring despite the fact you’re fucking in the middle of the sacred Sanctum Sanctorum where you both live and work… with other people. You don’t care right about now, not as his pumps get harder and harder, his deep moans permeating your bones: let the world hear, let the world see how well he pleases you.

His barbaric thrusts bow your back, possessing your pleasure. Your chest heaves at the sensation of his booming grunts rumbling throughout you, your name mingled within like a prayer.

“y/n… my baby, my Rookie… do I make you feel good?”

“So good, Doctor!” you cry out without having to think about it, satisfied by the infectious glee spreading over his features, satisfied to let go of his shoulders, falling back, weightless, onto the cloak.

This is an experience to remember… and that’s before he snakes one rough, marred hand around your throat.

The choked sound you make worries him enough to drop his hold on both that and whichever part of your body his other hand is exploring (though that’s currently lost on you), but when you nod your head, a playful gleam lighting up your eyes, he starts to choke you again in the most pleasurable way possible.

His thrusts continue, and when you begin to feel dizzy, your eyelashes fluttering and your heart rate increasing, he usually lets go. This time, he doesn’t relent in either his hold on the column of your hickey-covered throat or his thrusts.

You’re not worried, but you ease more when he whispers between expletives, “I wanna try something. Just trust me.”

You do.

And it’s the best damn decision you’ve made in your entire lifetime.

For a split second it feels as though your soul has let your body… and that’s because, well, it has. Casting a glance to your left, there you are, hovering above the ground in an almost hologram, not fully corporeal but there, present, astral, and feeling everything. Both you and Stephen stand in the glimmering shards nude, waiting. You submit to his control there as well.

The second you fall willingly at his mercy in this alternate realm, his tongue doesn’t hesitate to lash at your clit. It’s almost violent the way he eats you out: his last meal in the wilderness. There’s nothing reverent here. There’s no place for loathing or love, scorn or reverence, solely sex and pleasure. And he offers you those in heaped fucking spades, in both damn worlds. His neatly trimmed beard scratches the insides of your thighs in one realm, but in another, where you’re sure to be corporeal, his moustache is tickling your Cupid’s bow. If you focus, you can taste the sweetness of yourself on his tongue, however that may be possible.

“Such a needy Rookie aren’t you? Can barely handle choking before you’re going astral,” he mocks. All you can do is take his pleasure and his teasing, just feeling.

He’s voracious, insatiable, and each buck of his hips matches in perfect synchronous symphony with each swipe of his tongue in the Astral Plane. He’s not relenting. A swarming dizziness overtakes your head, and however light you feel, you know it’s not from the cloak’s alleviation of pressure, but instead from unadulterated pleasure.

You feel a smack to your cheek, every rough ridge and scar on Stephen's hand digging into your flesh momentarily. His baby blue eyes bore into yours a moment later, his spare thumb pressing circles into the tattoo on your ribs.

“Don’t go getting woozy on me, Darling. I want you to look at how I’m fucking you with my tongue. Can you feel it?”

Tongues thrash, yours and both of his. The kiss you share is heated, lancing through any resolve you had to suppress the onslaught of euphoria he can provide by his cock and his tongue fucking you in the Astral Realm. The sight of it is so phenomenal that it snatches your breath, let alone the fact you’re able to feel it all.

You hum and blather senselessly in response, hoping it’s at least sensical enough to string together an answer, but the pressure in your throat and his teeth grazing your inked collarbone tell you otherwise.

“I said: can you feel me? I’m everywhere.”

“Yes! I can feel you Daddy!”

You can feel his beard tickling your thighs and your sensitive lower lips, grating and rough and oh so pleasurable. You can feel his thick cock so deep inside you, every ridge stimulating your walls so perfectly: the bulge in your lower belly proves how deep he is on each thrust.

His hips stutter the second his lithe muscle ventures and dips into your dripping, full hole. The azure light behind his orbs flickers. His hands tremble.

And then his moment of insecurity is over as quickly as it began, his calloused palms now roughly grabbing onto your supple breasts as leverage as he pistons in and out of you with such force that even the cloak begins to wither beneath it. He delves straight back into your cavern in the astral realm, alternating between lavishing kisses on the tattoos on your hips and thighs and your desperate core. His attention doesn’t once cease, even when he’s switching between various points of such.

“You have to come, Rookie,” he pants, “you have to fucking come.” Even if his aggressive gritting out of the words, punctuated by a deep thrust, doesn’t seem too romantic, in context, it’s precious. Every single time he’s the perfect lover: you always come first, you have to come before him.

“Daddy!” you mewl.

“Oh my fucking God you’re tight,” he hisses, a gravelly quality to your voice that has your walls spasming around his cock.

Tears stream down your cheeks, babbled begs spilling unprompted from your lips. He pointedly plucks at your nipple with one hand, flicking your stimulated clit with microscopic accuracy with the other. The wretchedness bubbles within him, tightening his shoulders as he nears his release, a maelstrom of pleasure his only goal. And when it hits, it’s unquantifiable.

A phantasmagorical display erupts within your body, mind and soul when an orgasm of cataclysmic proportions slams into you. The sight of him still endlessly tongue-fucking you in another realm with every sensation rippling throughout your corporeal being mixed with the headiness of pleasure alone, on top of the edging you've received thus far tonight, it’s the most delightful feeling you’ve ever experienced, one you’d sell your soul to feel again. It’s an out-of-body experience, quite literally. Your climax elongates into a haze, and you lose control of your body, your walls convulsively spasming around Stephen. All you feel is him and unbridled euphoria, all you need is him. His punishing pace doesn’t falter until, at some point he empties himself into you with the loudest bellow you’ve ever heard him emit, and though you can’t know, it feels as though it echoes off the walls and throughout the entire Sanctum. His feet give way from the floor that has to be a hundred years old—now tarnished forever, and as the blinding, hot-white flash of pleasure begins to ebb, his body weight is on you like a blanket.

You feel a final rush of moisture as your body relaxes, spent, into the support of the cloak and the affection of Stephen’s arms. One arm is snug around your torso, his hand splayed on your ribs, while the other cradles your bum with a snug hold, tracing the tattoos with his thumb.

“You with me?” he asks tenderly, stroking your skewwhiff eyebrow.

“Yeah.” You sigh, already drunk on the scent of him: pheromones, sweat, Stephen… “That was…”

He cuts in, “Was it ok?”

Bad timing for you to roll your eyes, but it temporarily slips your mind that you’re essentially in a floating hammock, “Yes, Stephen. If you’d have let me finish I would’ve told you it was more than okay.”

“Someone’s searching for a spanking.”

“That I am,” you play, “but not now. That was incredible. How did you do that? I’ve never been able to stay conscious while in an astral projection.”

He shrugs one strong, sweaty shoulder that brushes your warm cheek, “I lent you some of my power so you could. But now I need to rest my magic too.”

Nuzzling into him is something you didn’t expect to be doing at this moment, but it feels right, “Thank you. It was… an out-of-body experience.”

