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freedomfireflies · 11 months ago

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You Again*

Summary: The one where Harry is your sister's ex-boyfriend and you finally get to see him again after 5 years.

Word Count: 11.4k

Content Warning: 18+, smut, age gap (6 years), sir kink, choking, use of a toy, exhibitionism if you squint!

"You've gotta be fucking kidding me."

Your eyes widen as you look up toward the man making his way into the diner. You'd recognize him anywhere. The dark curly hair. The tattoos that bleed through the fabric of his light shirt. The rings on his fingers.

Just like that, years' worth of memories come flooding back to you all at once.

"Harry," you shriek, sliding off the stool before practically flinging yourself into his arms.

He smells exactly the same. Like teakwood and spearmint. A rather odd mix, yet subtle enough to remind you of home.

Of him.

His chest vibrates with a deep laugh as his arms wrap around your frame to keep you against him, prolonging the hug a minute or two longer than socially acceptable.

And when you finally lean back to see him, your cheeks begin to warm.

It's been...four years? Five? Since you last saw him? Just days before he and your sister broke up, effectively removing him from your life for good.

It had been a hard time. You wanted to be there for your sister. To comfort her through the grief of losing such a long and meaningful relationship.

But you wanted to be there for him, too. After all, he was one of your best friends, age difference or not. He had always been the comforting, influential figure in your life that you relied on. That you counted on to get through different hardships in your life.

He had picked you up after your first day at your new job. Had held you in his arms as you cried over your first break-up. He had even listened to you talk about the boy you had fallen in love with.

Losing him felt like losing a part of yourself.

And now, five years later...that part of you has come home.

"Hi, Dot," he beams, reaching out to take hold of your chin and squeeze. "Shit, look at you. When did this happen?"

His eyes rake over your figure and you feel your skin grown hot under his appreciative gaze. "Stop, it hasn't been that long."

"The last time I saw you, I was helping you move into your new apartment across town,” he recalls, arms crossing in thought. "And now...now what? You’re still at your job, I assume?"

"I am. I just got a promotion, actually. I’m an assistant editor now.”

His eyes seem to light up, that soft green sending chills up the back of your neck as you glance down at your feet. "Dot...that's amazing. I'm so proud of you."

You wave the compliment away. "Thanks."

"Really," he insists before following you back to the counter where you'd previously been sitting. "I know how badly you wanted to pursue a career in publishing, and this...this is really amazing. Do you like it?"

"I do," you tell him as you settle back onto your stool. "Yeah, it's really nice. The people are great, the work is fun. Plus, the promotion came with a raise."

"That's amazing," he sighs, head shaking like he can't believe it. "Really, that's so...I honestly can't believe it. I can't believe it’s been so long. You’re so…adult now.”

You snort to yourself as you twirl your straw around your milkshake. "Yeah, I know. Though I’m not sure if I should take that as a compliment or not.”

"You should." He smiles, and it's big and beautiful. "You’ve always been grown up. Even before, you were mature for your age.”

“Well…yeah. I was twenty-three. That does make me an adult.”

“And now you’re twenty-eight.” He shakes his head again. “I can’t fucking believe it.”

You glance down at the rim of your glass. He’s right, it almost doesn’t seem possible. It feels like only last week that you were following him and your sister around town, begging to be included. Traipsing after them to bars, the mini golf course, and to any and all dates. Even though you knew your sister couldn’t stand it.

But Harry was nice and always inclusive. After all, he was your friend before he was your sister’s boyfriend. And he was determined to make sure that didn’t change, no matter how many times Atta rolled her eyes.

"I don't know how you put up with me," you finally admit. "God, I was so annoying. Atta used to get so mad at me for never leaving you alone."

He shrugs one shoulder up. "You weren't annoying to me. I liked it. I mean, I liked that you still felt so...safe? Around me? I guess?"

"Yeah, I did.” You smile. “Honestly, I think you were my best friend.”

He laughs as he looks back over. "I better have been.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Cause you were mine.”

"Good."

He smirks. "Remember how you used to fall asleep on my shoulder every time we watched a movie?”

"That's right," you groan, burying your face into the palm of your hand. "See? Annoying."

"Not annoying. Cute."

"It was not cute, it was annoying. And you know she hated it.”

“I don’t care. She fell asleep on my shoulder, too. It was nice.”

You snort. “It was weird, let’s face it. But I swear I've outgrown such habits."

He seems to hesitate for only a moment, eyes flicking between yours. "Too bad."

A beat.

You feel your stomach flip as you look away, breaking you both free of the tension. "So...what, um...what brings you to town? I was a little surprised to hear from you."

He takes the cup of coffee the waitress had poured him and slides it closer. "Oh, yeah, I'm...I'm here on business. And I remembered you lived here, so...I thought I’d reach out.”

"I see."

"Yeah.” He hesitates again. "And...I missed you."

You can’t fight the flutter in your chest. "I missed you, too, Har."

The conversation lulls as the busy diner continues to bustle around you. And despite how glad you are to see him, something feels...off. Different.

You aren't sure what. Can't quite put your finger on it. It almost feels like it used to, but something has changed. He looks like your Harry. He sounds like your Harry. He feels like your Harry. And yet, he feels like a stranger.

Maybe it's because it's been so long since you've seen him. Maybe it's because you aren't twenty-three anymore. Or maybe it’s because now he’s no longer Harry, your sister’s boyfriend.

Now he’s just…Harry. Your old friend.

When you notice the way he’s staring, your eyes narrow. “What?”

"Nothing." He shrugs again before chuckling under his breath. "No, nothing. Sorry, I just...I don't know. It's just...so strange to see you again. Like this."

"Like...this?"

"Yeah. Just us. Alone. No Atta.”

“Ah.” You swallow. “Right.”

“It’s not…weird, is it? I mean, it is weird but it’s not…uncomfortable, right?”

“No,” you rush to assure him. “No, I wanted to meet you. What happened with you two has nothing to do with me.”

He glances down at his lap. “Right.”

There’s an edge to the memory that wasn’t there before, yet despite your curiosity, you bite your tongue.

“What about you?” you say instead. “What have you been up to in the last five years?”

He smirks. ��Oh, not much.”

“Uh-huh. You think I’ve grown up, you’re basically an old man now.”

“Yeah, yeah, all right. I’m only 34.”

“That’s still six years older than me, which makes you old.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m serious. You're not that idiot on a motorcycle anymore. Now you say things like, 'I'm in town on business,” and you wear expensive suits, and ridiculous watches."

He glances down at the aforementioned object on his wrist. "In my defense, this was a gift.”

“Sure.”

“It was,” he insists. His eyes flick over your face. “Look, I would have reached out sooner, but…after we broke up, I figured you wouldn’t want me to. I mean, you had just started your new job, and I knew it wouldn’t be fair to ask you to be a side, so…”

“There were no sides,” you argue softly. “You both just…grew apart. You wanted different things.”

“Yeah,” he agrees with a sigh. “But I know it hurt her. It hurt me, too. And it was weird having to say goodbye to all of you. And leave all those memories behind. You were both such a huge part of my life."

"Yeah," you whisper. "You were a huge part of mine, too."

"Does Atta know you're meeting me?"

"No. Didn't really think it was any of her business. This is about us, not her."

His brow raises. "Would she be mad if she did?"

"I don't know,” you admit. “Probably not, but...would it really matter?"

"Of course it would. I'd never want to get in the way of your relationship."

"You aren't," you insist. "Look, she's dating somebody anyway. And I'm sure you are, too. You've both moved on. We're just...old friends catching up, and she'd have to understand that."

He seems to consider this before saying, "Yeah. I'm not, though."

"You're not...what?"

"Seeing anybody," he clarifies, tongue coming out to swipe across his bottom lip. "Haven't really dated anybody since she and I broke up."

"Oh, Harry," you murmur. "I'm...I'm sorry—"

"No. No, don't be," he insists. "It wasn't...I've just been busy. Working at the firm and renovating my house. I've gone on some dates but nothing serious. I just...haven't met the right person, I guess."

"The right person, huh?" you muse teasingly as you take a sip of your drink. "Okay, and what does Harry Styles' right person look like?"

He exhales an amused chuckle. "God, I don't know. I don't really think I'm that picky. Just...anybody I can get along with, I suppose."

"That's it? No, 'They need a fat ass and the ability to make me a sandwich?'"

He grins so big, the corners of his eyes crinkle. "For fuck's sake. No, nothing like that. Look, I don't know. Call me old fashioned, but...I think sometimes you meet somebody, and you can just...tell. You know? There's this energy, this shift. You look at them...and it all just makes sense.”

And as he looks you, waiting for you to consider this…the air shifts.

"Yeah," you agree quietly, allowing your attention to fall down his features and land on his lips. "Yeah, that's...you're right."

He seems to notice the way your focus has wandered because he quickly clears his throat and looks back down at his mug. "What, um...what about you? I'm assuming you're seeing somebody."

You look away as well, willing yourself to calm. "Oh? And why do you assume that?"

"Come on," he nearly snorts, eyebrow cocking. "Look at you. You're beautiful and you're smart and you have this effortless ability to make anyone around you feel good. Who wouldn't want to date you?"

"Well...pretty much every male in the city," you retort. "I don't know. I've tried dating but...there's always something missing. It never really feels quite right."

"Yeah. I know what you mean," he hums. "There's this...disconnect. Like you're forcing something that you know isn't right."

"Exactly! It's not that I don't want to find somebody, I just...haven't. It's not as easy as it is with you."

His head tilts. "With me?"

"Yeah, you know," you sigh, hands waving about the air as you try to explain your point. "I haven't seen you in five years but we still, just...picked right back up, you know? As if no time had passed. We're still just us. We can talk, and we can laugh, and we don't have to force anything."

He nods. "Right."

"I mean, honestly? Sometimes I think it would be easier to date somebody I already know. The problem is that all the guys I know are assholes. And too immature, I guess. They've got no sense of purpose, no drive. And it’s not like I need to be taken care of, but…it’d be nice to know they could. You know?”

"Yeah. You need someone with a good head on their shoulders."

"Exactly. I need someone who feels more like an equal than this thing I need to take care. I want to date a man, not a Tamagotchi."

He laughs again and the sound brings the butterflies back to your stomach. You feel proud to have amused him. And even more proud of the way he casually places a hand on your arm as he takes a deep breath.

When he lets go, you look down at the spot on your skin as if you can still see outline of his fingers.

"You'll find somebody," he tells you, and you do your best to ignore the sparks dancing up the back of your neck. "You will. And they'll be perfect for you. Old enough to know better and wise enough to do it right."

You place your palm over the spot he once touched, squeezing it gently. "Yeah. Hey, and you, too. Anybody would be lucky to have you."

His eyes linger on yours. "Yeah?"

You smile. "Yeah."

The next few minutes are devoted to sharing stories about your families. He asks how your parents are, you ask about his. He tells you about his job and you tell him about your roommate. You recall every detail of the past five years, and once you've finally caught up to today, he pays for your drinks, and offers to walk you home.

You make your way along the busy streets of the city as Harry tells you that he's thinking about getting a cat. You laugh and tell him that he'd make a wonderful cat dad, and he seems to flush.

You wonder why.

Fifteen minutes later, you're walking up the steps to your building, already apologizing for the messy state of your apartment before he's even stepped foot inside.

He snorts the implication away, assuring you that no matter what, it can't be worse than how Atta used to keep her place.

And the mention of your sister breeds an odd feeling in your chest. Unease, and this strange tinge of jealousy. Like you're almost peeved at him for bringing her up. For reminding you that he's seen the inside of her room before.

But you shake it away as you push the door open, refusing to linger on the thought.

"Well...this is it," you declare, stepping aside to let him enter. "Probably looks smaller than you remember, but…it does the trick.”

He takes a moment to glance over your knickknacks and decor before he grins. “I love it.”

"Really?"

"Yeah." He shoves his hands into his expensive coat pockets and nods. "Yeah, really. It feels...fitting."

"What do you mean?"

"I don’t know. It just feels like you.”

Your teeth gnaw on the inside of your cheek as you walk to the kitchen. "Well...thanks. I think."

You offer him a glass of water, to which he declines, before you join him back by the door. You're not sure that you’re quite ready to say goodbye, but you know he can't stay forever.

You wonder if you actually want him to.

You wonder if it would be so bad if you did.

"This was…really nice," he says as he takes a half-step through the doorframe. "Really, Dot. I'm proud of you. And everything you’ve done. And I'm really glad that I can still call you my friend after everything."

Your heart starts to pound a little harder inside your chest. "Yeah, me too. I really missed you, Har. I hope we can catch up again soon."

The side of his mouth curls up as his eyes soften. "I'd like that."

With that, he moves into the hall, and you close the door behind him.

The feeling that follows is...strange. Overwhelming. Like something is wrong. Like something has just been ripped away from you.

Like something is missing.

You feel on edge. Off-balance. Confused and unsure and you have no idea why. There’s a pain in your stomach that wasn’t there before and a hollowness in your heart that didn’t exist before you saw him.

Suddenly, there's a sharp knock on your door. "Dot?"

He's back.

Confused and slightly excited, you swing it back open to find him braced against your frame. He’s quiet as he studies you, brows woven together in what appears to be deep thought before he strides back inside your apartment and begins to pace your floor.

"Okay," he begins. Strained. "Okay, tell me...tell me this isn't just me. Tell me this isn't just in my head."

You shut the door. "What do you mean?”

He looks at you before frantically gesturing between your two bodies. "This. This thing we’ve been doing all afternoon. Tell me it's not just me. Tell me you feel it.”

And you're almost certain you know what he means, but the implication of it scares the shit out of you.

So, you simply tilt your head. "Har...feel what? I don't know what you're talking about—"

"Us.” He stares at you. “Us, there's something...there's something different here. Something that wasn't here before."

"Like...?"

"Like...like the way you look at me," he says, eyes on yours as you feel your heart begin to race. "You never used to look at me that way."

Your lashes flutter, and suddenly, you feel acutely aware of the way you've begun to gawk at him. Have you been looking at him differently?

"And the way you speak to me," he continues. "Talking about needing someone to take care of you. Someone older. Someone...more mature."

You swallow.

He takes a step closer. "And all day, you've just...you’ve found a way to brush your hand against mine. Or your arm. And you laugh at everything I say, even when it isn't funny. And I know you. I know this can't be what I think it is, but...you gotta tell me I'm not going crazy. You have to tell me it's not just...me."

And you realize now that you have an easy way out. You could brush off the accusation and tell him that it is just in his head. That he's your sister's ex-boyfriend, and he's your friend, and that you would never make a pass at him.

But then you say, "…what if it wasn't just you?"

He goes still, lips parting as he leans back. Almost as if struggling to understand what you've just said.

Truth be told, you're struggling to understand it yourself. You hadn't realized just how differently you'd been acting toward him. Or that you’d begun to wonder what would happen if he was your Harry instead of hers.

Because he’s not hers anymore. He’s just a man. A very attractive man. With a job, and a house, and enough emotional maturity not to make a fart joke every three minutes.

And it's not your fault that you're starting to see him in a different light. It's been years. Five whole years since you've spoken to him and you're both adults now. Completely different people, and would it really be the worst thing if you wondered what could have been?

"Dot…" he begins slowly, clearly wrestling with what he wants to say, "…you don't…I don't think you really know what you're doing."

You take a step as well, challenging him. "What am I doing?"

"You're...you're—" His fingers find the bridge of his nose as he squeezes. Hard. "Fuck, Dot. Don't…don't do this—"

"Do what? Flirt with you?"

His palms fly to his ears with a wince. "Stop. No, you didn't...you didn't say that. You're not flirting with me. You're not flirting with me—"

"What if I am?" you retort, following after him with a surge of confidence you didn’t realize you had. "Why would that be so wrong?"

"Because,” he scoffs, shooting a stern look your way. "You’re Atta’s little sister. And we’re friends. And you’re basically a child—"

"I'm not a child," you remind him. "I'm twenty-eight. I've been making capable decisions for quite some time now—"

"But not this," he hisses, the muscles in his neck straining. "Not…shit. You can't do this. You can't—”

"Why not? You said it yourself, there's something different here—"

"But not this—"

"Why not?"

"Because…you're you," he huffs. "You're...you're my best friend, and my ex’s little sister, and I’m…I’m just this big, bad man come to ruin you.”

And somehow, the idea goes straight to your cunt.

"You're not ruining me, Harry," you say, even though you wish he would. "We’re adults. Old friends catching up and realizing that maybe things can be different now."

