Work Text:
Emma doesn’t like when kissing smears her silver lipstick. The look only works if it’s perfect, and chrome pigment makes dark, unsightly smudges.
Luckily, what she and Stark want from each other won’t require kissing. She leads him to the hotel suite she’s staying at while in Monte Carlo, her hand light on his elbow. Her rooms are well-appointed, with a view of the Mediterranean, white linen curtains that billow in the breeze, and a bedroom off the suite’s sitting area that’s outfitted with a large, sturdy bed.
Emma has a simple arrangement with Stark. They meet from time to time when Avengers and X-Men business cross paths, and if he’s single and she’s available — well, they’re two very attractive people with fortuitously aligned proclivities.
“It’s been too long, Auntie Emma,” Stark says, kicking back on her crisp sheets.
“It has, hasn’t it darling?”
Here is how this afternoon is going to go: Emma is going to hurt him and he’s going to love it. She’s going to enjoy it as well.
“And what’s the most beautiful, inventive, peerless sadist I know have in mind for me?” Stark asks. He’s golden in the sunlight that streams through the windows, perfectly coiffed. Confident, composed. He wields power the way Emma does, from behind a cascade of masks and misdirections. Tony Stark orchestrates war and peace like a typical human organizes a dinner party: down to the seating arrangements.
Most would expect him to have tastes similar to her own. The doer, not the done to. Control is so important to both of them. Emma had asked him about that, a short ways into their convenient relationship.
“Oh, I play your side of the game as well,” he had said. “More often, in fact. There’s something about it — “ He trailed off into a knowing look, and Emma nodded. Pushing a beautiful thing to its limits, watching it gladly strain and suffer and endure for her: that was what she desired more than anything else in the bedroom.
“Why, then, do you come to me?” Emma had asked. He’d been locked naked to her bedpost at the time, where she could prod him with the sharp toe of her stilettos whenever she liked.
He considered for a moment. “There aren’t very many people in the world who see clearly how frightening I am. There are fewer who see that and know that I’m not the most dangerous person in the room as long as they’re standing in it.”
“And when you find that person?”
“I want her to bring me to heel.”
Stark grinned up at her like a shark. Emma had smiled back like a gillnet.
On this trip, Emma hasn’t brought much with her. She has a white doeskin harness and a few toys made of clear glass. Those and a few lengths of silk comprise pretty much the entirety of her travel kit. The rest she will do with her mind, her voice, and her hands.
Emma taps a fingernail against the bed frame, considering what she wants to focus on today. “Do you trust me to be inside your head while we fuck?”
“Maybe. Elaborate,” Stark requests.
“With only a surface touch, I can monitor your desires without you having to articulate them aloud. I will have more finely tuned control of where certain lines lie, and will be able to push you exactly to the edge.”
Stark nods immediately. “I accept.”
Emma raises an icy finger. “There’s more. I can change how you perceive certain sensations. And I can control the connection between your mind and your body. It’s useful for making my playthings believe they cannot move. Or sometimes, that they cannot breathe.”
This gives Stark longer pause. “That sounds dangerous, Ms. Frost.”
“It is. And I am very good at it.”
He thinks about that. Emma watches muscles flex in his forearms as he imagines the possibilities. She will be perfectly happy to hit him a bit and fuck him with a strap-on until he comes, if that’s what he desires. She’s already pleased that Stark agreed so readily to her first proposition, without demanding reassurance about not digging into his more precious secrets. It means he’s come to trust as a matter of course she would never enter that deeply into his mind without express, sober permission — and he is correct to do so, because she would not. It makes her hopeful that he will take the second half of her offer as well.
Emma is certain that he wants it. His chest rises and falls with such even, careful precision that she knows he’s timing his breaths, trying to cover any physical tells. Stark holds all his cards greedy and close until he decides he wants to surrender; then he gives them up completely.
Emma likes that about him.