“And a bloody half!” he guffaws. “I had no idea if it would work in all honesty, but you asked that first night… and I’ve been researching ever since.”

Your eyes widen, your head snapping up to meet his baby blues, “You did this because of one comment I made the first night we shagged?”

“Yeah,” he presses a kiss to your temple, “why wouldn’t I? I love you.”

Eerie silence suffocates the Sanctum. Your heart begins to beat out of your chest, fire roaring in your veins, only to ice over when he starts to speak again, his clear flustered state making him distant.

“I— I mean I don’t love you, I just mean that we’re in a sort of established relationship and I— I like you lots. You don’t, um, have to reciprocate. A— at all. I shouldn’t have said that.”

You cut his rambling off this time with a kiss, short and sweet on his lips, his heavy cupid's bow deepening as he melds into your embrace, his rigid muscles relaxing under your tender caress.

“I love you too.”

He leans in to kiss you, sealing your words as a promise, but one kiss slowly dissolves into another, and another, and before you know it, his lips are all over your body, his arms around you, holding you. His hug loosens as he slips down between your knees and folds the corner of the cloak inwards to pat tenderly at your puffy pussy, lower lips glistening.

“Is that okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Y—”

He doesn’t get past the first syllable before his back is bolt upright, his hair fluttering in the wind, his face blanching to a worrying extent.

“Stephen?” you ask, worrying your lower lip as he stands nude, astute, waiting.

The next thing you’re aware of, you’re enveloped in the cloak as it’s wrapped around you, and with the extent of Stephen’s power, you couldn’t escape even if you wanted to. This happens more than you’d care to admit.

“Sorry, Cloak,” you whisper, petting it.

It settles around you, as though to assure you that it’s okay, and that it’s Stephen he’s unhappy with, to which you chuckle. It seems he’s not the only one.

Wrapped in your cocoon, you miss the footsteps, the clatter of ornaments, but there’s no disguising the disgust in Wong’s voice as he shouts at Stephen. You can see his face in your mind, his high cheekbones dusted with a blush. Cute.

“GUYS! Stop…” Wong gags, possibly vomits: you can’t quite tell throughout your snickering away, “screwing in the Sanctum! This place is ancient! The disrespect, God…”

“Wong—” he says softly.

“No! You guys copulate everywhere, and it’s disgusting! You’ve ruined this place. It stops now.”

“No,” Stephen retaliates. “No it doesn’t. I’m in charge, I’ll fuck my girlfriend if I want to.”

Wong must be shaking his head, and his footsteps retreat as he mutters curses under his breath. You fall from the cloak a moment later, heart racing and belly fluttering, straight into Stephen’s awaiting arms.

My smile is infectious, hurting my cheeks, “Girlfriend, eh?”

“I am shagging you, it’s about time,” he chuckles, pecking your lips. “Besides, it’s time. And I’ll stop doing this around the Sanctum as soon as we get our own place.”

“Sounds good to me,” you say with nonchalance, when inside, you can't suppress your glee. Your own place? Of course you dreamt of moving in with someone, but when you joined the Sanctum, you assumed this was the closest you'd get... A smile breaks over your face unabashedly.

He kneels down in front of you and recommences his prior task, tenderly cleaning you up and holding you tight. His cerulean eyes darken as he does, snagging on some ink.

“Ohhh my God, your tattoos. Did you get more?!”

You shrug, “Same number as I had this morning, baby.”

He groans, his head thrown back while he pats you down with care. He steps back to give you space to sit up. With a wave of his hand and a flash of sunlight, your body is clean and in his arms again. Your smiles don’t falter the whole time he carries you upstairs and settles the both of you into his bed. Your lethargy is heavy, but it alleviates in his arms when he slips in beside you, his fingers stroking your hair.

“What’s next? A blowjob in the Quantum Realm? 69 in the Mirror Dimension?” he asks teasingly.

You shrug, nestling into his hold with a joyous, natural smile still plastered on your face, “I don’t mind. I’m happy here with you. Our love is an out-of-body experience in itself.”

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stuffedfroggie · 4 years ago

Text

Doctor Strange - Baby Blues & Tattoos

A/N & WC - This is the enemies-to-lovers, co-workers, 'there was only one bed' fic. As soon as I thought of it, I knew it had to be a Dr Strange thing, and I loved writing it. Also, Ben's wink in the below GIF makes my knees go weak. 8.9k.

Warnings - Swearing, too much bickering, mentions of scars, mentions of a daddy kink, smut: oral (f rec), unprotected sex, brief orgasm denial, 'Doctor' kink, tattoo kink, hickey kink, belly bulge kink. 18+.

Summary - After a tiring mission, the last thing you want to do is have to crash at a hotel, especially with the cockiest man alive. Will things change with the fact there's only one bed on such a sleepless night?

YOUR DAY HAS BEEN EXHAUSTING, there’s no denying it, and the only thing to possibly make it worse?

“C’mon, there’s a place not far away,” Stephen snaps at you, cajoling.

“Why can’t we just portal back?” you ask, uncaring of your tone, how brisk you are.

“Because we can’t. Shut up.”

And you do. He’s been grating on your nerves for this whole mission. It wasn’t like it was a bad one, you were away barely for twenty four hours, but this is Stephen. He gets exhausting after five Goddamn minutes.

Bags slung over your shoulders, you follow him down the street. This, sadly, is the type of place you don’t use your powers, save for impending doom. And you have to grant it to Stephen, he knows what he’s doing, and he’s admirable with it. The way he carries his title, so graciously aids those who need him, all with a stoic resolve. He’s a good sorcerer, that’s an irrefutable fact, and you wouldn’t be this far without him.

Still, doesn’t mean you have to like the pretentious bastard in any way.

Dusk is long gone, night time in full bloom, stars scattering around the sky like tiny sprinkles, smudges of light to guide you through the night, only a thin crescent moon available to you in the far distance. The enveloping navy of the night sky meets the dark hues of Stephen’s mundane clothes, sheltering him from view ever so slightly, walking a few paces in front of you.

It doesn’t take long for a relatively small building to come into view, small for a hotel, no bigger than the body of Bleecker Street, an orange glow bleeding out the entrance.

His shoulders rigid, his posture as straight as a rod, he stalks through the front doors and up to the clerk, slightly more human clothes back on in place of his mission attire.

“‘Scuse me, please can I book a room for tonight?” he says, each word articulated to its fullest.

“How many people, Sir?”

He casts a glance towards you, rolls those pretty blue eyes of his, and looks back. “Two.”

“What kind of room would you like, sir?”

“One with two beds, I don’t care about the cost.”

The boyish clerk nervously clears his throat and shuffles the papers on the desk before clicking around on his computer a fair amount. When he looks at you with that typically awkward glance hospitality workers give when they can’t give you what you want, you know exactly what’s coming.

“Sorry sir, we only have rooms with one bed available. I can get you one with a couch if that’s better?”