He takes in a breath. "But they can't be. They can't be different—"

"Why—"

"Because it's not right—"

"What's not right? What?" you argue. "Is it just the age difference? Is it Atta? Is it that you aren't attracted to me, because I know you were flirting with me, too—"

His entire face twists into a grimace as he inhales sharply and presses his hands back over his ears. "God. Don't say that—"

"You were," you insist. "Like it or not, I'm not the little girl you used to know. All right, and there's...there's nothing wrong with us testing the waters—"

He steels himself, arms dropping back to his sides. "We can't."

"Why?" you repeat for what feels like the hundredth time. "Why can't we? Huh? We're not breaking any rules. We're not doing anything illegal. I don't see what's so wrong with just trying—"

"I'd ruin you," he says again, with so much conviction that it makes your stomach drop. "I would ruin any chance you had at a normal relationship—a normal life. All right, being with me...it would complicate everything. And I'd never do that to you—"

"I'm not asking you to marry me. I'm just asking you to try—"

"Try what?"

"Try seeing." You take another step, making sure you have his full attention. "Just…try seeing if what we think is here is actually here. If maybe we were meant to find each other again after all this time. If this is where it all finally makes sense."

He considers this for a moment. Considers you. And you aren't sure when you suddenly became so enamored by the thought of Harry, but you’re here now. And he’s here. And there’s a shift.

And it feels right.

Then, his head begins to shake. "No. No, I know better. I have to know better. I have to do better than this. I can't...God, I can't believe I'm even...no. No, you mean too much to me for me to ruin this."

You feel your chest deflate as your lips press into a thin line. And you stare at him. You stare and you see the indecision and anguish on his face. You see the way he wrestles with the idea you've given him. The way he wrestles with himself.

The way he wrestles with you.

You don't want to push him. Because you know this is something you can never take back. And maybe there's just too much adrenaline in your veins right now. Maybe you aren't thinking straight, and once he leaves and the moment passes, you’ll wonder what you were so worked up about anyway.

But right now, all you feel is disappointment.

"Fine," you whisper, and his eyes soften. "No, fine. You're right. You're right, this is...I never should have said anything. I was…confused. I was just happy to see you again and I thought it was something else, but…you're right. It's nothing. And I don't wanna be your mid-life crisis. I just want us to be friends again.”

Your tiny apartment falls silent as you both settle onto this conclusion. As you let your heartbreak dangle in the air.

Then, his fingers between to flex and his teeth begin to grit, and watch in real time as he starts to change his mind.

Then, he murmurs, “Oh, fuck it.”

Next thing you know, he's closing the gap between you, taking hold of your face and kissing you hard.

You don’t have time to process it. Don’t even care to process it. But you don’t care. Because everything makes sense now.

So, you feel him. Surrender to him. Indulge in the dominate pull of his hands on your jaw as he takes a taste of you on his tongue. As he presses his hips so hard into yours that you feel your knees go weak.

You make a noise in your throat as he goes deeper, and he growls. Like he's fighting himself. Fighting the urge to take as he begins roughly walking you back until you’re slammed against the wall.

He knows exactly what he's doing in a way that younger men never have. He makes you feel both taken care of and somehow, still completely helpless. You don't have to think about anything with him because he does everything.

He presses his strong, tall frame into yours until he practically disappears into you. His large hand grips onto the back of your neck as you whimper, taking control of the moment—of you—until the only thought left in your head is just more.

And you don't doubt that he'd give you more if you asked, but before you can, he pulls back, and puts the moment on pause.

You feel breathless. Dejected. Wilting in his hold as he meets your eye and looks for your reaction.

But he won’t find it. And you bite back a whine as you wait for him to come back.

He sweeps his thumbs along your cheek before sighing to himself. "Dot..."

You feel your stomach turn at the nickname. At the way it comes out raspy and desperate. "Don’t say it."

But he does, anyway. "We shouldn't do this."

"I know," you murmur, fingers disappearing into his hair while he seems to nestle into your touch. "I know, but I want to. I want to, Har. So…please don’t make me lose you again.”

Another beat passes before he groans and presses his forehead to yours. “God,” he nearly growls, and the sound makes your thighs squeeze together. “Dot—”

"I won't tell," you promise while his jaw clenches. "I won't, I swear. I'll be your secret."

Just like that, the hand he placed on your thigh tightens. Squeezing until you're squirming beneath him. He’s losing his conviction and you’re losing your patience.

"This is wrong," he mumbles. "S'wrong, Dot. I can't do this to you. Can't do this with you...I can't...I know better. I have to do better.”

You tug on his hair as you straighten up, whining beneath a strained breath. "I don’t want you to do better. I want you to do me.”

He exhales deeply with this, nose running down the side of your face as his lips travel to your neck. He seems to take refuge there, subtly pressing kisses to your throat as he thinks. "I want to," he tells you softly. "You have no idea how badly I want to. How badly I want to do everything for you. Show you how a real man fucks. Until you see stars.”

"Har," you just about gasp, anxious to have him do just that. "Please...please—"

"Fuck." His thigh slots between the both of yours and you writhe against him, searching for anything you might find. "Be so easy to take you. Be so easy to show you what you're missing. To wreck you until you’re begging for more—"

"So do it," you plead, pulling on him until his mouth meets yours. "Do it, Har. Please. Just once. Just once, and I promise I'll be so good. Be so good for you. Won't ever ask you again—"

His hold on you grows more determined before he's ripping you away from the wall and slinging you toward your bed a few feet away.

He’s on you in seconds, hovering about where you lie as you greedily grab for him. "Promise me," he hisses as his palm slips beneath your shirt, and a needy whimper bleeds from your throat. "Promise me that this is what you want."

"I promise," you repeat quickly, arching into his touch. "Promise—"

"Promise me...that you'll be good," he says next, fingers brushing over the material of your bra. "That you'll behave. That you'll do exactly what I tell you."

"Yes," you breathe, eyes falling shut.

"Fucking promise me..." he continues as he scratches down your chest, "...that you won't tell. That you'll be my dirty little secret. That you'll be mine. That you'll let me ruin you and that you'll fucking thank me for doing it—"

The last domino falls. Crashes to the ground as you tug him down to you so you can kiss him. So, you can prove your loyalty. Prove that this is everything you’ve ever wanted.

You feel him smile.

"You little fucking minx,” he purrs.

Your skin warms as Harry's stunned but unceasingly enthralled gaze lingers on the red lace of your underwear. However, his fingers move instead for your hips. His hauntingly empty touch ghosting across the fabric of your underwear as you anxiously await contact.

But he doesn't give it to you. Not quite, not yet. He just wants to look at you. Wants to drink you in. Allow himself the privilege of seeing what he never has before.

"Did you wear these just for me, little one?" he asks in a gravely drawl, eyes flicking up to yours from where he lays between your thighs.

You swallow as you look across your stomach at him. You're not sure why you picked out this particular set today. Perhaps it was a subconscious choice or perhaps destiny was simply on your side.

"Maybe," you murmur, nails curling into your palm as you work in shallow breaths. God, you need him to touch you. Need him to do something about the mess that's sitting two inches in front of his face.

The very same mess he's pretending he doesn't notice.

Your response encourages a smirk as he hums and glances back down at the little white bow placed delicately in the center. "S'cute, Dot," he says softly, pinching the ribbon between his thumb and forefinger. "Fucking precious, actually. Knowing you got yourself all dolled up. Just to see me."

He pulls his lip between his teeth and glances back over your face. He's amused by the weary and desperate expression you wear and you're two seconds away from groaning.

His touch moves down. Down, down, down until the pad of his finger brushes over your clit.

You tense before releasing a shaky exhale.

Satisfied with this reaction, he moves even lower. Until he finds that growing wet patch that's beginning to hurt.

"What's this?" he coos, looking down toward the darkened red fabric. "Oh, darling...s'this for me, too?"

You're not sure where your quippy attitude from before has gone because now you can do nothing but nod mutely as you shift beneath his hand.

"Yeah?" His eyebrow raises as he grins at you. "Is this what has you so anxious?"

You give him another nod.

He hums. "Think I need to see for myself, hm?" He smirks and pats his palms against your hips. "Take these off for me."

You quickly reach down to hook your fingers around the hem of your underwear and drag them down your thighs. Once they've been pulled from your body, you get ready to toss them onto the other side of the bed. But before they can be flicked from the tips of your fingers, Harry snatches them with his fist.

"Uh-uh," he tuts as he tucks them into his suit's breast pocket. "These are mine now."

You suck in a sharp, eager pant. "Har—"

"Shh." He settles back onto his stomach, hands curling around your thighs to guide them apart and allow him a better visual. "M'busy, little one."

But it’s nearly impossible to stay quiet as his warm breath fans across your pussy, making the mess that much more obvious to you both. In fact, you can practically see the glistening reflection in his eye as he studies your cunt in the most intimate of ways.

You're not sure what he wants. What he's doing or planning or thinking. And you don't know why, but the way he stares at you does more for the apprehensive coil in your gut than him actually touching you has.

Finally, he makes another satisfied noise deep within the back of his throat before he brings his fingers back to you.

Two are placed just above your clit before he teasingly drags them down. However, when your hips buck up, he merely shoves them back down with a tsk.

Once you’re still, he starts again. Easing himself through your folds as he spreads you with the utmost glee. Fascinated by the way your body feels, the way it reacts to him.

His tongue sits between his lips as he ventures down, and the moment he finds the pooling of arousal waiting for him...you see the muscles in his neck contract.

"Darling…" The nickname is whispered across your body as he scoots closer. "Bet this hurts, doesn't it?"

"Yes," you reply instantaneously, straining around the singular word as you resist the urge to whimper.

He circles the tip of his finger around your aching hole, almost as if to test you. "Oh, precious girl...how long, hm? How long have you been in so much pain?"

Truthfully, since you hugged him at the diner.

"All day," you say aloud, hands gripping onto the duvet beneath you. "All day, Har. Been thinking about you all day."

And that is the honest answer. You'd been anxiously awaiting your meeting from the moment you woke up.

But he smiles as if he knows better, despite the way he seems to bask in your response. "All day, hm? And what were you gonna do if I never came back? Were you just gonna sit here and rub your pretty thighs together?"

Your heart skips while your hands gather atop of your stomach.

His brow raises. "No? Well then how were you gonna take care of it, hm?"

For a moment, you think this is simply rhetorical, but the longer the silence stretches, the more obvious it becomes that he expects an answer.

You swallow the odd lump in your throat. "How do you think?"

"Uh-uh," he chastises again. "I wanna hear you say it. Want you to tell me exactly how you were gonna fix this little problem of yours had I not been here."

Your head flops back against the pillows as you glare at the ceiling. He's always been rather infuriating but now he's a menace.

"Dot..." He's warning you. Calling you back. Urging you not to be so bratty.

With a tentative sigh, you look back at him. "My...vibrator."

He perks up. "Yeah?"

You nod faintly.

"Tell me how," he instructs next, jutting his chin toward you. "Better yet...show me. Show me how you've been taking care of yourself all these years."

Feeling rather embarrassed under the spotlight of such an intimate request, you shyly look over toward your nightstand and outstretch a hand. After pulling the drawer open, you slip inside and find the purple wand that's just small enough to fit snugly inside your palm.

And Harry watches with a certain wonder in his eye as you bring the dainty toy closer. Yet, he says nothing while you slowly guide it toward your stomach and down to your thighs.

But he does, however, shift in order to make room, scooting back by a hair to allow you the space you need to place the head right above your aching clit.

For some reason, doing something so private in front of him feels...odd. Strange and almost unsettling. And perhaps that's just nerves, but you can't deny the heat that rushes to your face as he looks between you and the vibrator.

"S'this it, then?" he murmurs, a hint of teasing laced within the remark. "Don't even have to turn it on?"

Your thumb taps against the power button, a nervous tic, although you refrain from switching the toy on just yet. "No..."

His smirk is borderline haughty. "Then what do you do, little one? How do you use it?"

You say nothing. You hold his stare, and you hold a deep breath, and you hold the wand to your glistening cunt.

Then...you flip the switch.

The soft, dainty vibrations echo across the room, across your bodies, and across your clit as it's met with the instant stimulation of the pulsating wand.

You choke on a gasp as you return your eyes to the ceiling, allowing for the feeling to take control of each remaining sense.

And as you do, Harry's hands make themselves known to you as they begin to smooth up your legs, helping guide your thighs further apart once again.

There's an ever-so-slight stretch that follows as your muscles are pulled, and the distinctive burn makes your lashes flutter shut.

"There you go," he whispers. "So pretty, darling. God, could watch you do this all day."

Truthfully, you imagine you’re quite a sight. After all, you’ve watched yourself before. You know how it looks. Know exactly the kind of visual fantasy Harry is witness to right now.

So, you play it up, give him a show. After all...he's got a front row seat.

You rotate the head slowly, circling down and around your hole before retreating and dragging the object back up and through.

And you shiver every time it brushes against that particular sweet spot. Every time the pulses slow just to speed up once more. It's almost torturous the way your body is being bent to such salacious desires. And cruel the way you're forced to do this while he only watches.

A whimper slips free, and you arch off the bed, pressing the toy as tight against your body as you can stand.

You hear Harry chuckle.

"Easy," he warns before you feel his fingers curl around your wrist, encouraging your grip to relax. "Take it slow, Dot. Not in a hurry, are you?"

"No," you breathe, head shaking zealously. "No, m'just...feels good."

"Does it?" He almost sounds surprised. "Hm. Interesting. Seeing as you're doing it wrong."

Your head lifts.

He glances toward the vibrator. "May I?"

You nod.

Pleased, he slips the toy free from between your fingers and clears his throat. Focused eyes landing on your body as he readies the bullet.

Then...he begins.

It meets your clit—an innocent, familiar touch—before it's instantly being dragged down. He's slow with it. Giving you enough time to feel each particular flutter and twitch.

Your soft gasps and grateful sighs carry him further, until the tiny head of the toy is swimming through your arousal. You fall still, attention locked on the man by your knees.

But he’s still focused. Soft, green eyebrows weaving together as his pretty cherry lips stretch into a smile.

Something changes—everything changes—when he slips the head inside. Your entire body ripples from the vibrations as you stumble over his name and squirm across the mattress.

He only laughs before placing his arm overtop your stomach to keep you cemented to the bed. "None of that. Stay still for me."

"Har," you whisper, depleted of any strength. "Please..."

"What, little one? What do you want?"

"I need...please, I'm..."

"What? Does it feel good?"

"Yes. Yes...yes, feels so good. Please..."

"Please what? What do you want, sugar?"

More. Everything. Anything. "Fuck, I'm—don't stop. Please don't stop."

"Oh, darling," he breathes. "I'd never dream of it."

He takes the toy out and moves it back to your clit, circling gently a few times before pressing down hard.

And you almost miss the full feeling it provided as it was eased into you, but before you can dwell for too long...Harry's extending his fingers and slipping them into your cunt.

Not one, but two of those beautiful digits push past your walls and begin to stretch you, ripping a gasp from your throat at the simultaneous stimulation.

"Attagirl," he murmurs from below, and you can hear the smug undertone. "That's what you wanted, hm? Needed something to fill you."

Your chest heaves, the red lace of your bra lifting and falling as you roll your head back. "God, Har—"

"Tell me, darling," he continues, easing himself out just to push back in. "Were you gonna use your own fingers? If I wasn't here? Gonna ride your pretty little hand?"

You can't tell if he already knows the answer or if he just wants to picture your hand between your thighs.

Either way, you pant out, "Mhm."

"Yeah? How many, honey? How many were you gonna use?"

"...two."

He tsks, seemingly disappointed with this answer. "Just two? Hm. And would it have felt like this, darling? Would they be able to do it for you the way mine can?"

To accompany this ask, he curls upward, nearly yanking the pleasure out of you as you choke on a cry and writhe away from him.

"Fuck—" Your teeth tug on your bottom lip. "Shit, Har—"

"Is that a no, then?" He thrusts his fingers out and back in again. "Would you have gotten yourself this wet...with just your own hand?"

The sound of him slipping through your arousal meets your ear as you groan and look down.

"No?" He adds a third finger while making sure to keep the wand of the vibrator exactly where it needs to be. "What about when you thought of me? Would that have done it for you, sugar? Thinking of me while you soaked your sheets? While you dripped down your knuckles as you fucked yourself?"