“I don’t want you to dull any pain,” Stark says. “If something is harming my body, I need to feel it.”
“Sensible.”
“And I don’t want you to make me feel drunk.”
Emma knows the long, difficult story of Stark’s alcoholism and recovery. She wouldn’t do that to him, but she understands his need to make certain. She tells him so.
Stark spreads his hands, satisfied with those parameters. “When do we start?”
“As soon as I get out of this dress,” Emma says. “It pinches, and I know you’re not intimidated by it.”
He shrugs. They both use their bodies and their sexuality to further their own ends. When you’ve perfected the trick, it quickly loses its shine on someone else. Stark’s more impressed by power that doesn’t need to resort to glitzy packaging.
Emma waves a gloved hand at Stark, bidding him to stay where he is on the bed. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
She goes to the other room to change. Out of Stark’s sight, Emma skins out of her dress without ceremony, removing the sexy ice-queen costume piece by piece until she’s naked but for the makeup on her face. She chooses what she wants to wear with an eye for simplicity. First, the doe-skin harness, doing the buckles up carefully so the straps don’t bite into her skin. She doesn’t slide a toy into the o-ring yet — even the most appealing dildo will ruin the lines of an outfit. Next she dons a floor-length robe in white chiffon, enjoying how the light silk slides almost wetly over her skin, teasing over her nipples and the tops of her thighs. She finishes with a mink stole over her shoulders and a band of luxurious, heavy silk to cinch the robe tight at her waist.
When she returns to the bedroom, Stark is seated on the edge of the bed, resting with his elbows on his knees. He’s taken the liberty of removing his tie and unbuttoning most of his shirt.
He notices her entrance and looks her up and down with open appreciation.
“Strip, darling,” Emma orders.
While Stark gets on with that, she arranges herself on the bed, leaning against the headboard with her legs outstretched and her robe pooling attractively around her hips. When she’s ready, she looks up to find Stark standing at ease by the bed, naked and starting to harden with desire.
“Come here,” Emma says, gesturing to the space beside her on the bed. He obeys with a grin, situating himself on one elbow where he can run a hand up her leg, bending his head, ready to serve her between her thighs.
“No,” she says, grabbing him by the hair and dragging him away. Stark’s breath stutters in happy anticipation. “On your back, head in my lap.”
She’s going to play with him for a while. Emma wants Stark to be honey in her hands by the time she deigns to fuck him, and he’s not easy to get there. She can see how he fails to sub for most partners. Stark’s arrogant. Even among those he admires, he believes in his gut that he can outmaneuver them all.
Stark’s certain if he can just find the right strings to pull, the right compromises to make, the right prices paid, anyone will fall. It’s one of the dangers with Stark. He believes that any game can be won, and it makes him unpredictably ruthless. Like an animal in a snare, he’ll maim himself in pursuit of his goal. If he must chew through his heel to slip a cuff, Stark does it.
While Emma’s no exception to Stark’s worldview, he respects her power. He may believe he can move her, given a lever long enough and a place to stand, but he knows it would take a damn long lever.
She suspects the only reason he goes under so well for her is that he already sees her as a match for him. With just the right convincing, he’ll give himself to her command, strong spirit not broken, but deliberately set aside so they can dally here together.
Stark’s a remarkable creature; a credit to the company of non-mutant heroes. She’s proud to have his friendship, enjoys his company, and loves the sight of him in her bed.
He settles with his head in her lap, cheek bumping against her stomach. He stares up at her, waiting. From here his eyes are very blue. He’s so pretty when he surrenders that it’s worth the extra effort.
Emma pets his hair, feeling him start to relax into her.
She runs one sharp fingernail down his throat, enjoying how that makes him shiver. She does it again, harder, just to see the line of red it raises on his skin. Wearing such sharp stiletto nails will keep her from putting her fingers inside Stark, but they’re such a lovely tool that she’s willing to make the sacrifice. Besides, she likes the push of a more sudden intrusion. The dildo she intends to use isn’t so large it’ll hurt him, and she loves to take Stark all at once. It knocks all the sense out of him, leaving him glazed and panting.