Stephen grinds his ridiculously defined jaw so aggressively, you can almost hear the bones crunching, grating together.

“You’re small, you take the couch,” he hisses, the comment directed at you before gulping down a breath, straightening his resolve, and meeting the clerk’s gaze. “That’ll do.” he says, his manner more brusque than usual.

You roll your eyes, biting back a snarky comment at his forcing you onto the sofa for the night, and stay positively quiet and zoned out as he organises the rest, handing over his card, and in turn, receiving your room keys.

He marches you down the corridor, shouldering more than his fair share of the bags, while still keeping a gloved hand on the small of your back to steer you in the right direction. He never takes his gloves off. Ever. Even in all your months at the Sanctum, whether he’s fresh out the shower or fully dressed for work, he has never once removed those gloves with you in the vicinity. Strange, like him.

He deftly swipes the key card, his arm looping around your body to do so, and pushes the door open, allowing you in first.

The room is nothing special, just your standard hotel room. White sheets grace the double bed, the main feature of the room, with a soft grey footer to match the draping curtains, comparatively light when beside the ever darkening night. Stephen’s elbow hits the light switch, a white globe light shade casting a fluttery white glow everywhere, bouncing off the tea tray atop the dark wood desk that invades and clunks up half the room. The wardrobe is just behind the door, and doesn’t actually seem to have a front to it, but there’s an ironing board you won’t use—but Stephen probably will—and some coat hangers. The walls are mostly a very pale grey, modern, but a feature appears behind the headboard, the main attraction point of the room, a bright orange that pairs nicely, if not shockingly with the sofa: a poxy thing, barely a two seater. You wouldn’t even get your torso on there comfortably. It’s a decent room, not to your taste but nice enough, and clean, your main query.

“I’ll take the first shower,” he says.

Shifting past you, he nudges your shoulder, heat temporarily shooting between your bodies, and he flings the bags carelessly onto the bed, shrugging off his jacket before shouldering past you and chucking open the bathroom door. You’re still just standing there, even after you hear the door lock shut, Stephen huff a little to himself in the mirror (that much you can imagine, he does it all the time), the clink of a belt and the water start running. You already know this is going to be a long, long night, and it hasn’t even begun.

While he’s out of the way, you begin unpacking, simply lying out your night clothes and any necessities you brought with you just in case, straightening the pillows. Then he walks out, a plain white towel hung low around his hips, his Adonis belt glistening with droplets of water all around. His body is defined, incredibly chiselled—no surprise there—but from what you can see, he’s scarred too, his tan skin worn and cut in places it shouldn’t be. Still, his hands are covered in a towel that he’s rubbing through his charcoal hair, even when he brings it down, you’re not even allowed to catch a glimpse of his bare fingers, the cloth shielding them.

“It’s free.”

“I can see that, thanks Mr Obvious.”

He offers you a saccharine smile, “That’s Dr Obvious to you, rookie.”

“Myehhh,” you mimic, rolling your eyes as you brush past him, but really, his bulk of muscle does more damage to you than him, leaving your arm throbbing, only able to clutch it and open your mouth in a silent cry of pain once the door is shut and locked behind you.

As you undress, you’re sure you hear his soft chuckles as he goes about his inane bedtime rituals. One of your own rituals is listening to music in the shower, the one thing you know drives Strange insane, so you do exactly that, putting your current favourite song on repeat as you shower.

The bathroom is nice, too, just white. All porcelain white: floor, walls, sink, with only the mirror and showerhead a glistening silver. Why does nowhere have the same character as the Sanctum? If this is the rest of the world you’ve been avoiding a while, you’re not sure if you like it.

Coming out the bathroom, you wrap your white towel taut around your body and tuck the corner in, the lump pressing into your supple skin, releasing your hair from the shower cap. Almost unwittingly you begin humming the song—instinct, you guess, an earworm, a good song with infectious lyrics and a strong tune. You’ll be over it in a week.

“Do you?” Stephen suddenly asks, appearing from around the wall.

You gasp in surprise, your reverie snapped. He’s right there next to you, his hair coiffed but still slightly damp, wearing his usual half-baggy blue pyjamas. His blue eyes snag on something, a peek of black partially obscured by the towel, but he can't be sure.

“What?”

His exasperated sigh fills your brain with naught but aggravation. How can one person be so anxious and annoying?

“That song you were playing, it’s called Daddy Issues. Do you have them?”

A soft chuckle leaves your lips, tossing your hair around, running your fingers through the locks. “Doesn’t everyone?”

“No.”

You don’t even bother to deadpan him for more than a split second before you’re pushing past him, your shoulder bumping his bicep again, and you’re shifting over to the desk area, where you lay out your moisturiser and hairbrush.

“Well, statistically, more than fifty percent of people do—"

“Just be quiet Stephen. Get ready for bed.”

He bares his teeth, but obliges, and within half an hour, you’re nervously slouched on opposite sides of the bed, the top light off, curtains drawn, only the bedside lamps on to offer your bodies some shadow.

“I’m not taking the couch,” you warn, “it’s bloody tiny.”

“I don’t expect you to, and this bed is bigger than I anticipated, so I suppose we can share if you stick to your side.”

You grumble, making strange whining noises to piss him off momentarily, “What do you propose, a pillow wall?”

“Yes, actually,” he says, “that sounds rather practical.”

“Why? It’s not like I’m gonna try and cuddle you or hold your hand or anything. You’re not my type anyway, God.”

“Almost, but not quite.” he snarks.

“Could you be any more conceited, Strange?”

“Yes. But, just lie down, I’m tired and can’t be arsed to hear your whining all night. No touching.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, asshat.”

You draw back your side of the duvet and slide beneath, curling your toes at the cold weight of it, your back to Stephen’s. There’s so much space between the two of you it’s bordering on ridiculous, you could fit half the other wizards in with you at this rate. You're small, but with how close he is to his edge, he has to be falling off. He’s abnormally tall, his feet are probably dangling off the end, too.

“Is this about your hands?” you whisper, barely heard over the deafening silence crashing around in both of your ears, “or your scars? If so I— I don’t mind, I’m not in any position to judge.”

“Shut. Up.” he enunciates.

“Dude, it’s okay.”

“It’s also none of your fucking business.”

Oh he’s seething. He’s fucking hilarious when he’s mad. His jaw clenches and his nostrils flare and his face goes as red as Goddamn tomato, his lips quirk to suffocate a grimace and hands close to fists he can barely control and his voice always stutters when his desperately regulated breath hitches. That’s exactly what’s happening now, you can feel the shift of the bed next to you, hear every tiny movement.

“I’m not trying to pry, just curious.”

“Well, you are prying. You know what happened to me, you know who I was and who I am, surely you have some idea what I must… look like.”

“Yeah,” you breathe, an inflection of compassion in your tone, “and I don’t give a shit. I hate you no less.”

He allows a breathy chuckle out, one of the lightest sounds you’ve ever heard from him, nothing derisive in it, no spite or teasing, just a small laugh. “Hate me all you want. I know I’m right.”