You've never heard a man talk to you this way. You already knew his experience superseded that of any man you'd been with before but this. None of those other boys ever knew how. But Harry...God. He knows just what to say. Knows exactly what you need to hear, and it overwhelms you.

"Har...Har—"

"Need an answer," he reminds you, but when you refuse to offer him one, he takes himself away. His fingers, the toy, his body. Leaning away completely as your pussy goes completely quiet.

"Harry," you just about moan, pushing up onto your elbows to leverage the playing field. "You...I'm...I was just—"

"Disobeying," he answers for you. "That's what you were doing. And I don't think that's fair, do you?"

You frown. You know this tone he's taking with you. Authoritative and condescending. It makes you huff. "Fine. I'll try again."

"Good girl," he murmurs, nodding at you as if to encourage confidence.

"I...wait, what was the question again?"

He smiles at this, releasing an amused chuckle beneath his breath before crawling back to you. His hands find the mattress beside your hips and he settles between your parted thighs, lips dangerously closer now.

And you can smell him. Smell his cologne, and his aftershave, and his shampoo. Can feel the heat radiating off his body, even through the expensive suit. Can see how much he wants to take care of you—ruin you. As promised.

"Do you get yourself this wet...when I'm not around?" he repeats, and the tip of his nose brushes against yours.

Your breath hitches. "No."

The answer was always obvious, but you know he needed to hear you say it.

"Do you touch yourself...the way I touch you?"

"No."

"Can you make yourself come the way I can?"

"God, no—" you gasp before taking hold of his face and smashing his mouth against yours.

His lips are perfect and his kiss is perfect and the two of you are perfect together. A connection so seamless, so effortless...it's as if you were always meant to be.

A ridiculous notion, you think to yourself, but right now...it's quite nice.

He pulls himself back just enough to meet your eye and offer a devious grin. "Then let’s find out, hm?"

Rough fingertips travel up the length of your inner thigh, forming goosebumps in the wake. You shiver, ready to receive his touch once again before he dances right past your cunt, and up your hip.

He moves for the lace on your chest, tugging on the wire between your breasts with a disappointed tsk.

"I want this gone," he decides, plucking it from your skin. "Need to see all of you, Dot."

And before you can even reach back to undo the hook, he's looping an arm underneath your back, lifting you up, and flicking the clasp free.

Once done, he yanks the bra down your arms and body before flinging it somewhere behind him.

Your eyes shut as your naked chest is revealed to him, heart hammering against your ribcage.

But then, you feel those lips again. He wraps his mouth around your left nipple before you can even whisper his name, sucking on you as though he's determined to make you see stars.

Which you do the moment his teeth pull on the sensitive skin. And you can't help but mewl as his tongue flicks cruel and merciless patterns against before moving for your collarbone.

He groans as he goes, situating his knee between your legs and pressing it directly against your cunt. His other hand gropes at your right breast, kneading at the tender flesh until his mouth reaches your neck. He nips at a vein just below your jaw and you arch up into him, chest knocking into his.

He sucks sweet bruises into the curve of your throat before licking apologies over the newly ruined skin. It's slow and painful and beautifully good.

Everything about him is beautiful and good.

His entire body seems to cater to yours as he cages you to the mattress and easily pulls whimpers from your throat. As he touches you, and pleases you, and knows you in a way nobody else ever has.

You grind yourself against his leg before glancing down. And that’s when you notice the way your arousal has begun to soak through his nice pants. The way a dark little patch seeps into the fancy—and expensive—material. A sight both erotic and humiliating.

Your whimper forces his eyes to where yours reside, and he smirks when he sees your mess.

"What's the matter, little one?" he asks, taking his hand from your tit and using it to grab onto your jaw. "Are you embarrassed?"

You nod, despite his hold.

"Oh, my dirty little girl,” he hums. “I don't mind you soaking my trousers. But I'd rather you soak my cock."

You'd rather that, too, and you're more than grateful when he leans back to undo his belt. You don't know where this will lead you. If you’ll fuck him and then lose contact for another five years.

Or if you’ll fuck him and change everything.

But right now, you don't mind. You'll happily exist in this moment with him. In these bad decisions until you're coming so hard, you forget your own name.

He leans back to begin ridding himself of his clothes and you scramble upward to help him along. Your greedy hands grab at his jacket and his shirt, wrestling them down his arms and off his broad chest. Wanting to see him the way he can see you.

You nearly moan when his inked skin is revealed to you. You knew he'd gotten a few tattoos in college, and even some a bit after. But seeing them now, painted across such a tan, toned canvas makes your head spin.

"Easy," he laughs, reaching out to swipe his thumb beside your mouth to collect the pooling drool. "Save some for me, hm?"

But you can't. Instead, you take his finger between your lips and bury it beside your tongue.

Surprised, his lashes flutter. But once you realize he won’t be able to undo his pants without both hands, you regretfully pop his digit free. Allowing him to slip out of his briefs until his cock springs free.

He’s…perfect. Still. Somehow. Red and swollen and leaking just for you. And you clench from the mere thought of having something so beautiful inside you.

You crawl closer, eager for a taste, but Harry simply grabs hold of your chin.

"Yes, little one?" he murmurs, using his other hand to hold his cock. "Did you want something?"

You nod and lean forward another inch.

"All right," he concedes, pumping himself before subtly tugging you down. "Just a taste, honey. Since you've been so good."

He leads your mouth to him and without a moment's hesitation, you outstretch your tongue, and drag it along the underside.

You revel in the way you feel him twitch. In the way he exhales a deep breath through parted lips while moving his fingers to your hair, guiding you closer but not too close. Just enough to get him on your tastebuds.

You hum when you reach the tip, eager to indulge in the pre-cum already beading in pearly drops. And the vibrations from your eager appreciation make the muscles in his stomach quiver as he curses your name.

However, you barely get the chance to wrap your mouth around him before he's yanking on your hair, and straightening you back up.

"What did I say?" he hisses. "Don't be greedy, Dot."

"I'm sorry," you whisper, swallowing the bit of him still lingering in your mouth. "M'sorry, won't do it again."

"No, you won't. Or I'll go back on my promise."

"No," you whine, needy fingers wrapping around his wrist to keep him close. "No, won't do it again. I promise."

You know he’s amused with your desperation, and even though you're slipping fast, he can't help but be entertained. "We'll see, little one."

With a fervent motion of your head, you scramble back to the pillows to lay down, legs spreading as if to invite him in.

He smirks as he strokes his cock a time or two more while settling himself between your thighs. You imagine he could have you in a number of ways, a plethora of positions. But he chooses this. He chooses to see your face this first time. To see every ounce of pleasure etched within your features.

And truth be told, you don't mind. You could stare at him forever.

"Do you have any condoms?" he asks next, dipping down to press his lips to yours for only a second. "Or would you prefer to go without?"

You consider this. You're on birth control and you do have a bit of a creampie kink, so you shake your head.

"Without," you answer quickly before lifting an eyebrow. "Unless you'd like to?"

"No," he chuckles, placing a kiss to your nose this time. "Just wanted to make sure. Promised to take care of you, and that's what I plan to do."

Your heart flutters.

"Okay, gonna need you to be good, honey," he tells you now, large palm landing on your hip to steady you. "Gonna need you to take me and do as I say, all right? And I'll make it worth it."

"I will," you agree quickly, fingers traveling up the dips in his arms, ghosting over each muscle until you reach his shoulders. "Be so good, Har, promise."

"Uh-uh." His hand smacks against your inner thigh in warning before his thick eyebrow cocks up. "S'not my name, darling. Not right now."

Curious as to what he might mean, you study him for only a moment before you realize.

"I'm sorry, Sir."

Just like that, something in his demeanor switches.

Truth be told, the name doesn't do much for you. But you revel in the way he feeds off it. Find absolute euphoria in the way he lights up at your obedience until you want nothing more than to please him again. To call him anything he wants as long as he keeps looking at you like that.

"Good girl," he growls beneath a deep breath before he's bringing his cock closer.

He starts by dragging it along your clit, making you jolt and buck before his hand splays across your stomach to force you back down.

"No," he says simply, eyes fixated on the torture he's currently implementing.

He does it again, letting your swollen, puffy clit jump from the slight brush of his tip while he drags it through your arousal and shifts forward.

"Breathe," he orders next, stealing a quick glance at your puckered lips and wide eyes. “All right?”

“Yes, Sir.”

He slides in slowly, pushing past your tight walls, coaxing the muscles to stretch to his size.

At first, it's nothing more than a soft, easy sensation. Relaxing, in a sense as it aids the ache and fills the void his fingers left behind.

Then...he goes deeper.

And this is what you'd been waiting for. The slight tension and subtle burn as your body is forced to accommodate him. You're thankful he goes slow. Not just because of the pain. But because you both want to watch.

You want to watch the way he pulls your body apart. Wanna watch him disappear into your tight hole that pulls him in. Wanna watch the way you flutter and clench and claim him the way he’s claiming you.

"Oh, that's my fucking girl," he groans to himself. "Fucking hell, Dot. Didn’t think you’d be so tight."

"Yeah, well…never had someone like you before," you tease, gauging your body's reaction by slowly rolling your hips up.

"Yeah?" His hand lands on your throat, smoothing up the sides of your neck until he can squeeze a gasp from your lips. “Never, huh?”

You shake your head and with one quick thrust, he bottoms out, forcing a strangled cry as you arch into him.

“Never had someone stretch this pretty pussy the way it deserves, yeah?” He tsks again. “What a fucking shame.”

He rears back, and the pain and the pleasure that follow him out make your chest cave in.

However, he’s quickly driving himself back in before you can complain, pushing past the fluttering muscles once more as you keen and rake your nails down the blanket.

"Harry," you breathe, his name like a lifeline as you drown in his sin.

But it earns you another firm smack to your outer thigh as he grunts his disapproval into your neck. "No," he warns before nipping just below your jaw. "You know better."

But really…you don’t. "Sir...please," you amend.

"Hm. S'a good girl," he praises. "Knew you'd behave for me, yeah? My perfect little toy—"

A rather debauched moan rips from between your gritted teeth as his hips ram into yours. You can feel him everywhere. In your stomach, in your head, in your heart. His legs against yours, his chest against yours, his entire body against yours until you're almost convinced he's gonna become one with your bloodstream.

Not that you'd mind.

His arm slips beneath you once more in order to lift you up and provide him with a new angle. Then, he thrusts himself into you again as your mouth hangs open in a silent gasp for air.

"There she is, that's what you needed. Yeah, little one?' He does it again, brushing against that one spot that makes your toes curl. "The other boys never did it, did they?"

You whine, knees bending besides his hips as you attempt to follow after him when he pulls back.

But he's quick to tut and knock you back down onto your ass. "No. You don't rush me, darling. We do this my way. On my time. If I wanna stay here and fuck you nice and slow, then you’ll behave, and you’ll fucking take me.”

You’d like to agree, but he’s thrusting himself back in before you can.

"You will thank me for taking my time," he continues in a coarse cadence that seems to reverberate from his chest. "You will thank me...for being so goddamn good to you. And you will thank me…for doing it right."

"Harry, please—" you just about wail, hands finding his arms as you grasp on for dear life.

But the fingers around your throat tighten until the edges of your vision begin to blur.

"There you fucking go again," he growls, stilling his rhythmic attacks as he meets your eye. He seems to enjoy watching your focus go fuzzy. "Starting to think you like to be punished, hm? And here I thought you had a praise kink."

You clutch onto his wrist, nails scratching along the veins in his arm as he pounds into you at a harder pace.

But you don't mind. You enjoy watching him give into the voices inside his head. Enjoy the way his chocolate brown curls sweep across his forehead, the way his eyebrows weave together and the muscles in his jaw constrict.

For a 34-year-old man, he seems to possess quite a bit of stamina. He'd mentioned earlier his enjoyment for running and exercising, detailing his rather excessive and diligent routine.

And you'd smirked because you'd assumed he was showing off or because he was trying to stay ahead of the inevitable "dad-bod" in his future.

But now you understand why he's really so meticulous. He's a long way from looking his age. Apart from some subtle, but soft crinkles near his eyes and a few gray hairs that peek through the auburn waves, he looks rather youthful.

And his body. You swallow another noise as you let your hungry gaze trail over every inch, every muscle, every quiver in his thighs as he braces himself above you.

Sir feels like a more appropriate title to you now. Because he is. He is your superior in this moment A man to be respected and revered. Someone who not only knows better,.but knows you. Knows your body and how to play it like an instrument.

There's something exciting about submitting to him. Something tantalizing about being at his mercy. Most of the other men you've been with have felt more like your equals than anything else. Which you haven't minded in the least bit.

But the way Harry has managed to fit you into the submissive, subservient role so quickly suggests that perhaps...this is where you were always meant to be.

Beneath him.

"Oh, honey," he coos, a mix of condescension and amusement. "Can feel you squeezin' me. Need it so bad, don't you? Need to come, hm?"

"Yes. Yes," you whisper, nuzzling your face into his neck, lips eagerly pressing into the salty skin at your disposal. "Please, Ha—Sir. Please let me come. Can't...can't hold it—"

"You will,” he says before he’s grabbing hold of your wrist and hosting it above your head. Burying into the pillow and preventing you from reaching for your clit. “Forget it, Princess. Told you to take me. So you will. Exactly how I tell you.”

"Sir—"

"I said no. I plan to keep you here for quite some time. Plan to feel you coming around my cock as many times as I see fit. And I expect you to behave for me the way you promised. Can you do that? Or do I need to stop?"

"No," you gasp, tears springing to your eyes at the very thought. "No, no, please—"

"Then what are you going to do?"

You swallow a moan and lift your chin proudly. "Take it."

A pleased smile crawls across his face as he hums and dips down to press his mouth to yours. "There she is," he murmurs, nipping at your bottom lip. "My good girl. Try to remember that, yeah? Or I'll keep you here all day."

However, that’s something else you wouldn't exactly mind, and you shiver as he pushes your knee into your chest.

"Fucking hell, Dot," he mumbles, eyes falling back down to where you're coating his cock. "Oh, my perfect toy. Look at the way you treat me, honey. Treat me so well, fucking soaking me, aren't you—"

"Yes, Yes, please…"

"I know. I know, little one. Feels so good to be filled, yeah? To be fucked the right way—"

"God, yes. More...please—"

"More, huh? Need more? Need me to make it better? Need me to fucking take—"

Suddenly, your phone rings.

The soft, melodic chime cuts through Harry’s vulgar response, bringing the moment to a close as his thrusts falter and he glances over.

God, you hate that stupid, evil, sadistic machine. Right now, you wish you'd never bought it. You wish you could throw it again the wall until it shatters into a thousand fucking pieces so as long as he just keeps going.

Instead, he searches your nightstand for the small device before he's releasing your leg in order to reach for it.

"No, Har," you plead, attempting to grab onto his hand. "Just let it go to voicemail, it's fine—"

"But that wouldn't be very polite, now, would it?" he tuts, glancing over the screen. "And I think you need to take this, darling."

"Harry, please—"

"Shh," he says sharply. “You're gonna take this phone call and you're gonna use your word. And then, and you're gonna come for me."

His thumb hovers over the green button and he guides the phone to your ear.

"And you're not gonna make a fucking sound," he adds, dropping his voice to a threatening hiss before pressing the receiver to your ear. "Or I fucking stop. Do you understand?"

You do your best to nod, and he smiles before tapping the screen.

Through a slight quiver, you say, "Hello?"

"Hey! Long time no talk, babe. How are you?"

Your eyes just about pop out of your head.

Atta.

Her cheerful tone and eager greeting make the blood drain from your face as you look up at the man hovering above you.

"Speak," he mouths with a wicked grin while nodding his chin at you.

But you can't. You physically cannot get the words to come out of your mouth as Harry keeps the device glued to the side of your head.

"H...hi," you stammer, forcing a more confident cadence. "I'm...good. How...how are you?"

"Oh, I'm good. Good, yeah," your sister replies, and you hear a bit of shuffling. "Been working a lot. Got today off, which is nice. God, you'd never believe how much shit we have to go through since we changed our filing system—"

"Mhm," you reply right as Harry rams his hips into yours.

You gasp and quickly turn your head away from the phone in an attempt to keep the excitable noise from making it into the microphone.

However, he uses his other hand to grasp onto your jaw and force you back. "No," he whispers, shooting you a stern look of warning. "You know better."