Emma draws another stinging line across Stark’s skin, this time along his collarbone. Nothing too intense yet, just enough to wake him up. Stark hums deep in his chest, enjoying himself. She sketches a series of parallel lines across his shoulders, one at a time.
Emma rubs an open palm over the marks she’s made, feeling the way his skin is raised, drinking in how it makes him hiss and press up into her touch.
“Nice,” Stark says. “I’m gonna look like graph paper.”
“Manners, Stark. Be good and respect your Auntie Emma,” Emma says, digging a deeper line in an arc around the bottom of his pectoral muscles in rebuke.
“I like graphs,” Stark says dreamily. “Do that again.”
“Don’t sass me, and I will,” Emma says. She drags her fingernail lightly across the curve of his lower lip, just enough to tingle. His mouth falls open for her.
It’s trivial to skim through Stark’s surface thoughts. He’s pleased, aroused, and hungry for more. He’s also thinking far too much. She catches him gaming out the rest of their time together, wondering when she’ll fuck him and how he’ll act and that’s annoying. Stark is not in charge here: he doesn’t get to pick the choreography.
Emma presses the point of her nail harder into the plush flesh of Stark’s lip, using pain to drive the distractions out of his head. When she takes it away, he reflexively runs his tongue over the spot, leaving it wet and shining. He’s such a fine pleasure. She’s moved by a flash of fierce, unexpected desire. It quickens her breath, and she grabs a fistful of Stark’s thick hair, pulling until his throat is stretched in a perfect, bare line. The urge to consume him curls hot between her thighs.
“I want you to think about how beautiful I am,” Emma says. “Nothing else.” She leaves the threat silent.
From her psychic vantage point, she feels him regarding her in adoration, and purrs in satisfaction. Stark loves the harsh lines of her face, the sight of her breasts under gauzy silk, the feel of her cool skin under his cheek.
Good boy, she whispers into his thoughts.
Emma smiles as that makes his cock jump.
Stark gets off on praise like nothing else. Part of him hates it, furious and humiliated. Praise skins him open, because he wants it and despises wanting it in equal measure. It cuts deeper than any blade Emma can use on him, opening up a channel to shame and vulnerability and desire that’s sweet like labdanum.
He’ll let her tell him whatever she wants.
Stark’s mind shies away from her, unwilling to face the praise head-on. His attention flashes off to review his plots regarding the rest of his trip, who he’ll be meeting, what they want from him and how much he’s willing to give.
That won’t do.
Emma places a finger at the base of his throat and traces the golden line of sensation that lights up in Stark’s brain. With a delicate tweak — it feels to him like she’s touched a raw wound. His attention snaps back to her, and she lifts the finger.
That’s right, Tony. I like when you obey me — I like you right now. You’re a trophy. The Golden Avenger, shining and beautiful.
Stark flushes and looks away in voiceless denial. Emma touches him with pain again, and he gasps.
“Good boy,” Emma says out loud, caressing his cheek.
This time, Stark doesn’t slip away.
Emma trails a gentle fingertip down his midline, so lightly she’s mostly brushing the fine hair that grows across his chest, barely touching skin. As she does, she presses on Stark’s mind to make the caress sear. A low, agonized sound slips from him. His eyes find her face, wide in their sockets. There’s tears pricking in their corners.
“Hold still, sweet,” Emma chides, and he whimpers.
She draws lower, nearing his hard cock. Stark jerks in fear and desire. He’s lovely when he suffers. His lean muscles stand out rigid under his skin, that proud jaw clenched, usually smooth voice turned wet and wrecked.
“Please,” he begs. “Please, please, please.”
“Please what, Tony?”