“About what?”

“You don’t want to see me.”

It’s so quiet a request that it's barely a whisper, simply a wistful hope, a prayer, a silent plea. His last word cracks, breaks, and his currently slightly less annoying voice trails away, broken. Even now, the least you can do is respect his privacy on it despite the fact it's the last thing you want to do.

You find the only words you can muster, curling further inwards on yourself. “Night, Stephen. Thanks for this.” you bid.

“Night, Y/N.”

And you still into a horrible, dense silence, the darkness of the room overwhelming your senses. If you sleep a wink like this, you’ll be lucky.

—

You find yourself to be regrettably correct, since after what feels like a lifetime (and appears to only have been an hour, and even then, just barely) you feel the whole weight of the bed shift, followed by muffled cursing. You’re cold, incredibly uncomfortable, and the pillow is too cold, but you daren’t move it, lest you disturb the wrath of Stephen.

Fuck it, you tell yourself. You won’t lie on the ridge of a hard mattress all night just because he’s a whiny brat who never cuts you a break. Fidgeting and jolting, tossing and turning, you eventually turn over full bodily, and completely by accident, your hand falls onto more flesh, warm and callused, Stephen. Instantaneously, he recoils, his body slithering away from you, even across the masses of space. Your own breath catches, brows furrowing, shock, perhaps?

“Stephen?” you husk, your voice full of surprise. “Couldn’t sleep?”

You reach over and flick your bedside lamp on, fluffing your pillow and turning to him.

“No. Why did you do that?”

“Why did I do what, roll over in bed and accidentally brush your hands?”

“Yes.” he says, teeth gritted.

“Don’t be such a twat, what’s the big deal anyway?” you ask, a throwaway comment, but the way he gulps, his blue eyes so full of anxiety, you know well enough what it is. “Strange, I didn’t mean—”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Only, you know it does. His hands are balled up in his shirt and embedded into his body, covered by the duvet despite the convulsive movements. He’s asking for it. In one swift move, the duvet is folded back, and you’re grabbing his hands roughly by the wrists and tugging them away from him. Sitting up a little more, moving your body and crossing your legs, you yank his hands into your lap. Gnarled red scars run down each finger and down the back of both hands, puckering from stitches mars them too, and beneath the skin, when you tenderly run the pads of your fingers over his scars, the cuts, you feel metal. Screws, bolts, whatever else. Maybe even metal rods are in there, holding his bones together.

Sure, they’re not pretty, no scars are, but they aren’t as repulsive as he makes them out to be. They’re endearing, unique, and show he’s a Goddamn fighter. Maybe you’d be more inclined to work with him if he hadn’t been trying to hide from you so much.

Suddenly, he jolts away from you, away from the tender rub of your fingers on his skin, his face contorted in a perpetual wince. There’s an expectant pause, like he’s waiting for you to say something, but for once, you’re lost for words.

“I’ll sleep on the couch.” he says, wholly tugging away from you.

“Why, Stephen? Why are you being so pretentious and callous? Can’t we share a bed without it being fuckin’ weird?” you demand, hitting a fist against the pillow childishly.

“No.”

He shifts his pyjama bottoms awkwardly when he catches another peek of your skin—your upper arm this time, a swirl of ink—and clambers out of bed, snatching a spare sheet from the wardrobe that he takes over to the sofa with him. No way is he gonna fit, but if he’s going to be that obtuse, you’re gonna let him.

—

Another hour has gone by, and having tried just about every possible position known to man on both sides of the bed, every pillow on both the head and foot of the bed, you’re still unable to sleep, simply staring at the dull white ceiling, your fingers linked and resting over your steadily rising chest. You’d think that sorcery has some perks, perhaps a spell to help you sleep, but no. There are some herbs that can go in drinks to knock you out, but naturally, they’re all at the Sanctum. You’re fucking knackered, and usually sleep so well, why is tonight any different? Does it have anything to do with the gnawing in the pit of your stomach? The anxiety of Stephen being so far away—or perhaps it's just having him in the room. Somehow, you don't know which is worse.

“Stephen,” you tentatively call out, your sound swallowed by the reverberating night. “Are you awake?”

“Yes. Why?” he replies in his typical abrupt nature.

“Just wondered. I’m cold, can you come sit?”

“No.”

This time you don’t even bother to turn on the light, but merely point your finger at the wall shade and light begins to glow around you, allowing you to peer at Stephen over there. It’s a pitiful sight, really, and one he willingly inflicted on himself, but with his long legs dangling off the edge and his head at a funny angle on the arm, the sheet barely covering half of him, you know this isn’t fair. Still, doesn’t stop you from having a hearty chuckle to yourself.

“You’re so fucking uncomfortable over there and don’t try to deny it. Get your ass into bed with me. Now.”

He’s not used to you being bossy, no one is. As he so constantly reminds you, you’re just a rookie, you don’t bark orders, and only occasionally lend a snarky comment. He likes those best, no matter how much he tries to feign it.

“Can you tolerate me enough to just lie in bed with me?” you tease, hearing his footsteps padding on the carpeted floor.

“To say I ‘tolerate you’ is a vast overstatement.”

“Thanks, Doc.” you reply sardonically, rolling your eyes—playfully this time—and smiling at the fact.

He does as you say, though, and shuffles into bed beside you, actually bothering to get properly comfortable this time, settling into a relatively normal position on his back, his head turned to the side, his cheekbones glowing from definition in the shine from your light. You could cut yourself on those, sweet Mercy.

Once he’s nuzzling into his pillow, you begin to do your own fidgeting around, finding your own comfort with a heavy, warm weight beside you, one of relative solace. You don’t mean to, but you’re stretching, and just trying to find a good position, when your hand accidentally grazes…

No way, this is incredible, better than anything you could have dreamt up. You think you might even bite a hole in your tongue from biting hard enough to keep your incredulous laugh under control.

“Is this why you didn’t wanna sleep in the bed? Because you’ve got a boner?” you ask, slyly.

“Don’t talk about it.” he growls in warning.

“Why? Secret stash of porn up there in that eidetic brain of yours?”

“Could you be more oblivious?” he says under his breath.

Turning onto his side, he pushes you away, prying your arm from him.

“Myeh could you beeee more oblivious, Y/N?” you mimic, purposely whining in that tone you know he hates.

You were trying to banter, so if he wants to be a tosser about it, so fucking be it. At least he’s offering you his bodily warmth so you don’t feel so alone in such an unfamiliar place.

“It’s fine if you do have a boner. For all I care, go sort it out. Human nature, buddy.” you quip, turning on your own side, almost half way into the bed, his body within touching distance, breathing distance. “I am curious, though, why didn’t you just say so? Or wear baggier pants? Men, you’re all the same, so fuckin’ annoying. Contrary doesn’t even begin—“

You don’t have a chance to finish your arsey statement before he’s right there, his hot breath fanning your face hovering above you, his forearms on either side of your head, trapping you in.