"—which is wild because we've been using the same program since '08," Atta is saying, although you can hardly hear her over the imminent pleasure rushing through your veins. "But...whatever. Once we're done, it'll make things so much easier. Which will be nice. I can cut back on my hours—"

"Yeah, mhm," you repeat, and it's outrageously strained as Harry pulls himself out, leaving you depraved and so goddamn empty.

You have to fight the urge to cry out for him, glancing down at the string of arousal that follows his cock. And it's almost too much for you to handle as you greedily reach for him once more.

However, he bats your hands away and brings his free fingers from your chin to your clit, rubbing into the sensitive nerves until you arch up.

"—so, yeah. What about you?"

Your eyes squeeze shut as that tightly wound ball of pleasure in your stomach expands. "I'm...I...good. I'm...good. You know, not...not a lot going on. At the moment."

Harry smirks to himself before sinking all the way back in and thrusting up.

Your lip fights its way between your teeth and you writhe beneath his chest while praying for the strength to stay quiet.

"Well...I guess no news is good news, yeah?" she chuckles. "Oh, hey, speaking of which...I heard that Harry's in town."

That's not the only thing he's in.

"Oh?" you squeak, placing a palm on Harry's chest almost as if in retaliation. "He is?"

"Yeah. Saw it on Facebook," she answers, and you hear her move around. "Figured he might try to reach out. I know you guys are still on good terms, right?"

"Me and Harry?" you repeat pointedly, garnering a curious look from the aforementioned man. "Uh...we're...yeah. I guess. But we’re not…that close."

He grins.

"Well...I just thought I'd let you know in case he does," she says, and your lashes flutter shut as the guilt begins to find you.

"Would it be weird...if he did?" you ask before the patterns being traced against your clit make you whimper.

Terrified, you quickly cough in an attempt at burying the sound, but Atta doesn't seem to hear.

"I mean...maybe? I don't know. He and I are fine, I think. And I know you two were friends. I guess you could at least...check on him. Make sure he's doing okay."

"Yeah," you breathe, sneaking a glance up. "I'm...I'm sure he's doing just fine."

Harry smiles once more before moving his palm to your thigh and pressing it into the bed to spread you at a different angle.

"I hope," Atta sighs. "Anyway, I wanted to call and check in. Just to make sure everything is going okay for you—"

"Mhm, yeah. I'm...I'm glad you did," you blubber while attempting to send Harry a pointed look. You're close. So fucking close, and if he keeps going...

"Are you sure you're all right? You sound a bit flustered—"

"Yes. Yes, yes, I'm..." Your head shakes quickly, nails scratching down Harry's chest in warning. He needs to stop. He needs to stop or you won't make it. "I'm fine. I'm...a little under the weather, but I'm—"

Suddenly, he sheathes himself inside your cunt, face burying in your neck with a groan as your entire body shivers.

"Are you sure? You kind of sound like you're in pain—"

"Listen, Atta, I...I gotta go—" you gasp, so close to your orgasm that you can practically taste it. “I’m sorry—”

"Oh, yeah. Hey, text me, okay? Just let me know that you're all right—"

"Mhm, yeah, I will—fuck—"

It happens before you can stop it. Ripping through every muscle and fiber in your body as you rake your fingers down Harry's back and choke on a moan.

Thankfully for you, Harry has already ended the call and thrown the phone to the other side of the room so he can loop his arm beneath your hips and tug you up into his body.

"Go," he breathes. "Give it to me. Come on, little one. Just like that. Good fucking girl, just like that. Let me feel you—"

Your room fills with the sound of his name, dancing effortlessly between the whimpers that follow.

It feels like you've touched heaven. A sensation so overwhelming and euphoric that you don't even realize his hand has returned to your throat. Don't realize he's squeezing your neck in his tight fist as he comes, filling your cunt with everything he has to give you.

You don't even realize you can't breathe, but you love it. Love the way he presses his teeth into your shoulder and presses his body into your chest. Until you're trapped against the mattress while you live through the high.

Every joint in your body aches. Radiating pain and pleasure all at once as you hook your leg over his hip and snake your arms around his neck.

And you keep him inside of you for what feels like hours. Even after you've regained a bit of consciousness. And a bit of common sense.

Perhaps the moment he pulls out, you'll realize the mistake you've made. You’ll realize that this isn't a secret you can keep. Or a choice that you can ever choose again. And maybe he’ll realize it, too.

But until then…

You’re happy to have your Harry back.

~ Masterlist

Taglist: @littlenatilda @prettythingsworld @heartateasee @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @monicaalexandraaa

@cinnamonone @triski73 @lemoncrushh @vamprry @lady-lamb21

@lillefroe @kirstiea05 @ribbonknives @lunaharrygurl @harringtonhundreds

@swiftmendeshoran @sundresstyles @eldahae @becauseheartsgetbroken-hs

@hannahdressedasabanana @sykostyles @lukesaprince @daphnesutton @love-letters-to-uranus

@lovrave @nuggetdean @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @babegoals @lc-fics

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pinkboaclub · 5 months ago

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Sweet Thing

Summery: You and Harry are best friends, despite your 15 year age gap. One night, when your blind date goes wrong, he wants to make sure your night still ends in pleasure. {Older!Harry}

Word Count: 3.8k

Warnings: smut, age gap (15 years), mention of alcohol consumption, fem!reader

“Oh, what’s wrong, pretty girl?” Harry asked, his voice warm with concern as you trudged over to him from the bar, exhaustion written across your face.

The music in the background blared so loudly that it felt like it was vibrating through your bones, drowning out everything else. Every Friday night, Harry rented a private room at the local club for your group of friends to unwind, drink, and let loose.

You collapsed into his lap, resting your head against his shoulder, letting out a soft sigh.

“I’m just so tired…” you mumbled, your voice barely audible over the thumping bass.

He wrapped an arm around you, pulling you closer with a gentle smile. He knew how alcohol always made you sleepy and affectionate, especially after just a few drinks.

“Poor thing,” Harry teased, his lip sticking out in a mock pout. He was used to giving you the same spiel every Friday—how he knew even a little alcohol would knock you out.

“I wasn’t even planning on drinking tonight,” you giggled drunkenly. “But then Eve and Clara dragged me to the bar, and I had one drink… and then two… and then three…it really wasn’t my fault.”

Harry chuckled, shaking his head. “I’ll get you something to eat, at least. You need to balance out that alcohol.” He reached across the table to grab a small bowl of pretzels and nuts he had sent to the table the moment he saw you take your first shot, but the thought of eating made your stomach churn.

Despite the 15-year age gap between you—23 and Harry 38—you had always been close. You were just friends, of course, and had made sure to clarify that to everyone around you, but it didn’t stop people from speculating.

But could you blame them? You practically lived at his house, spent most of your free time together, and took care of each other like an old married couple.

You half-heartedly munched on a couple of pretzels, trying to settle your stomach. Just then, a waiter appeared with a glass of ice water, which you drank down in one go, the cold helping to ground you.

As your friends continued their chatter, some heading to the bar, others to the dance floor, you stayed in Harry’s lap, drifting in and out of sleep with your head tucked into his neck.

“We can head home if you want, bunny,” Harry murmured, his hand gently rubbing up and down your back.

“No, I’m okay,” you protested sleepily, keeping your eyes shut as you snuggled deeper into him. “Let’s stay for a bit.”

Eve, Clara, and a few others returned, laughing as they took their seats around the table.

“You’re the only person I’ve ever seen fall asleep in a club with barely any alcohol in their system,” Eve said with a teasing smile.

You managed a sleepy chuckle. “I can’t socialize without a little buzz,” you admitted, blinking your eyes open for the first time in a while as you sat up.

“As long as we get you on the dance floor later, I don’t mind,” Clara said with a wink, sipping on her margarita.

"Speaking of socializing," Eve began, eyeing you playfully, "Do you remember that guy we met at Jolie’s art exhibit? Elijah?" You nodded, though your memory of him was hazy.

"Well," she continued, "he kind of asked if I could set you two up on a date... but I told him I’d check with you first. It’s totally your call."

Maybe it was the alcohol, or just the idea of finally getting laid after months of dry spells, but before you could think it through, your words came tumbling out.

"Sure, why not? I think I remember him being cute. Is he nice?" You caught Harry’s gaze, his eyes narrowing slightly as his jaw clenched.

"He’s a friend of Jolie and me from University," Eve said, her voice light. "He was closer to Jolie, but he’s sweet. Really into art and music. I think you’ll like him." Eve’s tone was upbeat, though the surprise among the other girls was palpable. You'd been known to avoid dating for months, and yet here you were, agreeing to a date in the blink of an eye. Without hesitation, Eve texted Elijah to let him know you'd accepted.

The next hour passed in a blur of laughter and bad jokes that were 10 times funnier thanks to the alcohol coursing through your system. After a couple more drinks, you, Eve, and Clara decided to hit the dance floor again.

"You’re coming with me?" you asked Harry, slinging your arms around his neck and planting a kiss on his cheek.

"Not really feeling it," he bluntly replied. "But don’t let me stop you."

You pouted, leaning closer to him. "You can go home, if you’re done. We could go home together." Your lips kissed all over his face, guilt creeping in as your drunk brain wondered if you'd done something wrong.

"No, no, sweet thing, I’m good. Just haven’t had enough to drink to feel loose enough to show off my moves," he chuckled, planting a quick kiss on your head. "Go have fun."

With that, you strutted away, immediately getting lost in the rhythm of the music. You couldn’t help but notice each of you was drunkenly dancing to a different beat.

"Hey!! Elijah texted me back!" Eve shouted over the thumping music. "He wants to take you out tomorrow!"

"Sounds good!" you yelled back, not even pausing in your wild dancing. "Any time after five works for me!"

When your legs finally felt like they’d given all they could to the dance floor, the three of you retreated back to your private room.

"I can tell by your face that you’re getting tired again," Harry teased, his voice warm as he glanced over at you. You sat down next to him, leaning into his side. "Time to go home?"

You nodded, already feeling the weight of your headache catching up to you.

"Okay, let’s go, sweet thing." Harry helped you stand, offering you a smile.

As was the usual routine after a night out—one of you sober, the other tipsy—the sober one would drive the drunk one home. When you were both drunk, however, it became a game of scissor -paper-stone to see who’d get the front seat in the Uber.

He gently assisted you into his car, a sleek black Range Rover, securing your seatbelt as you leaned back, closing your eyes in quiet exhaustion.

When you arrived at his house, he was there again, unbuckling your seatbelt and guiding you to the door with steady care.

“I’ll grab you some water and Ibuprofen. Why don’t you head upstairs and get ready for bed?”

You nodded in gratitude, your body heavy with fatigue as you slowly made your way up the stairs. Once inside his room, you went straight to the dresser, where you always kept a few pairs of pajamas for nights like this.

In his bathroom, your extra face wash, moisturizer, and toothbrush were neatly arranged….maybe people weren’t wrong to wonder if there was something more going on between you two.

Your hangover symptoms the next morning are what woke you up, head pounding and nausea. You opened your eyes, seeing Harry sitting up next to you, reading his book, shirtless.

“What a beautiful site to wake up to.” You groggily joked.

Harry looked up from his book, a quiet laugh escaping his lips as he marked his place and set the book aside. His eyes softened as he noticed you, his hand gently your messy hair away from your face.

“How’s your head feeling?” he asked, his tone low and soothing.

You let out a groan in response, your mind scrambling for some semblance of clarity. Slowly, fragments of last night came rushing back. The dim, pulsing lights of the club. The laughter. The dancing. You winced at the ache in your feet, a silent reminder of how long you'd been on your feet. And then, a sudden, jarring memory surfaced—one that made your stomach churn in a different way.

“Wait… did I really agree to go on a date today?” You asked, barely believing it yourself.

Harry couldn’t help but chuckle, his fingers still gently massaging your scalp as he looked at you with a mixture of affection and amusement.

“You did,” he said, the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You groaned again, sinking deeper into the pillow, willing the world to stop spinning. “Jeez, I can’t even remember the last five minutes, let alone a date,” you muttered, half to yourself.

Harry’s chuckle turned into a laugh as he shifted closer to you, his thumb brushing lightly over your temple in a comforting rhythm.

"I think you’re going to be just fine," Harry teased, his voice still soft with affection. "But I’m not gonna lie... I am interested to see how this date goes. Since you've been avoiding dating for so long"

"Yeah, well, let’s just say I’m not expecting anything amazing," you sighed, stretching your arms above your head.

Later that day, you found yourself standing in front of your full-length mirror, nervously adjusting your outfit. You weren’t exactly thrilled about the date, but you didn’t want to look like you didn’t care either. You settled on a simple black dress—something that was easy but still flattering.

You took a deep breath. It wasn’t as if you had something better to do. You could always call Harry afterward to complain about how terrible it went.

You arrived at restaurant where Elijah had suggested you meet. It had that typical artsy vibe—exposed brick walls, vintage furniture, and food that probably cost more than it should have. As you walked in, you spotted Elijah immediately.

He looked up as you approached, a confident, almost smug smile spreading across his face. “Ah, you made it,” he said, standing to greet you.

"Of course," you replied, offering a smile.

"So, what do you like to do?" Elijah leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping lightly on the edge of the table, his gaze more smug than ever. "What’s your thing? What are you into?"

The question hung in the air, a little too casually thrown at you. You hesitated for a moment, then smiled politely. "Well, I enjoy a bit of everything. Not really an expert in anything, though. I like books, music… anything creative, really."

He waved a hand dismissively, clearly not too interested in your response. “That’s nice. But honestly, I think everyone has their own version of what ‘creativity’ means. I think it’s just one of those things that gets watered down by society’s need to put things in boxes.”

You nodded, trying not to laugh at how seriously he was taking his own thoughts. The guy was talking in circles, as if he had an actual dissertation on his mind.

At some point during the evening, you realized that Elijah wasn’t going to ask about you or show any real interest in anything about your life. He kept dropping vague hints about how "complicated" he was, how misunderstood artists like himself had to suffer for their brilliance, and how he was just waiting for the world to catch up with him.

The only thing that really seemed to get him talking was his apparent admiration for himself.

Eventually, the awkwardness started to wear off, and he invited you to his apartment. Not that you were expecting anything from it—but you hadn’t been with anyone in a while, and the loneliness was starting to hit.

The two of you ended up sitting on your couch, sipping wine, your conversation moving toward more personal topics. It felt... comfortable, even though you knew it wasn’t exactly what you'd been hoping for. Still, you found yourself kissing him a little while later, your mind racing with that familiar nervous excitement.

Things moved quickly, and before you knew it, you were in his arms, both of you tangled up in each other in the dimly lit space of your apartment.

Time passed—minutes, hours, it was hard to tell. Eventually, you found yourself at the door, your dress wrinkled and your head spinning.

"Stay. Please," Elijah urged, his eyes softening slightly as he leaned in closer. “We could talk more. I really want to see you again.”

You bit your lip, your thoughts muddled. But, remembering the hours of excruciating conversation, you knew you needed to leave. "I have work in the morning," you said, even though it wasn’t true. The lie slipped out before you could even think about it.

Elijah’s face fell slightly, but he nodded. "Well, I guess that’s alright. But next time… Let’s make sure we have more time."

You smiled softly, but your mind was already elsewhere, already home and away from him.

You stepped out into the cool night air, pulling your coat tightly around your shoulders, feeling that familiar sense of discomfort slowly sink in. The date had been a total bust, and you couldn’t help but feel the sting of regret.

At home, after a quick shower to wash off the lingering feelings of awkwardness, you picked up your phone and texted Harry, hoping that he’d be up for a late-night rant.

"Can I come over to vent? This date was so annoying."

You didn’t have to wait long before his reply popped up. "Of course, pretty girl."

And so, you drove over, already thinking about how you were going to explain all the cringey moments to Harry, secretly hoping he wouldn’t say, “I told you so."

“You look like you had a blast,” Harry remarked dryly, opening the door for you.

You suppressed the urge to launch into a full rant. “Oh, yeah, great time,” you replied with equal sarcasm.

You both collapsed onto the couch— you sprawled out, Harry sitting up beside you like you were about to start a therapy session. Without missing a beat, you let the floodgates open.

“He literally talked about himself the entire time,” you began, voice dripping with frustration. “He asked me what I like to do, and as soon as I told him, he started lecturing me on his ‘interpretation of creativity.’ And it didn’t stop. For the entire date.”

Harry grinned, clearly entertained, as you continued your rant, eyes narrowing as you remembered every detail.

“And every conversation has to be this deep, philosophical, soul-searching dive— like, ‘We’re just floating on a ball in space,’ you know? The kind of thing you'd hear from the most insufferable kid in a first year psych class.”