In his mind, Stark’s thoughts tumble against each other, disorganized. He wants her to touch him, he’s afraid of the phantom pain, he wants to feel it, he wants to do whatever she wants. Does she want him to say no so she can do it anyway, or say yes so she can deny it to him? He wants this to be good: they’ve had some spectacular times before, and he needs to repeat the performance, to do this right.
“Anything, I don’t know, please.”
Emma makes a lazy figure eight around Stark’s navel, drawing a choked-off moan from his throat.
“Decide,” Emma orders. “Should I touch your cock or not?”
Stark shuts his eyes, panting. Emma waits. He’s trying to pick, yes or no, but the answers keep slipping through his fingers. He’s still winding himself up in his head, trying to hold onto control, to optimize the situation despite his body telling him that he’s Emma’s to do with as she pleases. He needs one more push.
“I can’t,” Stark says thickly.
Emma tsks. Stark’s hips stutter for her, straining with anticipation and dread in simpatico with his thoughts. She’s going to do it, please, god, don’t, I want it to hurt, any moment —
“That’s a pity,” Emma says cooly, and whips her hand up to grab Stark’s nipple and twist, lighting it up with pain.
Stark shouts, his head coming up off of her lap as his back arches off the mattress. Emma lets him go, but makes sure to leave a warm burn spreading across his chest. He falls back down and turns his face into the gap in her robe, shuddering and whispering words against her skin.
“Thanks, thank you for that — oh, fuck — that hurt so good, Emma, that felt — “
“Well done,” Emma tells him, stroking his hair. “Now, should I do that again?”
“Yes, god, please. Anything. Anywhere, do my nipples, or my cock, I want it again.”
That’s much better. Emma rewards him by giving him what he asked for.
Stark’s body sings under her attention, and his mind slows down its dodging and weaving.
Emma feels her cunt throb in time with the tense and release of Stark’s body against her. Her world narrows as she puts down the strings to her web of influence and focuses on only him. It’s why she loves sleeping with Stark; he’s challenging and captivating, enough to entertain the entire part of her mind that usually tracks the influence of a hundred players. Here, in this bed, there’s only one man to manipulate. The rest falls away.
Stark arches as she wraps a burning hand around his flushed cock, and Emma’s ready to be inside him already.
She draws away, replacing her thighs with a pillow under his head. Stark cranes his neck to look at her as she goes. “Just a moment, darling,” she says, patting his cheek. “Keep yourself entertained.” She wants him fit to burst with arousal when she’s finished readying her cock.
Stark rolls onto his side to watch her while touching himself lazily. He’s livid with criss-crossing scratches. Emma’s going to look at those while she fucks him; she’s going to come while he heaves beneath her, etched with her design.
Emma sheds her robe and stole, tossing the silk belt onto the bed for later. It falls across Stark’s shoulder, painting a strip of white over his golden skin. She gets the mechanical logistics over with as efficiently as possible, fastening the crystal-clear glass dildo to the front of her harness and slipping a bullet vibe into the crotch for herself. The vibrations blend with the buzz of anticipation between her legs, delicious.
All she has to do to convince Stark to suck her cock is stand close enough that he can reach. The glass is cold and unforgiving as she guides it into his mouth. It clicks against his teeth when she pushes too hard and makes him cough.
The glass cock refracts the hot red of his mouth, like she’s drawing out his insides along with it on every thrust.
“My star cocksucker,” Emma says, running her nails across Stark’s scalp as he licks down her length. “You’re gorgeous with something down your throat, aren’t you?”
Stark groans, and Emma wonders how many men he’s sucked off like this. She wishes she could feel it when she fucked his mouth, when he spasms around her. His breath catches on spit, lips wet with it, debauched. Cunnilingus isn’t the same, Emma thinks wistfully.
Stark’s has finally smoothed out into a placid lake, the only ripples focused on where she touches and commands him. So good for me, Emma whispers silently, and he whines desperately around her cock.
He’s very hard, erection standing almost level with his navel.