“You think you know everything, huh? I bet you’d really love to know what got me so riled up.” he growls, his face lowering to your neck, the juncture of your shoulder, his lips barely brushing the skin there before he’s taking a deep inhale; animalistic, almost.

There’s no denying that his actions send heat flooding to your core. Frankly, you wouldn’t be surprised if a wet patch appeared in the sheet beneath you right about now. Who knew his voice could be so low? So sensual? Christ...

“You’re so fucking insolent. Maybe if you hadn’t been such a bratty bitch then I might’ve fucked you quiet two hours ago. You wanna know what made me hard? You, dancing around in your skimpy underwear and pyjamas. Every day I see you around the Sanctum, and even when you’re dressed in every layer of robe under the sun I can’t keep my eyes off you. You should see how damn hard I struggle to keep my hands to myself, even these Goddamn lumps.”

His fists clench next to your head, shifting your head on the pillow. His eyes burn sapphire. You’re not one for ‘skimpy’ clothes, but you have to admit that being the only woman in a house full of completely disinterested men has made you want to try and test the boundaries just a little, leading to your slightly smaller pyjamas and other minuscule changes in your wardrobe.

Still, his admission sends your mind into a lust-filled frenzy, your only coherent thought being to just submit to him, to kiss him, to finally know what he tastes like. For all these months he’s been watching you, his criticisms have been his manner of flirting, his hiding his own shield. As sweet as that is, there’s something very hard urgently poking at your thigh, something you should probably see to...

“Fucking hell, Stephen, just kiss me.”

After so much waiting, he really doesn’t need to be told twice, pouncing onto you, his lips meeting yours furiously, a desperate clash of tongues. Never in your life has someone kissed you this way before, with so much passion and life and unadulterated want. It makes you wonder just how long he’s wanted to do this for.

It doesn’t take long for his hands to stray, his palms skimming down your burning flesh, goose bumps rising in his wake.

“Off.” he ghosts, tugging at your pyjamas.

You begin to peel your shirt off, but Stephen grabs it by the neck and removes it before you can get any further.

“No bra?”

“Maybe I wanted to tease you too.” you breathe, and only once you say it do you realise the truth of it.

Perhaps all this time you have been subconsciously been trying to tease him, rile him up. You’re in for it now, that much is easily detectable by the ragged breaths he begins to take, his grip on your waist increasing as his lips make a downward trail. First, he kisses gently at your neck, only growing more fervent when he reaches your pulse point where he sucks, hard, but only for a moment as he moves further down, biting your right clavicle while pinching your left breast, then switching, and grazing his lips over the swells of your boobs. You’re barely able to control yourself or your moans, desperately holding your tongue, silencing yourself and the obscenities bound to spill. Next, he goes just below your sternum, the sensitive skin there reacting to his tender assault. Until now, he’s had his thinned eyes focussed on you, silently working his way down your body.

“I can’t wait to put bruises all over that pretty, unblemished skin…” he murmurs, vibrations shooting through you like a meteor shower. You don’t realise why he’s training off until his baby blues aren’t locked on your eyes anymore. “Is that a tattoo?”

Not the time, but your cheeks begin to burn red, drawing a blush onto your skin.

“I asked you a question, is that a tattoo?” He’s more solemn this time, commanding your full attention so naturally. Unable to control your voice, you offer him a nod, your eyes wide. “When did you get this? Oh, my God.”

“B— before I came to the Sanctum. I have more, if you like them.”

“Fuck,” he blasphemes, running a hand over his face. Is he… flustered? “Where? Show me.”

Who would’ve guessed he has a thing for tattoos? It’s not like you’re covered, just the odd few: one on your hip, one in between your ribs, one on your back. You’re surprised he hasn’t noticed the few at the tops of your arms yet. You adjust your positioning and show him what he wants: he’s damn near salivating, his fingers toying with his beard as he grows impossibly harder against your leg.

“Do you have a thing for tattoos? Do you like girls with ink all over their skin?”

“Stop,” he whines, imploring, “don’t, I’ll finish too fast if you keep on.”

You cup his cheeks, turning his face towards you, and begin to pepper kisses over his long neck, grazing your teeth where he seems to be the most sensitive, chuckling into your actions.

He kisses you hotly, briefly, and resumes his prior attack. Biting and sucking, drawing the supple skin of your hip bones between his teeth, he has you clamping your screams behind your hand, writhing around beneath his hold.

“These walls are pretty thick, which means you and I can be as loud as we want.” he whispers, and continues his actions, prying your hand away with one of his, and not flinching when you begin to hold it. Tight.

“You know, you’re gonna look so much better when I mark you up, every inch of you. Already look like mine.”

You dare a glance down, and half your stomach is covered in bites already, and he’s right, it looks damn good.

“I know, please.”

He moves gradually lower, tugging on the waist of your trousers. That seems to be when the reality hits him, drawing away from you, his breathing laboured, his beard tickling your hip bones.

“We shouldn’t,” he stammers, casting his gaze away.

You find yourself gulping nervously, “I know.”

His blue orbs wantonly flit from your eyes to your lips, searching for reassurance that’s been there all along. It doesn’t last long, you knew it wouldn’t, because his lips are colliding with yours after little more than a tense moment of eye contact. Your hands grip onto his arms, corded with muscle, tensing as they hold him up. He’s so reliant on his arms, his hands trembling with the slightest movement when it’s not sorcery related. Tonight, you want to show him that he doesn’t have to struggle, but merely has to enjoy it.

Mouths fastened together, your chest presses to his as his tongue glazes along your bottom lip, then your top, delving into your mouth. His muscle is skilled, dancing with yours, but not in a tender waltz, more a hazed tango of burning passion, like he has to taste all of you before he can be content in life. In return, you can’t kiss him deeply enough either, hold him tightly enough, clinging to him with your whole being.

He tears his lips away from you, leaving a strange void in your chest once he lifts away, an emptiness where his deft mouth was licking into yours just moments before. You’re certainly not disappointed when he presses a single kiss to your navel and hooks his fingers in the waistband of your shorts, peeling them off, sliding them down your legs along with your panties.

“You look good all soaking wet.” he purrs, his eyes glued to the glistening slick coating your heat.

You revel in the fact that he can barely tear his eyes away long enough to glance at you, but once he catches sight of your lust-clouded eyes, half-lidded, expectant only for him, he can’t look away, his blue eyes enraptured with the slight drop your jaw makes as his breath fans over you. Almost animalistically, he licks his lips, then yours, tracing the shape of your vulva with the tip of his lithe muscle. Already you’re keening as he languidly works his mouth on your core. He presses a tantalising kitten lick to your clit, causing your legs to instinctively clamp around his head, your thighs trapping his ears. He still doesn’t break eye contact. How he does this, you don’t know, and don’t particularly care to find out right about now, since his eyes are so mesmerising, the different flecks and shades of blue, contrasted with hues of golden green—

Oh Mary sweet Mother of God.