You huffed, running a hand through your hair as the memory played in your mind. “Do you want me to continue?” You looked up at Harry. “It gets a little…18+.”

Harry's jaw slightly clenched, but he let out a chuckle. “Oh really? His personality wasn’t enough of a red flag?” He teased you, you burst out into laughter.

“Okay, okay, you have no right to judge, we’re both victims of making bad decisions when we’re horny.” You joked.

“Mm, I don’t know, I would’ve left after the ‘We’re just floating on a ball in space’ comment.”

“First of all, he didn’t actually say that…..that was just his vibe.” You corrected, both of you continuing to laugh. “And second of all, I KNOW you still would have slept with him, especially if you hadn’t been with anyone in four months.” You reminded him.

“Oh would I? No amount of horniness would have even made me go back to that type of person’s house.”

“You’re a liar. “ you said, dying of laughter. “Do I have to remind you of that girl you slept with, the one who kept saying ‘actually’ in front of very compliment, that you hated? ‘You’re actually funny. You’re actually kind of cute. You’re actually smart. What was her name? Lily? Lucy?”

“It was Laura.” He sheepishly corrected you

“And if I remember correctly, it wasn’t just one night, even after she described your sex as ‘actually good’, so I don’t want any judgment from you.” He surrendered, and let you continue.

“I’ll spare you the intimate details…I’ll just say, I didn’t necessarily leave satisfied.”

“Did you finish?”

“He finished. I didn’t.”

“Y/N.” He titled his head towards you in disbelief.

You stayed silent, almost trying to hide a smile out of embarrassment. He shook his head in disapproval.

“This is why I don’t go on dates. All I got was a shitty dinner and I still haven’t had a non-self inflicted orgasm in 4 months.”

He held his arm out as an invitation to invite you closer to him. Accepting his invitation, you leaned against him, head resting on his shoulder.

“Did you go home and…help yourself?” He asked, rubbing your back in consolation.

“No! I went home, took a shower, and then came straight here!” He chuckled, pulling you into his lap, making you straddle him.

“You don’t have to end the night unsatisfied,” he teased, his voice low with a playful edge.

“You promised no judgment,” you laughed, giving his shoulder a gentle shove. His silence, paired with the look in his eyes, made it clear he wasn’t entirely joking.

“I’m just saying... there’s an easy fix,” he replied, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. Both of you laughed, though the underlying seriousness in your tones couldn’t be ignored.

“An easy fix? Like what?” you asked, your voice dropping slightly, the flirtation slipping into your words.

“Well, let’s say you wanted to,” He guided you off his lap, sitting you next to him. “You could lay down right here.”

You lowered your back onto the couch, your heart pounding harder than ever.

“Is this okay?” He clarified. You nodded and he continued. “I could come up here, make you feel better.” He crawled up to your neck, laying kisses along your neck, down to your collarbone.

He kneeled down on the ground in front of the couch. His hand shifted down to the button of your pants, slowly unbuttoning them and lowering them down your leg.

“You're in control here. Anytime you want to stop or do something else, you let me know, I want to make you feel good.” Your chest quickly moved up and down and you hummed in acknowledgment.

He grabbed your leg, placing it on one of his shoulders, kissing the other leg until he got to your inner thigh. Before he could continue you grabbed the ends of your top, quickly pulling it off to reveal your bra. Harry gave you a cheeky smile before he continued.

He kissed the insides of your thighs, sucking the delicate skin until a string of tiny purple bruises dotted your thighs.

“Please, Harry.” You whined in an impatient tone.

His eyes shot up to your face. “What do you need, sweet thing?”

“Everything. Your tongue. Your fingers. Please…please Harry.” The eagerness that had been building up in you for the past four months started to come up all at once.

“You need to learn patience, baby.” He teased you, lightly grazing his lips along your inner thigh. Finally, he grabbed your underwear and helped you out of them.

He planted his lips over your clit, expertly curling his tongue around the swollen area and flicking until your hips bucked. His arms curled around your thighs, pulling you to him and splaying a hand over your stomach to keep your hips still. He flattened his tongue against your clit to give you the pressure that you desperately craved.

“You’re so beautiful, bunny. So wet. Is this all for me?”

You hastily nodded, unable to speak.

Your hand tugged hard on his hair as his tongue worked delicately hard across your clit. Harry took one last look at your flushed face before moving his fingers at a punishing pace, driving you closer and closer to the edge. He could tell that you were holding back a bit, since you two had been friends for a while, yet this was your first interaction past a simple cuddle. He lifted his mouth from you.

“It’s alright, sweet thing. I got you, I want to make you feel good.”

He went back to pleasuring you, his ability to make you feel this good felt so natural. You focused on him, trying to push any nerves to the back of your head. His hand that rested on your stomach grabbed your hand, wrapping his fingers around your hand, giving you a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

A shudder rippled through your body and a deep moan erupted from your throat as you came around his fingers. Harry focused on you, helping you ride out your orgasm.

He climbed back up to you, sweeping your hair from your face and kissing your forehead, your nose, and your cheeks. “It’s okay, sweet baby.” He cood, your eyes stayed closed as you catched your breath.

You mindlessly pulled him closer to you, hiding your face in his neck, needing immediate aftercare after your powerful orgasm.

“Wanna go upstairs…an-help you.” You breathlessly begged, kissing his neck and lowering your hand down his abdomen.

“Okay sweet thing, let’s go upstairs.”

[read part two here!] [read a prequel blurb here!]

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oceandolores · 7 months ago

Text

ℜ𝔢𝔩𝔦𝔤𝔦𝔬𝔫 | chapter I

General Marcus Acacius x f!reader

"in her eyes shone the sweetness of melancholy."

summary: In the grandeur of ancient Rome, you are the secret daughter of Commodus, living a quiet life as a servant in the imperial palace. Everything changes when you meet General Marcus Acacius, Rome’s honorable and stoic leader.

Though devoted to duty and loyalty to the princess, Marcus is drawn to you in a way he cannot ignore. A forbidden passion ignites between you both, and an affair begins—one that threatens the very foundation of loyalty, power, and honor. As you fall deeper into your dangerous love for Marcus, each stolen moment becomes a fragile, dangerous secret.

warnings: 18+ only, 14 YEARS AFTER GLADIATOR 1, ANGST, Fluff, A LOT OF SMUT, Unprotected Sex, Exhibition Kink, Age-Gap, Ancient Rome, mentions of violence, Gladiators, Blood, Gore, Politics, Sexism, Forbidden Love, Loss of Virginity, mentions of death, Innocent and pure reader, Loss of virginity, Infidelity, more warnings will be added throughout the story

Chapter I

masterlist!

next | chapter II

The palace is alive with preparation, a beast of marble and gold that never rests. Its veins are the labyrinthine halls, pulsing with servants like you, carrying trays of delicacies, wreaths of flowers, and jugs of wine.

Its heart beats to the rhythm of whispered orders, clinking metal, and the distant echo of the marketplace beyond its gates. Tonight, the beast awakens for another feast.

You adjust the folds of your simple tunic, careful not to brush against the elaborate tapestries that line the walls. Each thread tells a story of conquest, glory, and power—legends you’ve only heard murmured by those old enough to remember.

You are not part of those tales, nor their lineage. You are a servant, a shadow cast by the towering figures who walk these halls.

The kitchen is a tempest. The air is thick with the scent of roasted meats, fresh bread, and sweet figs. Claudia, the head cook, barks orders, her voice slicing through the chaos like the edge of a Roman gladius.

You pass her with a nod, your arms laden with trays of fruit—gleaming apples, plump grapes, the kind of bounty the common people outside these walls could only dream of.

Livia catches your eye from across the room. Her presence is a steady anchor in the storm, her face worn but kind.

“Have you checked the wine?” she asks, her tone soft but urgent.

You nod. “It’s ready, Mother,” you reply, the word slipping out as naturally as breath.

She is not your mother—you know this much—but she is all you have.

The story of how you came to be here is one you’ve heard countless times: a baby abandoned at the servants' chamber door, cradled in a basket of woven reeds, with nothing to mark your origin save for a scrap of fine cloth that no one in your station would dare to own.

Livia found you there, swaddled in whispers of mystery, and against all odds, she chose to keep you.

Raised among the laboring hands of the palace, you were given no privilege beyond survival and no legacy but that of work.

The great marble halls and gilded frescoes became your entire world, a place as eternal and unmoving as the gods themselves—or so it seemed.

The servants’ quarters where you lived were nestled in the hidden bowels of the palace, far from the glittering feasts and marble statues.

You learned to scrub floors and pour wine long before you understood the language of wealth and power that filled these walls.

Your life had been carved out in the shadows, molded by the soft voices and calloused hands of those who raised you.

Today, like every other, begins in service to Rome's ever-churning hunger for spectacle.

The air hums with anticipation, thick with the scent of roasted meat and spiced wine, a stark contrast to the stench of poverty that lingers just beyond the palace gates.

“Are the platters for the atrium ready?” Livia’s voice cuts through your thoughts.

“They are,” you reply, glancing at the polished silver laden with grapes and apples, their skins shining like jewels under the torchlight.

“Good.” Livia’s sharp eyes soften, though her expression remains tense. “Take the fruit out yourself. And stay close to the kitchen. Today will bring trouble, I feel it.”

You nod, understanding the weight of her instincts. Years of serving in the palace have taught her to sense the storm before it strikes.

As you lift the platters, Claudia, calls over her daughter, Alexandra.

“Go with her,” Claudia orders, waving a ladle for emphasis.

Alexandra groans dramatically but obeys, rolling her eyes as she grabs one of the platters.

“She can’t let me rest for a moment,” she mutters, her tone more amused than annoyed.

You chuckle softly. Alexandra has always been like this—bold where you are cautious, quick to speak where you stay silent.

She is your only true companion here, older by four years and infinitely more daring.

As you and Alexandra arrange the fruits on a grand table in the atrium, she leans closer, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “The Princess will be here tonight.”

You nod absently, focused on ensuring the grapes cascade just so. “Of course, she will. She is the Princess after all.”

“No, I mean, I haven’t seen her in years,” Alexandra continues, ignoring your tone. “Not since I was a kid. That was ten years ago. You know she moved out of the palace after marrying the general.”

You don’t reply immediately, your hands steady as you arrange the fruit. Alexandra has always loved to gossip, but you prefer to keep your thoughts unspoken.

“Can you believe it’s been ten years, and she hasn’t had a child? Not one with him,” Alexandra muses.

“Maybe it’s their choice,” you say quietly. “It’s not our place to wonder.”

Alexandra scoffs lightly. “I’m just saying, after her son—what was his name? Lucius?—after he was taken and killed by her brother, Commodus…” She trails off, her voice tinged with something between pity and fascination.

You remember Lucius vaguely, a boy with a quiet demeanor and a sad smile.

You were too young then to understand the weight of his loss, but the servants whispered of curses and tragedies surrounding the imperial family.

“It’s not good to talk about the great emperors like that,” you murmur, hoping to steer the conversation elsewhere.

Before Alexandra can reply, the sound of heavy boots echoes through the atrium.

The guards step forward, their polished armor glinting in the firelight. “Make way for their majesties,” one announces, his voice carrying over the growing murmur of the guests.

You and Alexandra immediately bow your heads, the platters forgotten as the twin emperors enter the room.

Emperor Geta and Emperor Caracalla are a study in contrasts.

Geta, an imposing figure, commands the space with a cold and calculating gaze. His every step seems deliberate, as if the weight of the empire rests on his shoulders alone.

Caracalla, by contrast, walks with an erratic energy, his pet monkey perched on his shoulder. Dondus, the creature’s name, chatters and hisses, a mirror of its master’s unpredictable moods.

You feel the weight of their gazes as they sweep the room. Geta’s lips curl into a smile—or is it a smirk?—as his eyes linger on Alexandra.

There have been whispers, rumors of an affair, though Alexandra denies them with a laugh.

Caracalla’s gaze lands on you, and for a moment, his expression softens. Unlike his brother, he has always been strange but oddly kind to you.

When you were a child, he would find you in the halls, offering you small trinkets or asking you to keep him company.

“Your Majesties,” Alexandra says again, her voice like honeyed wine, sweet but strong.

She curtsies with practiced ease, her eyes cast downward, yet her boldness hangs in the air, unspoken but palpable.

You follow her lead, bowing deeply, but your heart pounds in your chest like the war drums of a distant legion. In the presence of the emperors, the room feels smaller, the air heavier.

To serve Rome, you think, is to breathe in the will of its rulers, no matter how suffocating.

Geta's gaze lingers on Alexandra, traveling from her head to her feet, as though she were a statue he might commission or a possession he already owns.

His smirk deepens, the corner of his mouth curving with an indulgence that unsettles you.

“Alexandra,” he drawls, his voice smooth as polished bronze. “Why do I find the table half-dressed? Are my guests to dine on the promise of fruit alone?”

You glance at the platters, perfectly arranged but not yet fully adorned with the remaining dishes. Your pulse quickens; you know the punishment for displeasing the emperors can be swift, unpredictable.

But Alexandra, bold as always, doesn’t flinch.

“Forgive us, Your Majesty,” she says, her tone measured yet edged with defiance. “The final trays are being brought out as we speak. The delay was unforeseen.”

Geta arches a brow, his smirk turning sharper, more dangerous. “Unforeseen,” he repeats, as though savoring the word.

“I wonder, Alexandra, if you’ve grown too accustomed to... distractions.”

You know the meaning behind his words. Everyone does.

The whispered rumors of their affair swirl through the palace like incense smoke, clinging to every corner.

Her mother Claudia knows, though she turns a blind eye, perhaps thinking it wiser not to provoke the wrath of an emperor.

Beside him, Caracalla shifts, uninterested in the exchange. His pet monkey, Dondus, chitters softly on his shoulder, its small, beady eyes scanning the room.

Caracalla’s gaze falls on you briefly, but it is not unkind. He has always been more erratic than cruel with you, there is a peculiar understanding in his glances—a shared knowledge of solitude.

“Forgive us, Your Majesty,” you say suddenly, your voice trembling like a bird caught in a net. The words tumble out before you can stop them, and the weight of the room shifts.

Geta’s eyes snap to you, sharp as a blade. For a moment, you wonder if you’ve made a grave mistake.

But then he laughs—a low, indulgent sound that sends shivers down your spine.

“Ah,” he says, leaning slightly toward you. “The little dove finds her voice. How curious.”

You stiffen under his gaze, your knees threatening to buckle. It feels as though he is peeling back your very skin, seeking something hidden beneath.

“You’re the youngest servant here, aren’t you?” Geta muses, his tone light but with an edge that cuts.

“A curious creature, so quiet and unassuming. And yet…” He trails off, his eyes narrowing, as if piecing together a puzzle.

The weight of unspoken rumors presses against your chest.

The whispers about your lineage, the murmurs that you are more than a servant—that you are the illegitimate daughter of Commodus himself, a shadow of Rome’s bloody past.

You’ve heard them before, though never directly. Livia, your steadfast mother in all but blood, dismisses them as lies, the gossip of bored tongues.

But in moments like this, when Geta’s piercing gaze locks onto yours, it feels as though the marble walls around you whisper secrets only they can hold.

Secrets of your origin, of what blood may or may not flow through your veins, encased in the silent austerity of Rome’s cold embrace. You feel the weight of it, a shroud both invisible and suffocating.

Geta doesn’t believe the rumors entirely, but he cannot ignore them either. To him, you are a thorn he cannot pluck without proof.

If the whispers are true, if you are indeed the hidden scion of Commodus and the only living grandchild of Marcus Aurelius, you would be a danger to his rule.

Rome, after all, has loved its Aurelius lineage fiercely.

The plebeians would rally to your name like vines twisting toward sunlight.

Still, no woman has ever ruled Rome.

The Senate, the soldiers, and the gods themselves would balk at such a notion. But Geta knows that power is not always rooted in precedent—it is rooted in the hearts of the people.

And the people would love a descendant of Marcus Aurelius far more than they could ever love him.

“You wear the palace well,” Geta says finally, his tone dripping with mockery. “A little too well, perhaps.”

You feel the heat rise to your cheeks but keep your gaze respectfully lowered. His words are like serpents coiling around you, their venom lying just beneath the surface.

Caracalla hums softly, breaking the tension. He strokes Dondus, the little monkey perched on his shoulder, as though soothing himself rather than the animal.

“Leave her, brother,” he mutters, his tone flat but carrying weight. “You scare the child.”