Emma picks up the length of silk where it’s still draped across him and loops it gently around his neck. She doesn’t tighten it — the fabric hangs in a loose collar, a visual reminder that she doesn’t have to tie him down to make him do what she wants. The pale silk is a handsome sight against his flushed skin.
Emma likes white. Black is workmanlike: it takes basic upkeep and minimal skill to wear. Any amateur can squeeze into a black corset and patent leather platform heels and strut around like the world is their bitch. White requires finesse.
She draws the dildo out of Stark’s mouth, leaving behind swollen lips and a sheen of spit on his chin.
With a gentle push, she rolls him onto his back. He hikes one leg up for her, correctly anticipating what’s next. She could push into him with the slickness left from his mouth. It would be satisfying to avoid the banality of artificial lubrication, but it would mean being slow and careful, and while Emma enjoys being precise, she’s not gentle.
One indignity in the form of lube that comes in a packet later, Emma’s at his entrance, rubbing the pad of her thumb over his asshole and feeling him shiver.
She slides into Stark in a single motion, thumb still grazing the rim of his entrance, and sighs in pleasure. There — she has him.
Being forced open all at once undoes Stark. He gasps in pieces, like he’s laughing, or falling down a set of stairs.
Emma rolls her hips, bearing down on Stark with one hand spread over his heart and the other bracketing his silk-wrapped neck. When she grinds deep into him, his head falls back against her pillows, and the bullet vibe tucked into Emma’s harness pushes hard against her clit. She pulls back and thrusts in hard, rocking his entire body back on the mattress.
“How do I feel inside you?” Emma asks, fucking into him again. She knows — she can see it right inside his head how it feels — but she wants to hear his voice anyway. It turns breathy and soft when he’s like this, secret and vulnerable.
Emma eats secrets like a black hole consumes light. They all come to her eventually.
“I — I — I —” Stark stammers. “Fuck, Emma.”
She works her hips in a quick, punishing rhythm, and shifts to rest both hands delicately at the base of his neck. She wraps the silk there up in her fingers, and slides it tighter until it’s snug around his throat. She takes care to leave no twists or wrinkles. She doesn’t pull so hard that it creates so much as a dent in his skin.
Emma fiddles briefly with the ends of the silk belt, considering tying them into a sweet pussy bow. Stark would look like a present, all wrapped for her in welts and ribbons.
But no, not this time, she decides. It would be too saccharine on its own. A different day.
Stark’s making staccato, punched-out sounds in time with her thrusts. He wants to touch his cock very badly, and he knows better than to do it without asking.
Emma looks down at it, swollen and red and aching with need. She tsks and purses her lips into a sympathetic moue. “Do you want to give yourself a hand, honey?” she asks, tracing the edge of his silk collar with her finger.
He swallows and nods.
“Go ahead, then.”
Stark knows this is a trap, but seeing the snare clearly and walking into it is just another part of the game.
As soon as Stark’s fingers brush his dick Emma reaches into his brain and makes it believe that he cannot breathe.
Stark’s eyes widen in shock. Emma thrusts into him, hard, and his mouth falls open, trying for a breath that will not come. He takes his hand off his cock, and Emma gives him his lungs back.
He pants, more desperately than is really merited given that she barely held him for the space of two breaths. His palm hovers over his cock. That’s the bargain, sweetheart, Emma thinks to herself, pleased. She’s certain he’ll take it.
Sure enough, Stark takes a deep gulp of air and takes himself in hand. She stops his air. He holds on as long as he can, and then he needs to breathe again.
Emma lets this cycle repeat a few times, establishing the rules before she breaks them.
Then, the next time he stops fisting his cock in anticipation of his next breath, Emma replaces his hand with her own, and keeps choking him. Stark thrashes involuntarily, one heel kicking out against the sheets.
Shit, this risky play — I should say something, Stark thinks, as his chest fails to rise. Then he looks up, and she sees her face mirrored in his eyes. Of course, he thinks. It’s Emma. I’m safe. She can do whatever she likes with me.