How does he do that? His moustache tickles your swollen pearl as he literally eats you out, no reservations, a full meal to him. His tongue in your cavern, it’s the most beautiful sight you’ve ever beheld, his doling out of sloppy kisses while you can but watch, grasping onto his hair, threading your fingers through his dark locks, tugging for some semblance of grounding, something to keep you tethered to this realm, because this level of pleasure is unmeasured.

“I think you’re going to ruin me. Am I right?” you gasp, your words cut off when he suckles on your most sensitive spot.

“For every other man?” he purrs, straight into your core. “Absolutely.”

The vibrations are simply heavenly, sending your spare hand flying to the pillow beside you, grasping to it with all you're worth, until your fingers begin to cramp, but not once does his assault on your sensitive heat ease, his eyes smiling at you as though you’re the most beautiful thing in the planet.

You’re close, though, so close, teetering just on the edge of something incredible, something mind blowing, something astronomical. You’re simpering as he nears you closer and closer, every lavish of his tongue within your cavern, every nudge of his nose to your overly sensitive clit…

And Stephen being Stephen, that’s when he decides to pull away, crawling back up your body until he’s laying beside you, the heat welcoming and warm, the heavy weight of his arm slung around your bare waist, his breath fanning over your neck. He begins to lazily brush kisses over your neck, but it’s not enough. Frustrated would be a behemoth understatement.

“Goddamn it, Y/N,” he hums heartily, “you get under my skin like no one else.”

“Yeah?” you retort, not pondering the consequences in your haze of denial and desire, “you quite literally were just under mine, and you didn’t let me cum. Asswipe.”

Heaving a sigh, he rolls away slightly, stopping his sweet show of affections in favour of sulking

“If you’d shut up for one damn second and not insult me, I’d tell you why.”

“Why then, huh?” you square up to him.

The last thing you expect is to be kissed, his scarred hand weaving its way into your hair, pushing your head closer to his. You can feel the heat emanating from his cheeks, from his chest. Who knew heaven would be as hot as hell?

“Because I want the first time I make you come to be around my cock, darling. Okay?” he growls.

Wow. That’s one argument you can get behind, but two can play at his game, so you flutter your lashes and play coy, your most innocent doe-eyes joining your pretty, swollen lips that curl up into the sweetest smile you can manage.

“Okay, Doctor.”

“Fuck me,” he groans, barely audible.

In one movement, you have him pinned beneath you, hands on either side of his head while he’s listless between your legs, cerulean irises fixated on your every perceptible move.

“Only if you ask nicely, Doctor.”

His eyes fly shut, lids squeezed together, his head tossed back into the pillow. That’s when you get to work on his shirt. You grasp the hem with nimble fingers, slowly tugging it up the tanned skin of his torso. He occasionally walks around with just a towel on, like today, but you barely glimpse him before he’s disappearing, and even then he’s moving deftly, muscles contracting and water droplets glistening on the panes of his chest, so you're not entirely sure what you’ll find. You tug it up to his collar bones, and he does the rest, since you can’t help but run your hands all over him. Every inch of flesh you can reach. His body quite frankly ripples, his muscles incredible, and his scars matter no more or no less than ever, because he’s just Stephen and you’re just you, and this is just a moment you’ve caught yourselves in. His skin is burning, begging to be ravished the way he did yours, but you daren’t mess up such a masterpiece.

In an intoxicating kiss, you catch his bottom lip between your teeth, nibbling gently as you tug on it, your smirk unwavering yet your eyes as round as saucers.

“You’re heaven.” you whisper.

“You taste like it.”

The blush that dusts your cheeks is undeniable, sprinkling raging droplets of fire that reach the tips of your ears.

You sigh breezily, moving up his hips a little further, thinking aloud at your position, his body all yours, your bare heat hovering his clothed member, rock hard against your bum. “I’ve yearned for this for so long.”

“What, to shag me?”

“No, to finally have you quiet and under my control.”

“I’ve always been under your control,” he tells you earnestly, raising a hand to brush errant locks of hair away from your face, his rough fingers touching your cheek. You nestle into his grip. “Say the word, I’m yours.”

“The magic word?”

“Mhm.”

“Agamotto?” you question bashfully, curling your hair behind your ear.

He splutters a laugh, jolts his body up to meet yours, and kisses you, a searing embrace, his tongue working it’s way back into his mouth. You can still taste yourself on him. Beneath you, however, his length is twitching, begging to be touched.

You stand on your knees, and crawl back down his body, settling yourself on his beefy lower thighs that clench so delectably, setting friction onto your own throbbing core. You unravel the string at the waist, and fumble to get the soft cotton trousers off him, but seem to forget that, well, you’re hindering your own access. He nudges his legs and pelvis up, shucking the material over his bum. The action grazes over your slit in such a way that makes your breath hitch, the mix of the material of his pyjamas, the hair on his leg, and his tensing muscles creating the perfect cocktail of arousal within you, clouding your cognitive processes. He kicks them off, and draws you further up his legs, his member standing proud, brushing against your navel.

Something strange and new stirs deep within you at the sight, a primal need awakened. Sex has never been… this way for you before, this pleasurable, this fun. And as much as you hate to admit it, that’s because of Stephen and his God-like appendage that you’re not even sure will fit.

“Baby, you’re drooling,” he coos in a condescending tone, something that makes you impossibly wetter, “you gonna ride me?”

“Want your hands on me, though,” you softly admit, wrapping your hands over his, moving them to the dip of your waist. Instantly, they take a bruising settle there, but the pinch is so delectable.

Grasping him in your hands is quite the feat, but nonetheless you try, spitting on your palms to give yourself ample slick as you jerk him a couple of times, watching intently how the skin pulls around his member, your brows furrowed at such a simple yet such a beautiful sight. As much as you hate to cede it, he has a fucking incredible dick. He’s allowed to be as cocky as he is.

“If you keep on…”

You know he means for it to be a threat but he sounds so blissed out, his voice gruff and hitting you right at the pit of your belly. He has a point, though, with your fingertips gingerly running up the vein on the underside, your nails grazing tantalisingly over his balls. His slit is already leaking, a bead of pearly-white precum there. He won’t last. Eh, maybe he doesn’t have to be so cocky if such a featherlight touch can drive him to the edge.

His eyes draw yours in and keep their focus as you rise onto your knees and fidget a little closer, your knees scratching on the white sheets. Your brain grows foggy, like the night outside as you tease the head of his dick against your wetness before you gradually lower yourself down.

Birds crow outside, owls cresting their night time lullaby as he enters you, the most delightful harmony. Flickers of twinkling stars can be seen in your periphery through the slit in the plain curtains.

You hiss, but the slight pain of him stretching you simply spurs you further onto him, desperate to engulf him all. Your bum hits his thighs, and that’s when you realise, your breathing shallowed, that he’s balls deep within you.

This is actually happening.

“Fuck,” he mutters letting out the most aching groan yet, throwing his head back into the pillow once more and letting his dark hair flop of its own accord, his hands tangling their way into your hair to pull you down to him.