Geta casts his twin a glance, his smirk briefly faltering. With that, he straightens, clapping his hands once in finality. “Finish the table,” he commands, the sharpness of his tone slicing through the room.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” you and Alexandra reply in unison, bowing deeply as the emperors turn and walk away.

Their robes ripple like molten gold, catching the light as though the gods themselves had woven the fabric.

The moment they are gone, you exhale shakily, the breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding slipping from your lips.

The grandeur of the palace, so often a thing of wonder, now feels oppressive—a prison of marble and ambition.

Alexandra nudges you gently, her smile faint but reassuring. “It’s fine,” she murmurs, though the tightness in her voice betrays her unease.

You nod and return to your work, the routine motions of arranging platters grounding you once more. But the unease lingers, like a storm cloud that refuses to dissipate.

Later, after the feast preparations are complete, you retreat to the servants’ quarters. The hallways grow quieter as the palace begins to prepare for the night’s debauchery.

Your mother, Livia, finds you there, her expression tight with concern.

“Are you all right?” You nod quickly, not wanting to worry her further.

Livia’s sharp eyes search yours for a moment before she exhales heavily. “Stay away from them tonight,” she warns. “There will be soldiers, senators, politicians—men who think they own the world. And women and men from the brothels to entertain them. It will not be a place for a child like you.”

“I understand,” you say softly, though the thought of the gathering makes your skin prickle.

"Go to your chamber and stay there.” You nod, obedient as always, and Livia cups your face briefly before bustling away.

But as you walk toward your chamber, the stillness of the afternoon draws you elsewhere.

***

The sun bathes the palace gardens in a golden light, soft and warm, like an embrace from the gods themselves.

The sky is a flawless stretch of azure, and the air carries the faintest scent of blooming jasmine.

Unable to resist, you veer toward the gardens, seeking solace in their quiet beauty.

You make your way to the small pond at the edge of the grounds, where the world feels simpler, untouched by the weight of marble columns and imperial decrees.

This is your sanctuary, a place you’ve tended with your own hands.

The hedges are trimmed neatly, the flowers arranged in bursts of vibrant color—crimson roses, golden marigolds, and pale violets that seem to glow in the sunlight.

The pond reflects the sky like polished glass, its surface rippling gently in the breeze.

You settle onto the cool stone bench nearby, pulling out a small parchment and charcoal.

Writing has always been your escape, a way to make sense of the labyrinth that is your mind.

The words flow from you like water from a spring, each line capturing fragments of your thoughts and fears.

To live in the shadow of gods is to forget the warmth of the sun.

You stare at the words you’ve written, sentences about Rome and its people, the empire’s endless hunger that devours the poor while the rulers gorge themselves on the spoils.

It isn’t rebellion that drives you—at least, not yet—but a quiet, gnawing sense of wrongness.

You have lived your entire life within the confines of this palace, its gilded walls both a sanctuary and a prison.

Outside, beyond the Forum and its grand marble temples, the streets of Rome teem with despair. You’ve seen it, fleeting glimpses on the rare occasions you ventured beyond the palace gates.

Children with hollow eyes and grime-streaked faces.

Men broken by war or taxation, their shoulders bowed under invisible yokes.

Women clutching bundles of rags that you realized, with a sick lurch, were infants too still to be alive.

These thoughts weigh heavily on you as you sit by the pond, the garden’s beauty unable to shield you from the world’s harsh truths.

You lower your quill, pressing trembling fingers to your lips, when the sound of approaching footsteps pulls you sharply from your thoughts.

You stiffen, the air in your lungs turning to stone. It isn’t one of the servants; their steps are lighter, quicker.

This tread is deliberate, measured, carrying a weight of authority. When you glance up, your breath catches.

The man before you is not adorned with the opulence of the Senate nor the ostentatious silk of the emperors.

You know who he is. How could you not?

General Marcus Acacius.

Rome’s shield and sword, the hero of distant campaigns whose name is whispered with both reverence and fear.

You have never seen him in the flesh, for he seldom resides in the palace, choosing instead to live with Princess Lucilla far from its labyrinth of intrigue.

But his likeness is everywhere: etched in marble statues, painted in frescoes, immortalized as Rome’s protector.

Yet, here he stands, and for a fleeting moment, you wonder if the gods themselves have sent him.

The crimson cloak draped over his broad shoulders glints faintly in the golden light, its hem embroidered with intricate patterns that seem to tell the story of the empire’s conquests.

His tunic, simple yet stately, is cinched with a polished belt, a gleaming buckle bearing the proud insignia of the wolf of Rome.

Unlike the ornamental decadence of the Senate or the twin emperors, his attire speaks of purpose and practicality—beauty tempered by utility.

And his face—by Jupiter, his beautiful face.

It is a map of victories and sacrifices, weathered yet noble. The lines carved by years of sun and battle only enhance the sharpness of his features, as if the gods had personally molded him for their own designs.

His hair, dark and streaked with silver like the gleam of moonlight on a blade, curls faintly at his temples.

His beard, neatly trimmed, frames a mouth set in the hard line of a man who has spoken a thousand commands and swallowed a thousand regrets.

But it is his eyes that strike you most: deep, piercing, soulful-brown eyes.

They are the eyes of a man who has seen the best and worst of humanity and bears the weight of both.

Your breath catches as his gaze sweeps over you, taking in the sight of a young servant clutching a parchment like a shield.

He regards you with a sharp, assessing gaze, his eyes like iron tempered in fire—unyielding yet reflective.

His presence is commanding, a gravity that draws everything into its orbit. You are struck by how different he is from the emperors.

Where Geta and Caracalla exude indulgence and cruelty, Acacius carries himself with the disciplined grace of a man who has known the weight of true responsibility.

“Not many choose the gardens for their thoughts,” he says, his voice deep, steady, and tinged with curiosity.

It is a soldier’s voice, devoid of the honeyed pretense of courtiers.

You scramble to your feet, clutching your parchment to your chest. “General,” you manage, your voice trembling despite your best efforts.

He raises a hand, the gesture more commanding than any shout. “At ease,” he says, a faint flicker of something—amusement, perhaps—crossing his face. “You are Livia's daughter?"

His question hangs in the air like the distant clang of a bell. You nodded, your name feels small in your mouth when you finally say it, barely audible against the rustling of the garden’s leaves.

Acacius nods, as though filing the information away. His eyes flick to the parchment in your hands. “A poet?”

You hesitate, “I... I write, sometimes. Thoughts.”

He steps closer, his presence overwhelming yet strangely grounding. He does not reach for the parchment, but his gaze lingers on it as though he could read its contents by sheer will alone.

“Thoughts on Rome, perhaps?” he asks.

His tone is even, but there is an edge to it, a subtle weight that suggests he already knows the answer.

Your throat tightens. To speak of the empire’s flaws to a general of its armies feels like standing on the edge of a blade.

Yet something in his bearing—a quiet patience, a restrained curiosity—compels you to answer honestly.

“Yes,” you admit softly. “About Rome. And its people.”

Acacius’s expression shifts almost imperceptibly, a shadow crossing his face. He looks away, toward the pond, his gaze distant now, as if seeing not the still water but something far beyond it.

“The people,” he repeats, almost to himself. “The heart of Rome. And yet, the heart is always the first to be sacrificed.”

The words are spoken quietly, but they carry the weight of experience, of battles fought not just with swords but with conscience.

You watch him, your earlier fear now replaced by a cautious curiosity.

"Do you... believe that?" you venture, your voice barely above a whisper, the words trembling like a fledgling bird daring its first flight.

Marcus halts, his crimson cloak swaying like the banner of a legion stilled in the wind.

He turns to you, his eyes—sharp as a polished gladius—softening for the briefest moment, as if your question has reached a part of him long buried under layers of duty and steel.

“Belief,” he begins, his voice low and steady, carrying the weight of a man who has lived lifetimes in service to an empire, “is a luxury in the life of a soldier. I deal in action, not faith. But I have seen enough to know that Rome’s strength lies not in its emperors, but in its people. And we are failing them.”

The honesty in his words strikes you like the tolling of a great bronze bell, reverberating through the quiet garden and deep into your chest.

It is not what you expected from a man like him—a hero to some, a sword-arm to the empire—but here he stands, speaking not as a general but as a man, his voice laced with something unguarded. Regret, perhaps. Or hope—fragile and faint, but alive nonetheless.

“Do you believe in Rome, little one?” His question falls like a stone into still waters, and you startle, unprepared to have the conversation turned toward you.

“I—” Your words falter, and you look down at your hands, clutching the parchment that now feels like an accusation.

But then, something inside you stirs—something that refuses to shrink back beneath the weight of his gaze.

You lift your eyes to meet his, the courage in your chest kindled like a flame drawn from embers.

“I believe in what Rome could be,” you reply, your voice steadier now.

“I believe in the Rome that lives in the hearts of its people—the ones who work its fields, who build its roads, who kneel at its altars not out of fear, but out of love. That is the Rome worth fighting for. But the Rome I see now…” Your throat tightens, but you press on.

“...has forgotten its people. It worships marble statues and golden coins while the streets crumble and the people starve. How can an empire endure when its foundation is so neglected?”

Your words spill forth, unchecked and unmeasured, and it is only when you see the faintest flicker of something in his expression—respect, perhaps, or surprise—that you remember who stands before you.

The weight of your boldness sinks in like a gladiator realizing they’ve overstepped in the arena.

“Forgive me, General,” you murmur, lowering your gaze. “I forgot myself.”

But Marcus shakes his head, a wry smile playing at the edges of his mouth. “Do not apologize,” he says, his tone gentler now, though no less commanding.

“You are young, but your words carry the wisdom of one who has not yet been corrupted by power. Few speak with such clarity, and fewer still with such courage.”

His gaze lingers on you, searching, and you feel it like the sun breaking through storm clouds.

“You remind me,” he says, his voice quieter, almost reverent, “of someone. He believed, as you do, in the strength of Rome’s people. He would sit in gardens much like this one, speaking of justice and duty, and wonder aloud whether the empire could ever live up to its ideals.”

Your heart quickens, the weight of his words settling over you like the cloak of a goddess.

The way Marcus looks at you—as though he sees not the servant, but the soul beneath—makes you feel for a fleeting moment.

“I am no philosopher,” you say softly, your fingers tightening on the parchment. “But it is hard to remain silent when I see so much suffering.”

“A Roman citizen has every right to speak of their empire’s failings,” he says, stepping closer now.

“Do not mistake me for a politician, child. I am a soldier. My loyalty is to Rome—not to the men who rule it."

You nod, the words settling over you like a cloak woven of both gravity and reassurance.

The air between you feels charged, alive with the kind of understanding that is rarely spoken but deeply felt.

You watch him, his form cast in the golden hues of the setting sun, the crimson of his cloak vivid against the muted greens of the garden.

There is something about him that draws you—not merely his reputation, not the legends whispered in the palace halls of his valor and victories, but him.

The man behind the titles and statues.

You swallow, your heart a restless bird in your chest. You should not linger, not with him, not now.

And yet, you find yourself unable to walk away.

Words rise to your lips, hesitant at first, but then they spill forth, tentative and careful, like a child offering a wildflower to a god.

“Forgive me, my lord, but shouldn’t you be inside?” you say, your voice trembling under the weight of its boldness. “The palace is bustling with your celebration—wishing you fortune for your campaign, for Rome’s glory.”

He turns his gaze to you, the faintest flicker of amusement playing at the corners of his mouth. “Rome’s glory,” he repeats, as though tasting the phrase on his tongue, finding it bitter.

He lets out a soft chuckle, low and warm, a sound that feels oddly out of place amidst the solemn grandeur of the garden. “Let them feast. Let them toast. I’ve no appetite for gilded words tonight.”

You blink, surprised by his candor. He is not what you imagined—not the marble statue immortalized in the Forum or the hardened general whose name echoes in the chants of soldiers. He is… more human than that.

“I’m waiting for my wife,” he adds, his tone casual, though his eyes seem to linger on you as if measuring your reaction.

Princess Lucilla.

The name hangs in the air, heavy with the weight of legend. Rome’s Princess. The only daughter of Marcus Aurelius, the philosopher-emperor. You’ve never met her, though her shadow looms large over your life.

“She was delayed,” he continues, glancing toward the palace, though his stance is relaxed, unhurried.

Princess Lucilla, her legend precedes her, a name spoken with reverence, and sometimes, in hushed tones, with fear.

Your mother, Livia, has served her since she was but a girl.

Livia, who moves through the world with a quiet dignity, has always spoken of the princess with unwavering loyalty. “She carries Rome on her shoulders,” your mother would say, her voice tinged with both pride and sorrow. “The weight of a crown rests on her brow, even though it does not sit there.”

Your thoughts drift, but his voice pulls you back to the present.

“Your mother,” Marcus says, his tone shifting to something softer, more contemplative, “she’s a loyal servant to our household, isn’t she?”

You nod, feeling a strange warmth rise to your cheeks. “She is, my lord. My mother adores the princess. She always speaks highly of her.”

At this, Marcus smiles faintly. His expression, though guarded, carries a warmth that feels rare, as if he’s allowing himself a brief reprieve from his usual stoicism.

“Livia is wise, then. Lucilla is… more than most know. Rome sees her as Marcus Aurelius’ daughter, but to me—” He pauses, his voice lowering to something almost reverent.

“She is a woman of strength, far greater than any man I’ve known. Her loyalty to Rome and its people… it humbles me.”

For a fleeting moment, his mask of a hardened general slips, and you glimpse something deeper.

A man bound not just by duty but by love.

His words hang in the air, gilded with affection, and you feel a pang of longing, though for what, you cannot say.

“I’ve never met her,” you admit, your voice quieter now.

He turns to you, curiosity flickering in his gaze. “Lucilla?”

You nod, feeling suddenly self-conscious beneath his scrutiny. “I’ve only heard stories. My mother always told me about her strength, her grace. But we’ve never crossed paths.”

Marcus regards you for a long moment, as if seeing something in you he had not noticed before. “She would like you,” he says at last, his voice steady, though something lingers in his tone, a note of intrigue.

“Are you coming to the feast tonight?” he asks, the question catching you off guard.

You hesitate, glancing toward the palace where the distant hum of celebration filters through the evening air. “Servants are not permitted to attend such events, my lord,” you say, lowering your gaze. “I am only a servant after all,"

His brows furrow slightly, as if the answer displeases him. “Rome is built on the backs of those it calls servants. Do not diminish yourself.”

You blink, unsure of how to respond. There’s a weight in his words, one that feels both heavy and freeing.

Before he can say more, hurried footsteps echo through the garden. You turn, and there stands Alexandra, one of the palace attendants, her expression tight with worry.

“My lord,” she says, bowing her head quickly as her wide eyes catch sight of Marcus.

The respect is immediate, almost reflexive. General Acacius commands not just authority but admiration.

Men respect him, but women… they speak of him in hushed tones, a figure both distant and impossibly magnetic.

“Forgive me for interrupting,” Alexandra continues, her voice trembling slightly under the weight of his gaze. “Your mother is looking for you,"

Marcus looks at you, his expression softening. He steps aside, the movement graceful despite his formidable frame, as though making room for your escape.

"Tell Livia my apologies for keeping her daughter here," he says, his voice low yet deliberate, as though each word is a promise carved in stone.

His gaze lingers on you, longer than it should, and it feels as though he is reading something beyond the surface—a map of your heart, perhaps, etched in the lines of your face.

For a moment, the world narrows to just this: the garden bathed in the golden light of a setting sun, the faint murmur of the distant feast, and the weight of his eyes, heavy yet strangely gentle.

There is something about you, his expression seems to say—something unspoken but undeniable.

You feel it too, a spark that flickers to life beneath the layers of duty, expectation, and fear.

“I’ll see you at the feast tonight,” he says, the words more a statement than an invitation, leaving little room for protest.

There is a finality to his tone, yet also a quiet insistence that stirs something within you.

Before you can respond, he dips his head ever so slightly—a gesture of respect, or perhaps acknowledgment—before turning and striding away, his crimson cloak flowing like a banner in his wake.

You bow reflexively, watching him disappear into the shadowed corridors of the palace, his figure swallowed by the grandeur of Rome itself.

Yet even as he leaves, his presence lingers, an echo in the air, a weight in your chest.

As soon as the sound of his footsteps fades, Alexandra is at your side, her face alight with barely contained awe.

“Was that… the general?” she whispers, her voice tinged with something between disbelief and reverence.