Emma lets him go, soothing her hands up and down his heaving chest as he recovers. Good boy, giving me exactly what I want, she says directly into his mind. She makes sure to angle the dildo to hit his prostate as she does it, rewarding him with pleasure. Again.
Stark slumps in blissful submission, mind going blank, and Emma has complete control. He’ll breathe when she wants him to, and hurt when she wills it, and feel pleasure at her command. She takes over touching him entirely, driving him closer and closer to orgasm with her hand and her strap. Stark’s starting to get lightheaded from hypoxia, Emma notes. He’s so high on endorphins everything feels fantastic. She’s almost pushed him to his limit — only a touch farther now.
Once again, she jacks him off exactly how he likes it best, holding his motor cortex with an iron grip no matter how much his lungs scream. Stark’s close, so close, but he’s losing ground in the race between orgasm and oxygen. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying, and Emma fucks him and strokes him until he can take it no longer, and it’s time for mercy.
She lets him breathe, but this time she doesn’t stop touching his cock. Stark sobs, chest heaving, and comes all over himself.
Emma gentles him through it, caressing and praising him. He did spectacularly; she’s proud of how well he performed under her. They make a well-matched set. In some not-so-distant reality, he’s the Black King to her White Queen.
When Stark’s done spilling over his stomach, Emma shimmies out of him and sits back on her haunches. Stark curls onto his side, still a twitching mess, and buries his face in a pillow. Emma looks upon her work and feels mighty. She loosens a buckle on her harness to make space for her hand underneath it, and rubs herself to orgasm while looking at his shaking, exhausted form.
Well-sated, Emma stands, unbuckles herself the rest of the way, and slips back into her sheer robe. Then she settles down next to Stark and draws his head to lay on her chest.
“Back in the land of the sensate?” she asks him, about ten minutes of coddling later.
“Mmmm, just about,” Stark replies. “On a scale of one to five, with one meaning strongly disagree and five meaning strongly agree, how great are we at kinky sex?”
“More than adequate,” Emma says.
Stark lifts himself up and pauses to examine the tracery Emma left on his chest. “This is nice,” he says. “I’m going to be sad when it heals up.”
Emma inclines her head, pleased he likes it. Stark has a sharp eye for draftsmanship — rumor has it that he free-hands his own blueprints. “Go wash up,” she tells him. “I’m afraid I don’t have much for you to snack on. Only still water, too. The small white box with the gold ribbon in the fridge is tiramisu from that titchy place down the street; you’re welcome to that.”
“Oh, hush,” Stark says, dropping a kiss into her hair as he gets the rest of the way up. “Don’t pretend you’re not an excellent hostess.”
They have an hour or so left to spare before their responsibilities come knocking again. Stark borrows one of her robes, and they lounge around for a bit, still half-naked, to gossip about the comings and goings of the Avengers and X-men. Emma takes a moment to massage the strain out of Stark’s neck and temples. He gets terrible headaches, from too little rest and too much caffeine. In turn he braids her hair. He’s surprisingly adept at it, aided by his skilled craftsman’s hands and engineer’s sense for topography. She won’t be going out with her hair like this, but it feels nice to have a friend do it for her.
By four o’clock, Stark needs to leave for a dinner meeting, and Emma has a flight to catch. He shrugs into his suit jacket, grinning lopsidedly at her. “Imagine if we got to do this more than once every year or two,” he says.
“I would surely tire of you,” Emma says, smiling coyly back.
Stark whistles through his teeth, faux-calculating. “An unacceptable risk.”
“Alas.”
At the door, she kisses the air beside both his cheeks. In return he folds her into a surprisingly genuine hug. She laces her hands together between his shoulder-blades, breathing in the expensive smell of his suit and the shampoo he borrowed from her.
“I’ll miss you, Emma,” he says quietly.
“You too,” she says, and finds that she means it.