Your actions start slowly, a small rocking to your hips as you get used to his sheer size filling you to the brim, even the slightest movement causing your walks to tense around the ridges of his dick, rubbing within you so detectably. His breathing increases with every rock, his eager pants and soft pleas filling the air as you begin to speed up, silenced by your lips.

His moans increase once you start to raise yourself up, only to grind back down with purpose. You’re sure your own moans and whimpers are deafening, too. Stephen simply doesn’t know what to do, where to look. His lips attack your neck, moaning into it as he starts to drive himself further and further into your pussy, his hips bucking to meet your movements.

“Stephen,” you squeak as he grazes something special, followed by a shout of, “Fuck!” though that’s more to the stimulation to the precious spot on your neck he seems to be so wantonly attacking, bruising you.

“Tell me—” he orders, pausing to pant between kisses and his frantic movements beneath you, seeking the best position, “what you like.”

“This— fuck just keep doing that!”

His hands on your waist keep guiding your movements, the rotations of your hips, the rise and fall of your body unencumbered, unbound, free to drive him to insanity with your sensuality in this moment.

“Think you can handle that much?” he taunts.

“Just fuck me, Stephen, no restraints, just you.”

“Are you sure that’s what you want? I could really hurt you.”

“I don’t care. I need you.” you grit out, whining at the slight still.

You thank whatever deity there is that it’s only very brief before his pace begins to pick up again, your body so malleable despite your being on top. And frankly, you can’t stop the screams that erupt from somewhere deep in your throat, followed by a steady stream of whimpers, your hands curling into his pecs to keep you upright.

“If you keep making those sounds, I’m not going to be able to stop myself.”

“What if I don’t want you to?”

“I don’t care what you want, I’m in charge.”

“Myeh I’m in charge, I’m Doctor Strange, ooooo look at me.” you mimic, challenging him, and his movements stall.

“You’d better watch your fucking mouth.” he spits.

The cock of your head is simply devilish, defiant in every way possible, power surging within your veins as you say, “Or what?”

Regret is instantaneous. You’re not sure why you thought that, if you were on top you’d have the power, because you certainly don't. His hands grasp your hips bruisingly hard, lifting you up before literally impaling you on his dick. His pace soon after is punishing, controlling your every movement so you can barely breathe or see straight, just a rag doll for him to throw about. He reaches new depths you’ve never even found yourself before, all while keeping his tip grazing your g-spot on every stroke, his pelvis meeting your clit on every hit. Your jaw hangs open, and you can’t even help it, merely gripping onto Stephen you’re not sure where for dear life. That’s the ‘or what’.

He’s quite literally ravishing you in a way no one has before. You’re fucking mewling before you can help it. His sudden surge of dominant energy causes you to moan headily, putty within his control. With each upward thrust of his, your hips roll in ways you never knew they could before, offering you new depths of pleasure, rolling more arousal from your core.

‘Rough’ was never a word you’d have used to describe the astute, precautious Dr Stephen Strange before, but with the sheer strings of profanity leaving his perfect, plump lips as he takes you wholly, it’s certainly up there with adjectives to describe the supreme sorcerer.

“Fucking hell you’re so good,” he praises, “shit— squeezing me so well.”

“Stephen…” you plead. You can’t care that you’re begging, not with the wash of pleasure trickling down your spine, a building climax within the pit of your stomach, ready to split at any second.

You lean forwards daringly, connecting your lips in a clash of teeth and tongues, a tango of passion, desire, sheer unadulterated need

“Want your hands on me,” you moan, whine, beg. Your words come out in broken fragments in between slathering kisses, your body bouncing.

“No you don’t. I promise you don’t.” he refutes, cut off by a deep groan.

He doesn’t stop pounding into you, your one hand moving to cling around the back of his neck, your other with your nails digging into his flesh, grazing over his nipples; anything to keep you half steady.

“You don’t get to tell me what to do. I like your hands.”

“I don’t— fucking hell.”

“And I don’t care. Please touch me, just run your fingers over me, palm at my tits, anything, I don’t care. I just need your hands on me.” Tears begin to well in your eyes before you can help it, a feeble squeak when his thick tip drives into that spongy spot deep within that has your toes curling, his vein squeezed by the slight ridges within you. “Please.”

He sighs, cut off by a growl, holding his hands out before him, removing them from their hold on your waist. “These things?”

“Yes!” you shout in response, both to the stimulation on your clit from his pelvis and his rhetorical question. “Those ‘things’ that wield so much power. Such ability for pleasure. Doctor.”

That seems to be what does it, a gasping groan leaving him, taking incentive. His scarred finger begins to brush up your stomach, the dip of your hips, pinching your tattoos. His palms splay over your boobs kneading the flesh, eyes as wide as saucers, mesmerised by the way they bounce in his hand, your peaked buds caught under the rough pads of his thumbs. He runs his hands across your whole body, your back, shoulders, arms, savouring every inch of flesh he can reach as your back arches with waves of pleasure above him, thrusting your chest further out as your head lulls backwards and your mouth falls open in a silent ‘o’. When he seems satisfied enough, they travel to your ass, squeezing your cheeks, his hold bruising.

He’s enthralled by every movement you make, his blue eyes staring at you, fixed so intently, the intensity sparking something to life in your belly. You draw your lip between your teeth before leaning down to kiss him, his mouth devouring yours hotly, his lips almost burning on yours, chapped skin massaging yours. While he has you there, his grip on your ass increases, and he begins to go harsher.

“Baby,” you hiss before you can help it.

Skin slaps against skin, you’re just there for him, feeling every jolt of his body so thoroughly beneath you. He swallows your moans, and you swallow his, before detaching and moving your lips to his jaw instead, kissing along the sharp bone gently. He’s fucking you so hard, so meaningfully, you’re going to be aching for days.

“Look at me,” he demands, “look.”

You do, but you’re in such a haze that you only manage to actually see into the crystal orbs once he grasps your skin between his scarred fingers, one of which you press your lips to, swirling the tip of your tongue around the digit.

“No, no darling, I need my hand for this.”

Doe-eyed, you let his finger go with a pop, but follow his hand where it goes, trailing down to your lower stomach. His fingers tentatively press over a blossoming bulge there, one that grows every time you sink down onto him, and then his palm presses down, causing you to scream a little, a pleasurable sort of pain.

“You feel that?” you nod. “That’s where I am, so deep inside you.”

The stream of expletives you moan is utterly unholy, in need of censorship. Never before have you imagined this, anyone being so deep inside they’re bulging against your belly…

“Nobody does it like you do.” you whine, bouncing up and down on him at an inhuman speed, nearing climax more and more, still holding back despite it all, despite the pressure building right where his tip grazes.

“I taste you on my tongue. Still,” he confesses, licking into your mouth filthily so you can taste it too.