“Yes,” you reply, though your own voice feels distant, as though it belongs to someone else. Your thoughts are still tethered to the garden, to the quiet intensity of his gaze.

“By the gods,” she breathes, clutching your arm as though you might disappear. “He’s… he’s even more handsome up close.”

You chuckle softly, shaking your head. “Careful, Ale,” you chide gently, though there’s no malice in your words.

“I’ve heard so much about him,” she continues, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

“About his loyalty to Maximus Decimus Meridius—the late general—and how he served under him during the great campaigns. They say he adored the princess even then. Some even whisper that his loyalty to Maximus was why he stayed so close to her after his death, marrying her to protect her.”

You glance at her, your brow furrowing slightly. “You know far too much for someone who spends their days in the laundry.”

She grins, unrepentant. “The laundry is where all the palace’s secrets come to dry.”

You shake your head, though her words gnaw at the edges of your mind.

You’ve heard the stories too, in bits and pieces from the older servants: tales of Lucilla’s love affair with Maximus, and Marcus’s steadfast devotion not only to his commander but to the empire itself.

A marriage born of loyalty, they say, not love. And yet, there’s something in the way Marcus spoke of Lucilla earlier that makes you wonder.

As Alexandra chatters on, her words a tide of gossip and speculation, your thoughts drift back to Marcus.

To the way he stood in the garden, his form framed by the soft glow of the setting sun. To the depth in his eyes, like wells carved by the gods themselves—deep enough to drown in, and yet you couldn’t look away.

You feel a strange restlessness in your chest, a stirring you can’t quite name. It isn’t admiration, nor fear, but something more complicated. Something heavier.

Marcus is unlike anyone you’ve ever known—unlike the indulgent senators with their honeyed words, unlike the cruel twin emperors whose laughter carries the sting of a whip.

He is a man of iron and fire, tempered by years of battle, yet beneath that hardened exterior lies something softer. Something… human.

And perhaps that’s what unsettles you most.

You’ve spent your life surrounded by women: your mother, Livia, with her quiet strength and unshakable loyalty; the other servants, who taught you to navigate the palace’s labyrinthine halls.

Men were distant figures, their power felt but never seen up close. Fathers, you’ve only heard about in stories—abstract concepts, not flesh and blood.

But Marcus is no abstraction.

He is real, tangible, a presence that feels larger than life yet undeniably mortal.

To see him, to feel him, is to glimpse a side of the world you’ve never known—a world shaped not by whispered orders or silent sacrifices, but by action, by conviction, by the weight of decisions made on the edge of a blade.

You shake your head, trying to banish the thoughts, but they cling to you like the scent of blooming jasmine in the garden. “It’s nothing,” you tell yourself, though your heart betrays you with its restless rhythm.

“Nothing at all,” you murmur, though even the words feel like a lie.

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lowrisemiller · 23 days ago

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ɪɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴘɪᴄᴋᴜᴘ ᴛʀᴜᴄᴋ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴅᴜᴍʙ ʟᴜᴄᴋ ɪꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ ɪ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ɪᴅ ᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴡᴀɴɴᴀ ʙᴇ

ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇꜱᴇ ᴍᴏᴛᴇʟ ʀᴏᴏᴍꜱ ɪ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴇᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅɪꜰꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴛʟʏ

one - shot inspired by ethel cain’s song “thoroughfare”

Joel Miller never planned to take her with him. she was just a hitch in the road, twenty years younger and all bright eyes and soft questions. but somewhere between truck stops, cheap motels, and stolen glances, she became something more. now, a motel bed and a moment of weakness threaten to unravel everything he's been trying not to feel. just two lonely people trying to outrun their pasts—and maybe, finally, running toward something that feels like forever.

based on this ask | masterlist | 7.3k words | mutual pinning & yearning (I can't stop writing art this old man yearning im sorry), age gap (22&45), pov switches, joel being a bit possessive, vaginal sex, light edging, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex (wrap it in fiction only!)

The air was heavy enough to bite.

You’d already tied your hair back twice, but the heat didn’t budge. The pavement outside the diner shimmered like it was trying to disappear, and the cicadas had been singing since dawn. You were clocked out early, an apron slung over your shoulder, a duffel bag kicking at your heels. Not much in it—just a couple changes of clothes, your toothbrush, and your busted-up walkman with the Heaven or Las Vegas cassette still jammed inside. It barely played anymore, but you liked the way it sounded: warped and a little sad.

You’d told your boss you were leaving. She didn’t ask where. You figured she knew the look in your eye—like someone standing too close to the edge of something wide and unknown. The kind of look you get when you’ve finally run out of reasons to stay.

That’s when you heard it. The low, rough growl of an engine that didn’t belong to anyone local.

You looked up just in time to see a pickup roll into the lot, dust curling around the tires. It was all dented metal and sun-bleached paint, and behind the wheel sat Joel Miller—grayer than you remembered, beard thick and eyes squinting behind scratched-up sunglasses. You’d seen him once or twice before. He used to come through town hauling lumber or equipment, maybe something less legal. He always stayed quiet, nodded politely when spoken to, never lingered longer than he had to.

He climbed out, boots hitting the gravel with a thunk, and made a beeline for the diner door.

“You Joel?” you called, before he could reach the porch.

He turned, slow and skeptical.

“Who’s askin’?”

You hooked your thumb toward the truck. “Heard you’re headed west. Texas?”

Joel didn’t answer right away. Just eyed you the way a man might eye a stray dog—curious, cautious.

“Maybe.”

You stepped forward, your bag swinging. “I need outta here. I got cash. I don’t take up much space, and I won’t ask questions.”

Joel raised a brow. “That so?”

You nodded. “That’s so.”

The wind shifted. A long second passed, like he was waiting for something—maybe for you to flinch, or backpedal, or crack a joke. You didn’t. You just stood there, sweat sticking to your neck, heart hammering behind your ribs like it wanted to get in his truck before your body did.

He sighed through his nose, like he already regretted opening his mouth.

“You got anyone who’s gonna be lookin’ for you?”

“No.”

“You in trouble?”

“No more than usual.”

That one made the corner of his mouth twitch. Not a smile. Not yet.

“Alright,” he said, finally. “You ride quietly, you don’t touch the radio, and you pay half for gas.”

You smirked, tossing your bag into the truck bed.

“You got it, cowboy.”

He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like Jesus Christ, but he didn’t stop you.

By the time you hit the state line, the sun had dipped low, casting a bruised orange light across the fields. Joel’s hand stayed steady on the wheel, his forearm tanned and strong and marked with little nicks and scars. You didn’t stare, but you didn’t not stare, either.

He didn’t talk much. Not unless he had to.

But when you pointed at the horizon and said, “Never seen it look like that before,” he glanced your way and said, quiet as gravel—

“Stick with me. You’ll see a lotta things you ain’t seen before.”

You didn’t know if it was a promise or a warning.

Either way, you leaned your head against the window and smiled to yourself.

You were finally going.

And Joel Miller—rough, unreadable, too old for you Joel—was the one taking you.

You figured the silence would kill you.

Not the heat. Not the truck’s sticky vinyl seats or the stench of sunbaked roadside motels you’d been passing for hours—but the silence. Joel wasn’t much for small talk. He drove like he was on borrowed time and kept his thoughts zipped up tighter than his duffel. You tried, at first. Pointed out funny signs, asked if he’d ever been to New Mexico, made a comment about the shape of a cloud looking like a middle finger.

Nothing.

Well—maybe not nothing. A grunt here. A look there. You were learning to read them like road signs.

But that didn’t mean it wasn’t driving you half mad.

“So,” you said finally, your foot up on the dash despite knowing it annoyed him, “are we ever gonna talk about the fact that we don’t actually know each other’s last names, or are we just gonna die on the highway someday and let the cops guess?”

Joel didn’t look over. Just adjusted the AC vent and muttered, “You talk a lot.”

You smiled, picking at the frayed hem of your shorts. “That wasn’t a no.”

He sighed, like he was tired of pretending to be annoyed. “Miller.”

You blinked. “Like... Joel Miller?”

He cast a sideways glance at you. “You knew that already.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” You shrugged. “Nice to hear it from the source.”

He didn’t ask for yours. Just waited.

So you gave it, simple and soft. Your first name, your last. It felt weird, saying it out loud. Like handing someone a piece of yourself that had been boxed up for too long.

“Well,” he said after a beat, “now if we crash, at least they’ll spell your name right in the paper.”

“Aw,” you cooed, “you do care.”

“Didn’t say that.”

“Didn’t not say it either.”

That earned you a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth. Barely there. But you caught it, and your heart did something stupid. Quick and fluttery, like a moth hitting a porch light.

The afternoon bled into golden hour, and the sky softened to a watercolor haze. You rolled the window down and let the air whip your hair around your face.

Joel reached across the bench seat, plucked your sunglasses off the dash, and tossed them into your lap.

“You’re gonna blind yourself.”

You held them up, squinting. “These are scratched to hell.”

“Better than nothin’.”

You slid them on anyway. They pinched your nose and made everything look sepia. You turned to him, letting the lazy drawl slip back into your voice like syrup.

“So what’s your story, Miller? You some kinda loner outlaw type? Haunted past, broken heart, scars that mean something?”

He didn’t laugh. Just kept his eyes on the road.

After a long pause, he said, “Somethin’ like that.”

You nodded slowly. “That’s cool. Real mysterious cowboy of you.”

“You got a story?”

You shrugged. “Nothin’ worth printing. Just needed to leave.”

Joel didn’t press. You liked that. Most people, they wanted the whole truth—or worse, they wanted to fix you. Joel didn’t offer comfort or advice or any of that fluffy shit. Just gave you the silence to breathe in.

You stopped for gas in a nothing town off the state highway. A one-pump station with flickering lights and a vending machine that still sold RC Cola.

Inside, Joel handed the cashier a twenty without a word, then glanced over his shoulder at you, already grabbing snacks off the dusty rack.

You held up a bag of sunflower seeds. “These say they expired last June. Think I’ll die?”

“Only if you’re lucky,” he muttered, pulling a bottle of water off the shelf.

You caught him looking at your reflection in the glass cooler door when he thought you weren’t watching. It was quick—blink and gone—but your stomach flipped anyway.

He looked at you like a man who didn’t mean to want something. Like want was a disease he thought he’d outrun years ago.

And maybe he had. Until you.

Back in the truck, you tore open a bag of gas station trail mix and tossed a raisin at him.

It hit his shoulder. He didn’t flinch.

“Seriously?” you grinned. “Not even a blink?”

Joel glanced over, deadpan. “You throw like a girl.”

“I am a girl.”

He gave a small, sarcastic tilt of his head. “Huh. That explains the talkin’.”

You gasped, dramatic. “Joel Miller, you dog. You better watch yourself. I might just hitchhike to Phoenix with someone who respects my conversational skills.”

“You try that, you’ll end up chopped to bits behind a Cracker Barrel.”

You snorted. “Okay, fair. Guess I’m stuck with you, then.”

He didn’t respond, but you could see the smirk behind his beard.

You drove until it was nearly midnight, and Joel’s shoulders finally slackened. The road signs started mentioning Tucson. The stars came out, washed faint and soft above the highway glare.

There was a motel just off the exit—Starlite Inn, with flickering neon and a Vacancy sign swinging in the breeze.

Joel pulled in, turned off the ignition.

“You takin’ the floor or the bed tonight?” he asked, grabbing his duffel from the back.

You arched a brow. “Oh, are those the only options?”

“Unless you wanna sleep in the truck.”

You gave a mock sigh. “So chivalrous.”

He handed you your bag. “One bed. I’ll stay on my side. You stay on yours.”

You both knew how thin that line really was.

The front office of the Starlite Inn smelled like lemon cleaner and stale cigarettes. You leaned against the counter while Joel handled check-in, watching the old man behind the desk type with two fingers like he was unlocking national secrets.

“One queen left,” he muttered, squinting at the monitor like it might bite. “Don’t get much traffic this time of year. You folks just passin’ through?”

Joel gave a noncommittal grunt. The kind that said don’t ask more than you want to hear.

You watched the man slide over a single brass key. Old school. No digital locks here. The plastic tag said Room 12 in faded gold print.

Joel handed it to you without looking. “You get the door.”

You bit your tongue, mostly to stop yourself from smirking. Something about being given the key like that, like he was trusting you with it, made your chest tighten in a strange way. Too soft. Too warm.

Room 12 smelled like mildew and air freshener. The bedspread was some kind of polyester nightmare in faded shades of teal and peach. There was a tiny table, a single plastic ice bucket, and a TV from another decade.

You dropped your bag near the foot of the bed and turned in a slow circle, arms stretched.

“Classy.”

Joel didn’t respond. Just locked the door behind him and set his duffel down with a soft thud.

He went straight to the sink and splashed cold water on his face. You watched the way his shoulders moved under his shirt—broad and solid, carrying too much. Always carrying too much.

“I’ll take the floor,” he said, voice low.

You turned toward him. “You said we’d both take the bed.”

“Changed my mind.”

You folded your arms. “Why?”

Joel glanced at you in the mirror, water dripping down his jaw. “’Cause I don’t trust myself to keep to one side.”

The air thickened. Not hot, but heavy. Like a held breath between lightning and thunder.

You didn’t know what to say, so you sat on the edge of the bed and unlaced your boots.

“I trust you,” you said quietly.

He didn’t answer.

Twenty minutes later, the lights were off.

You lay on your back, staring at the popcorn ceiling. The hum of the AC unit filled the space between you like a third body. Joel was on the floor beside the bed, one arm folded under his head, a thin motel blanket thrown over his lower half.

You should’ve been asleep by now. But your brain was racing. Replaying the way he looked at you sometimes—like you were something he didn’t want to want. Like the whole road ahead was getting shorter and more dangerous with every mile you traveled together.

“Joel?”

“Yeah?”

You hesitated. “Why’d you say yes? To all this.”

He was quiet long enough that you thought he’d fallen asleep.

Then—“’Cause you asked me like nobody else ever had.”

You turned your head toward the dark, toward the shape of him on the floor. The moonlight through the blinds striped the carpet across his chest.

“I didn’t think you’d say yes,” you whispered.

He exhaled. A soft sound. “Didn’t think I would either.”

The silence settled again. But it wasn’t empty now. It was full. Dense. Electric.

“Come up here,” you said, not sure if you meant it or just needed him closer to survive the weight of this feeling.

Joel didn’t move for a long moment. Then the mattress dipped under his weight.

He lay down on top of the covers, stiff at first. Then—inch by inch—he let himself relax. Just enough.

His arm brushed yours. Warm. Intentional. You didn’t move away.

Outside, a neon light flickered. Inside, the two of you lay in the same bed, a breath apart.

Still not touching. Not really.

But you could feel it. The line. The one he’d drawn in sand and shadow and motel dust. And how close you were to crossing it.

And how badly he wanted you to.

She was asleep. Or pretending to be.

Joel kept his eyes on the water stain above the bed, an abstract little thing shaped like Texas. Fitting. Everything came back to Texas these days—heatwaves and hard feelings.

The mattress was too soft, too warm on his left side where her arm had brushed his earlier. She’d been quiet for a while now. Her breathing had evened out, slow and shallow, the kind of sleep that meant she was too tired to keep holding whatever it was in.

And him? He was wide awake. Had been since she said come up here.

He shouldn’t have.

Should’ve stayed on the floor like he said he would, like a man who meant to keep his distance.

But Joel had never been good at keeping lines uncrossed, not when it came to things he wanted. And this—whatever this was between them—it was getting dangerous. Not because she was twenty years younger or too soft for the world he came from, but because she looked at him like he could be something else. Something better.

That kind of faith? That kind of sweetness?

It scared the hell out of him.

She’d asked him earlier why he said yes to the trip. You asked me like nobody else ever had, he’d told her. True enough. But it was more than that.

She reminded him of the kind of life he used to want before the world got heavy. The kind of life that smelled like motel soap and roadside peaches and fresh tires on hot pavement. She was young, yeah, but not fragile. Not dumb. She saw things. Paid attention. Asked questions that meant something.

And now she was asleep next to him, hair all messy on the pillow, lips parted just slightly like she’d been dreaming something gentle.

He had no business being here.

No business watching the curve of her shoulder or wondering what it would feel like to touch the skin there. No business remembering the way she laughed earlier in the car, all sunbeam and southern drawl, feet on the dash like she owned the highway.

Hell, no business wanting it. Wanting her.

