The late morning sun filtered through the towering windows of the Council Building on KraKoa, casting golden streaks across the stone floors of the King's Quarters. The air was thick with tension, a lingering residue from the chaotic incident that had unfolded just fifteen minutes prior. Tyler "King" Kingston, an 18-year-old mountain of a man with muscles that seemed carved from granite, paced the room with a furrowed brow. His limited speech made his thoughts a tangled mess, but the guilt gnawing at his chest was crystal clear. He’d crossed a line—spanked Emma Frost and Domino during a mock attack on Carl Denti, the man who’d raised him like family and ruled KraKoa with an iron grip. King’s father had drilled into him that hitting a woman was a sin, yet here he was, wrestling with the blurred lines of discipline and a darker, unspoken desire.
He clutched a peace offering in his massive hands: a bouquet of wildflowers pilfered from the gardens, a box of chocolates stolen from the kitchen, and a small bottle of anti-pain pills swiped from the infirmary. His heart thudded as he approached the door to the Training Room, where he knew Emma and Domino were recovering. He could still see the image of their red, handprint-marked backsides in his mind—a stark reminder of his loss of control. Swallowing hard, he pushed the door open.
Inside, Emma Frost lounged on a plush chaise, her platinum blonde hair cascading over one shoulder, her icy blue eyes narrowing as she caught sight of him. Domino, with her signature black eye patch and a smirk that could cut glass, leaned against the wall, wincing slightly as she shifted her weight. Both women bore the evidence of his heavy hand, and neither looked particularly thrilled to see him.
“Well, well, if it isn’t the spank-happy brute himself,” Emma drawled, her voice dripping with sardonic amusement. She crossed her legs with a deliberate slowness, ignoring the faint grimace of discomfort. “Come to admire your handiwork, darling, or are you here to grovel?”
King’s face flushed a deep crimson, his limited vocabulary tripping over itself. “S-sorry. Bad. Me… bad. Brought… stuff.” He thrust the flowers, chocolates, and pills forward like a child offering a crumpled drawing to a teacher.
Domino snorted, pushing off the wall to saunter closer, her hips swaying despite the obvious soreness. “Stuff, huh? What’s this, King? Trying to buy our forgiveness with cheap chocolates and some aspirin? I hope those flowers come with a side of dignity, because I’m pretty sure you slapped that right out of us.”
Emma laughed, sharp and crystalline, as she took the bouquet from his trembling hands. “Oh, Domino, don’t be so hard on the boy. Look at him—guilt’s practically oozing from those ridiculously broad shoulders. I bet he’s been beating himself up worse than he did us.” Her gaze flicked to King, piercing. “But let’s be clear, sweetheart. My backside is a national treasure, and you’ve left it looking like a war zone. Compensation is non-negotiable.”
King’s eyes widened, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “C-comp… what?”
“Money, darling. Or favors. I’m open to negotiation,” Emma purred, twirling a flower between her fingers. “But for now, I’ll accept this pitiful little offering. And a promise that you won’t lay a hand on us again… unless we ask for it.” Her lips curled into a wicked smile, and Domino cackled, clapping her hands.
“Oh, I like that. Unless we ask for it,” Domino echoed, snatching a chocolate from the box and popping it into her mouth. “Hear that, big guy? Next time, wait for an invitation. We’re not your personal punching bags—or spanking bags, for that matter.”
King nodded vigorously, relief washing over him as he mumbled, “No hit. Promise. Good now?”
Emma sighed dramatically, patting the chaise beside her. “Yes, we’re ‘good now,’ you oaf. Come, sit. Let’s not make this any more awkward than it already is.”
The mood lightened as King shuffled over, perching awkwardly on the edge of the chaise, his massive frame dwarfing the furniture. The scene shifted as they moved to the adjacent bedroom, sprawling across the oversized bed. King clutched an old, tattered Avengers comic in his hands, flipping through the pages with a childlike reverence. The women, sensing a chance to tease, pounced.
“Look at him, all starry-eyed over some spandex-clad heroes,” came a new voice—Black Cat, who’d slipped into the room unnoticed, her lithe form draped in skintight leather as she perched on the bed’s edge. Her green eyes glinted with mischief. “Who’s your crush, King? Spill it. Is it Captain Tight-Pants? Or maybe Thor and his magic hammer?”
King’s cheeks burned again, and he shook his head, clutching the comic tighter. “N-no. Not them.”
Domino propped herself on an elbow, grinning. “Oh, come on, don’t be shy. We’re placing bets here. I’m saying it’s Iron Man—guy’s got that whole ‘strong and silent’ vibe you’ve got going on. Except, you know, with less snark and more grunting.”
Emma smirked, tapping her chin. “No, no, I’m thinking it’s Spider-Man. All that youthful energy, swinging around, getting into trouble. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it, King?”
Black Cat laughed, her voice low and sultry. “You’re both wrong. I bet it’s someone big and broody. Someone… green. Am I close, big boy?”
King’s eyes flicked up, a shy smile tugging at his lips as he tapped a page in the comic, revealing a hulking green figure mid-rampage. “Hulk. Like… me. Strong. Mis… under… stood.”
The room fell silent for a moment, the playful jabs giving way to a softer understanding. Emma reached over, ruffling his hair with an almost maternal affection. “Well, damn. That’s oddly poetic for a man of few words. You’re right, King. Misunderstood suits you.”
Domino nodded, her smirk softening. “Yeah, okay, I’ll give you that one. Hulk’s a good pick. Just don’t go smashing up the place when you’re feeling emo, alright?”
Black Cat stretched out beside him, her tone teasing but warm. “Guess we’ve got our own little monster to tame, huh? Lucky for you, we’re experts at handling beasts.”
The group piled into the bed, King awkwardly nestled in the center, surrounded by the powerful women who’d somehow become his unlikely allies—his “girlfriends,” as Carl had jokingly called them. Their strength and directness both intimidated and comforted him, a dynamic that left him dizzy with confusion and a growing sense of belonging. As laughter and banter filled the room, the undercurrent of Carl’s broader agenda—his plans for breeding and control—loomed unspoken, a shadow waiting to darken the fragile peace they’d carved out.
For now, though, King let himself sink into the warmth of their presence, the weight of his guilt easing just a little. Tomorrow’s battles could wait. Tonight, he was exactly where he needed to be.
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