“Stephen, I’m gonna—” you can’t finish your sentence, as you’re finishing in other ways, the pressure on your g-spot and the brush on your clit and the intense penetration too much for you to handle amongst his piercing blue stare.

You can’t hold the inevitable tide back anymore, clamping and clenching around him, causing him to emit a guttural, feral moan, clamping his teeth down on your shoulder, his cry resonating through your entire being. It’s a pleasurable ache, but a mark you’ll struggle to hide. This spurs you on further, your entire body pulsing, limbless. You’re whimpering amidst your screams of pleasure, cries so pornographic they startle you. That’s when the world slows, and you feel his thumb pressing harshly into your clit, his other hand pinching your nipple, tweaking it fervently.

The hot white wash of euphoria sends you to heaven and shooting through the stars in a split second elongated by the prolonged, unceasing pressure in your bundle of nerves, keeping you in uncontrollable bliss for you’re not sure how long. Your entire body is electrified, stars dancing on your skin like droplets of Elysian sun, shocking your nerves into a tingling sensation, heavy limbs filled with ecstasy filled blood. The world around you faded long ago, replaced by his beautiful hands and his kiss intoxicating you, explosions of delightful rapture filling your earthly being. In all fairness, you wouldn’t be surprised if, when you opened your eyes, you were in your astral form, on absolute cloud nine, or in another realm entirely. Maybe you’re simply in paradise, your sorcery skills having transported you there of their own volition.

Somewhere in your elation, Stephen comes too, filling you up entirely, warm stickiness painting your inner walls and beginning to trickle out, down your thighs and onto his, melding the two of you together further. Was his orgasm as incredible as yours? Like a hundred put together? Stars plucked from the sky and morphed into a single climax just for the pair of you? Because if he shared it, there’s no way you’re not doing this again, that much you can bank on.

It takes a while for you to come around enough to flutter your eyes open, only to find your chest almost pressed fully against Stephen’s, his arms around you entirely, your harsh breathing in sync. A veil of sweat gleans on your skin, gathering between your breasts, moving up and down hastily with your ragged breaths. He’s covered in a similar sheen, his abs and forehead, the ripples of his biceps as you hold him, feebly pushing yourself half upright.

The last thing you expect while basking in the afterglow, desperate to just catch your breath is for him to lick a blood stripe from the tattoo at the side of your ribs, around the underside off your one boob, and to then suckle tiredly on the rune nestled between your tits, but apparently...

“What’s that for?”

“Love your tattoos. So sexy.”

That’s something you’re never gonna let him forget, and there’s no doubt in your mind that he’s also going to beg for you to get more. You find yourself giggling, the sweet bubbling of it in your throat. It comes out as an airy sound, endearing Stephen.

“What?”

“Oh my God, you’re so much better than the last person I was with.” you sigh, flopping down next to him.

“And you, bloody hell.”

“We should do this again.”

“We definitely should.”

His hand flies out to rest on your stomach, linking your fingers with his, watching you conspicuously from the corner of his eye.

“Hey, you okay?” he asks, concern betrayed in his tone and the crinkle of his nose.

“Yeah, just might be a bit sore.”

He shrugs his shoulders softly, and you chuckle, “You told me to give it all I’ve got. I think I’m rather spent now, though.”

“So spent. God, is this what overstimulation feels like? How can something be so nice and so achy all at once?”

“That’s how my cock feels, Y/N. You milked me for all I’m worth.”

“Don’t be so crude!”

“I’ll be what I like, baby, and right now I’m going to be bossy. Go to the restroom, I’ll be waiting when you come out.” A mischievous grin creeps its way onto his face, watching you struggle as he sneers, “try to walk in a straight line, sweetheart.”

You offer him your middle finger as you stagger to your feet, clutching onto every piece of furniture along the way. It’s strange to be so naked around him, nothing to shield you from his stare that follows you, right from the bed until you disappear into the bathroom. While there, you glance at your dishevelled state in the mirror. Small hickeys litter your skin, hand prints lying lightly, but the most noticeable things are the signs of affection around your tattoos. Bite marks, finger prints, blossoming bruises. He’s an absolute scamp. You take the opportunity to run a brush through your hair and tap some balm onto your lips.

Your steps are a little more shy on the scratchy, grey carpet as you step out again, taking strides as wide as you can before all but throwing yourself onto your side of the bed.

“Here,” he says, smiling at you in that sweet, closed-mouth way he does, the apples of his cheeks glowing.

In his outstretched hand is his pyjama shirt, creased from your clutching to it. You take it, the soft material limp in your hands, but it simply radiates ‘Stephen.’ You tug it on over your head, unfazed when it hits your mid thigh.

“Looks good on you. Come here.”

You don’t mind his commands for once, and happily shuffle in beside him, instantly curling into his side. Heat radiates from his body, and only when you sling your one leg over his thigh do you realise he’s put his pyjamas back on, the bottoms at least. His arm winds around your shoulder, and perhaps in a feat of confidence, he starts to brush his forefinger up and down the skin of your arm, rising goose bumps in its wake. You could just stay this way forever.

A strange thought brews in the back of your mind, and you almost can’t help but to blurt it out, “Did you want me to call you 'Daddy?' Is that why you asked about the song earlier?”

A subdued nature overtakes him, his voice becoming shy as he murmurs, “Maybe. I like ‘Doctor’ too.”

You roll closer to him, wrapping an arm around his torso.

“Maybe next time,” you tease courageously, kissing his neck softly. “I can’t wait to be on my knees for you later.”

“Tomorrow, baby, I’m tired enough to sleep at last.”

It really is an ‘at last’ type situation, and definitely more than three hours since you arrived at this place with the intention of crashing straight away. Well, it was your intention. His? You’re not entirely sure, an inkling nagging at the back of your mind. Not that you particularly care after the mind blowing shag, but...

“We could’ve portalled back, couldn’t we?” Nervously, he nods. “So this was a ploy to get me to shag you?” He nods again, blue eyes glittering, and you simply scoff at him, holding him closer under the duvet. “Cheeky little shit, Doctor.”

His low laugh rumbles through your whole being, sending more heat flooding through you. “But then again, maybe it’s best if we don’t go home. What’ll they say about us?”

“They’ll congratulate me for finally growing the balls to fuck you.” he deadpans, and you kiss his jawline once more, snorting a little laugh.

You reach out to switch the light off and instantly embed yourself in his comfort again, revelling in your synced breathing and the gentle rise of his chest against your cheek, the stolen whispers and the gentle way he kisses your hairline, so sweet in contrast to his earlier dominance.

Sleep is, rightfully, dragging you both under, your eyelids heavy at last. All you feel is him, the steady thrum of his heart, the tender run of his scarred fingers up and down your arm and spine, sparks shooting through you. Your sleepy state, however, also lowers your already dangerously thin inhibitions, and that’s why you can’t stop yourself saying—before you succumb—your most peculiar thought from the whole night, his half lidded startling baby blues trained on the barely perceptible movement of your lips.

“Hey, recon we could have sex in our astral forms?”

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