But there it was, right under his ribs. That low, pulsing ache. Old and familiar. Something between guilt and gravity.

If she moved even an inch closer, he wasn’t sure what he’d do. Stay put? Pull away?

Or finally reach for the thing he wasn’t supposed to want.

And God help him, he did want her.

Not just in the motel bed way. Not just in the long-legged, lip-biting, pretty-girl kind of way. He wanted her laughter. Her late-night questions. Her songs on the radio and her theories about the clouds and the way she always seemed to find the quiet parts of him, even the ones he didn’t know were still there.

That scared him worse than anything.

Because she wasn’t his.

And he wasn’t hers.

But tonight? With the blinds drawn and the moonlight on her skin?

He almost forgot that part.

Almost.

You wake up to sunlight slanting through thin yellow curtains and the smell of coffee. Cheap coffee, the kind that comes from powdered packets and hotel lobby machines. But you’re not complaining. Joel’s sitting in the corner chair, legs spread, one hand curled around a Styrofoam cup like he’s guarding it.

He glances up when you stir. “Mornin’.”

His voice is rougher than usual, low and slow like it dragged itself out of sleep behind you. He doesn’t ask how you slept. Doesn’t need to. The two of you had laid there last night, backs straight, arms careful, like your bodies weren’t begging to shift closer.

You sit up, rubbing your eyes. “What time is it?”

“Little after seven. Figured you might want somethin’ warm before we hit the road.”

You blink at him, hair a mess and mouth dry, and for a second—just a second—you let yourself look at him like he’s yours. Like this is normal. Like it’s always been this way: his coffee, his quiet, his steady presence in your morning.

It’s a lie, but it’s a nice one.

“Thanks,” you say, and he hands you a cup. His fingers brush yours for half a heartbeat. He pulls back too fast.

You both pretend not to notice.

The coffee’s awful, but it’s hot, and that’s something. You drink in silence while he packs up. No radio. No TV. Just the rustle of a map, the zip of a bag, the soft creak of old carpet under his boots.

When you finally get moving again, the motel behind you, there’s a stillness to the car that wasn’t there before. You roll the window down and let the wind tangle your hair, let the sun spill across your thighs like it has every right.

Joel doesn’t say much.

But when he hands you a gas station pastry a few miles later, you take it, and that’s how you know everything’s still okay.

Not simple. Not clear. But okay.

The pastry was lemon. Too sweet, too dry. You ate it anyway.

Joel didn’t even glance when you unwrapped it, just kept one hand on the wheel and the other drumming his fingers on his thigh like he was thinking hard. You didn’t ask what about. You kind of didn’t want to know.

There were two hours of Mississippi ahead of you before you hit the Louisiana state line, and not much to look at but cotton fields and stray billboards peeling in the heat. You’d rolled your window back down, one leg tucked beneath you in the seat, the other stretched out toward the dash, toes tapping to the faint hum of some old country song he’d let play low on the radio.

“You always this quiet in the mornings?” you asked eventually.

Joel glanced at you from the corner of his eye. “Only when I’m stuck in a car with someone who talks too much.”

You snorted. “Rude.”

“The truth.”

“Fine. But I’m not the one who practically sighed with relief when I handed you your half of the sandwich yesterday.”

He smiled. Just a little. Just enough.

You looked out the window to hide your own grin, pretending to watch a hawk circle over a line of trees. It was easier this way—teasing him, pushing a little and letting him push back. Every so often you caught the way his eyes softened when you said something funny, or the way his hand would tighten briefly on the steering wheel when your laugh lingered a beat too long.

There was a lot you didn’t say.

And that silence? It was starting to feel like its own kind of conversation.

By the time the gas light came on, the road had stretched flat and pale in the sun, and the air had that thick Louisiana cling to it. Joel pulled off into a gravel lot with one of those gas stations that hadn’t seen a health inspection since the late ‘90s.

“I’ll fill it,” he said, already reaching for his wallet. “You go stretch your legs.”

You didn’t argue.

The station had one of those coolers full of off-brand sodas and melted ice, plus a dusty rack of sunglasses and fake knives. You grabbed two waters and some fruit jerky just because it made you laugh. The place smelled like cigarettes and plastic. You kind of loved it.

When you came back out, Joel was leaning against the truck, cap pushed low, eyes on the highway.

You handed him the water. “I got you something.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me it’s that damn jerky.”

You held it up proudly. “The fruit kind. Mystery flavor.”

He gave you a look like he was genuinely questioning your sanity, but took it anyway. “You’re gonna regret that.”

“I regret a lot of things,” you said, climbing back into the truck. “But not this.”

He paused. Stared at you for a second too long, water bottle hanging from his hand, the plastic crinkling slightly in the heat.

Then he got in, started the engine, and didn’t say a word.

But his eyes kept drifting over to you as you unwrapped the jerky with mock ceremony and took a dramatic bite.

And even though the flavor was somewhere between cherry cough syrup and sadness, you smiled through it. Because Joel Miller was trying not to smile back, and failing.

By late afternoon, the sun had turned a deep, syrupy gold, washing everything in warm light. You passed through towns that looked like backdrops from a dream—shuttered shops, rusted swingsets, a church sign that read “GOD’S NOT DONE YET.”

Neither were you.

Joel hadn’t touched the fruit jerky, but he kept it on the dash like it meant something. You didn’t ask why. Just let the silence between you settle into something companionable. Something steady.

A few more hours and the light started fading. The road grew quieter. You noticed Joel’s hands flexing on the wheel more often, his jaw tight.

“You tired?” you asked.

He shook his head, but you could tell it was a lie.

“Don’t be a hero,” you said gently, turning in your seat. “You’ll get us both killed swerving into a ditch ‘cause you wouldn’t stop for the night.”

He glanced at you, tired but amused. “That how you talk to all your chauffeurs?”

You smiled. “Just the handsome, grumpy ones.”

He didn’t respond, but his ears turned a little red.

You found a motel just outside a tiny town called Marais. The kind of place where time moved slower and the stars actually showed up once the sun dipped below the trees. There was only one room left. One bed. The clerk didn’t even try to hide his raised eyebrows.

Joel paid without flinching.

Inside, the room was cleaner than you expected. Faded quilt. A working ceiling fan. That same familiar hum of an old A/C unit struggling to keep up with the Southern heat.

You kicked off your shoes and collapsed face-first onto the bed, groaning. “God. I forgot how nice it is to lie down.”

Joel chuckled low in his chest. “You’re dramatic.”

You peeked at him from the pillow. “You’re old.”

He turned the bathroom light on, but you saw the smirk anyway.

Later, you brushed your teeth while Joel stood outside smoking. You could see the flick of his lighter through the thin motel curtain. He didn’t smoke much—not around you—but you figured he needed it tonight. The way he’d been quiet again. The way his eyes lingered on the road too long, like he was thinking himself into a hole.

You came out in a T-shirt and sleep shorts. The kind of thing you used to wear around your old beat up apartment. The kind of thing Joel tried not to look at.

Tried.

He put the cigarette out and turned away fast, like he hadn’t noticed the way your bare legs caught the hallway light. You climbed into bed without a word, curling toward the wall.

He took the other side, careful to keep distance between your bodies. Maybe a foot. Maybe less. You felt the heat of him anyway. The quiet of him. The sheer presence of Joel Miller, like gravity itself had decided to rest in the middle of this bed.

Neither of you moved.

Sometime after midnight, you woke up to the sound of rain. Soft and steady against the window, like fingers tapping the glass. Joel was still on his side, breathing deep. But his hand was close now—only inches from yours where it rested on the mattress.

You didn’t think. Just moved a little.

Your pinky brushed his.

He didn’t pull away.

Didn’t shift.

Didn’t say a thing.

But his breathing changed. Just a little. And somehow, that was louder than anything he could’ve said.

You lay there like that for a long, long time. Neither of you are speaking. Both of you are awake.

And though you didn’t reach for him, didn’t say his name or press your lips to his throat or thread your fingers with his—

You could have.

And he would have let you.

You both knew it.

He didn’t sleep much.

Not that he expected to. Not with her that close.

It wasn’t her fault—she hadn’t done a damn thing. Just laid there breathing, all soft and warm and barefoot in his periphery, like it was normal. Like this whole thing wasn’t tugging something loose in him.

Joel stared at the ceiling until the rain stopped, then at the crack in the curtain where the early light leaked through. He kept thinking it would be easier if she’d been louder. If she talked too much or chewed with her mouth open or snored like hell. Anything to give him a reason to shake this off.

But she wasn’t like that.

She was kind. Sharp, but never mean. Curious in a way that made him feel seen, even when she wasn’t asking questions.

And God help him, she looked at him like she saw something worth keeping.

He didn’t know what to do with that.

Joel rolled onto his side carefully. She was still asleep, one arm curled under her cheek, the hem of her shirt rucked up just enough to show the slope of her lower back. His chest ached.

Twenty-two years old and it still hit him like a gut-punch—that quiet, simple vulnerability. The kind of thing he hadn’t let himself want in years.

She moved a little, brow twitching, and he closed his eyes fast, pretending to sleep.

Because if she caught him staring, he wasn’t sure he could explain himself.

Or worse—he might try.

He got up before she did, let the door click shut behind him as gently as he could. The air outside was thick with the aftermath of rain, still cool but warming fast. He sat on the curb by the truck with a paper cup of motel coffee and his second cigarette of the morning, neither of which did a damn thing to calm him down.

He didn’t want to be that man. The one who let himself get soft over a girl half his age just because she was sweet and pretty and kind to him in ways he didn’t think he deserved anymore.

But he was that man.

He could feel it. In the way he hesitated before getting back in the truck yesterday. The way he wanted to hear her say his name even when she was annoyed with him. The way he’d nearly taken her hand last night, just to feel something steady before sleep took him.

It scared him.

Because Joel didn’t want to break her. Didn’t want to hurt her or ruin the quiet good thing they had going, even if it was nothing but shared meals and motel stops and that long stretch of road between them.

But she made him feel younger.

No, not younger. Alive.

And that? That was even more dangerous.

He heard the door creak behind him.

Barefoot steps on the pavement. A yawn.

“Is that coffee?” she asked, voice still low and rough from sleep.

Joel didn’t look at her. Just held the cup out. “If you can call it that.”

She took it and sat beside him without asking.

And for a moment, with her shoulder brushing his and the rising sun spilling gold across the parking lot, Joel forgot all the reasons why he shouldn’t want this.

Forgot about age. About guilt. About how this couldn’t possibly last.

Because she smiled at him with sleep-warm eyes and a soft “thanks,” and all he could think was: Goddamn, I’m in trouble.

They got back on the road after checking out, her hair still damp from the motel shower. She tied it up on the ride out of town, twisting it messily with a hair tie pulled from her wrist. Joel caught himself watching her in the rearview, the reflection just enough to see the slope of her neck, the soft crease at the corner of her eye as she squinted against the sun.

She didn’t talk much at first. Just tapped her fingers against the window ledge, humming under her breath to a song on the radio that he didn’t know. Something soft and female and longing.

He didn’t ask what it was.

He liked it better not knowing.

They stopped for gas at a quiet station just off the interstate. While she went inside for snacks, Joel stayed at the pump, eyes on the curve of her retreating back, the way she moved like she was half-wrapped in sunlight.

Jesus Christ.

He leaned on the truck door, rubbing a hand over his jaw.

It wasn’t just that she was beautiful—though she was, in a way that made his throat tight. It was that she looked at him like she trusted him. Like she saw something he didn’t think he had left in him.

He wasn’t used to that.

But this girl?

She talked to him like he mattered in a different way.

And Joel wasn’t sure what the hell to do with that.

Back in the truck, she tossed him a pack of trail mix and slid a cold can of Coke into the cup holder.

“I guessed,” she said. “You don’t seem like a fruit punch guy.”

He raised a brow. “And what kind of guy do I seem like?”

She didn’t look at him. Just smirked faintly and buckled her seatbelt. “The kind who only likes the original stuff. No cherry flavor. No peach twist. No bullshit.”

Joel huffed a laugh. “Sounds about right.”

They drove in comfortable quiet for a while.

Later, she fell asleep again. Slumped against the window, arms crossed loosely over her chest, her lips parted just slightly.

Joel’s grip on the wheel tightened.

There was a part of him—some selfish, buried part—that liked the way she trusted him enough to fall asleep like that. Like she knew he’d get her where she needed to go. That he’d keep her safe.

And God, he would.

Whether she asked him to or not.

That realization scared him more than anything. Because Joel had spent years avoiding attachments. Keeping things clean. Transactional.

But this? This wasn’t clean.

It was quiet and messy and dangerous.

She wasn’t just some girl hitching a ride anymore.

She was herself.

Warm. Smart. Brave in a way that snuck up on you. The kind of person who picked wildflowers out of a motel parking lot and braided them into a napkin ring for no reason at all. The kind who hummed to Fleetwood Mac and offered you the last piece of candy without even thinking twice.

And the worst part?

Joel wanted to keep her around.

Wanted her beside him in the passenger seat, one knee pulled up, telling him stories he didn’t ask for but always listened to. Wanted her curled up in bed with him again, not touching, not speaking—just there.

He hadn’t wanted something like that in a long, long time.

And now that he did?

He wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop.

It was late.

They pulled into a random motel.

The sun was long gone, and the air was thick with humidity and the hum of cicadas, wrapping around the night like a second skin. The neon vacancy sign buzzed weakly overhead, casting red light across her face as she leaned against the check-in counter.

Joel signed the paperwork with a cheap pen and let the desk clerk assume they were just another couple passing through. Let her think what she wants.

Hell, he didn’t even know what this was anymore.

He was too tired to lie to himself about it.

The room was small. One queen bed. Old AC rattling in the window. A lamp with a cracked base and floral shades that hadn’t been washed since the nineties.

She dropped her bag by the chair, kicked her shoes off with a sigh, and sat on the edge of the bed like she owned it.

Like she’d always belonged there.

“You okay?” she asked softly.

Joel nodded. “Just tired.”

She tilted her head, studying him. “You’ve been quiet since the gas station.”

“I’m always quiet.”

“Not like that.”

He swallowed hard. Turned away, pretending to fiddle with something in his duffel just to avoid her eyes.

She saw through it. Of course she did.

He didn’t know why he was still pretending. The air between them was too hot, too thick, too full of everything they hadn’t said. Every brush of her knee against his in the truck. Every glance. Every goddamn moment where he almost let something slip.

Almost told her he wanted her.

Almost admitted he hadn’t thought about anything but her for days now.

She stood behind him suddenly, close enough that he could feel her breath on the back of his neck.

“I know you’re fighting it,” she whispered.

Joel’s whole body tensed.

“I can feel it. You think you’re protecting me,” she said, voice gentle. “But you’re hurting yourself.”

He turned, slowly, and met her eyes.

There was no teasing in them. No manipulation. Just warmth. Certainty.

Like she already knew.

He stepped back out of reflex—but she followed. Hands brushing his chest. Fingertips tracing the edge of his t-shirt like she was memorizing the shape of him.

“You don’t have to be scared of wanting something,” she murmured. “Not with me.”

Joel let out a shaky breath.

She was the one who closed the distance.

He didn’t remember how they ended up this close, only that her hands were on him and his heart was breaking open in his chest. He’d spent every mile of this drive trying to hold the line, keep her safe behind the walls he’d built for women like her—young, sweet, not for him.

And now she was standing there, telling him he didn’t have to pretend.

Telling him she already knew.

When she leaned in, he didn’t stop her. Couldn’t.

Her mouth brushed his like a question, one he answered with both hands gripping her waist, holding her still while he kissed her deep and slow—like he’d been waiting his whole life for the chance. He tasted mint on her tongue and something softer, something hers. Something he’d been dying to have again since the last time she smiled across the truck cab.

She sighed into it, arms sliding around his neck, body arching into his like she already knew the shape of him. He backed her up, step by step, until the backs of her knees hit the bed and she sank down with a soft gasp.

Joel stood over her, just looking.

The low motel light painted her skin in soft gold, her thighs pressed together, breath shaky as she looked up at him.

“You sure?” he asked, voice hoarse.

“I’ve been sure,” she said, fingers curling in the hem of his shirt. “Since Amarillo.”

He let out a breath that sounded more like a groan and leaned down, kissing her again—deeper now, rougher, fingers gripping her jaw as she pulled him down with her.

They undressed each other in pieces.

Her shirt was the first to go, then his. She traced his chest like she couldn’t get enough of the sight, trailing her fingers over old scars and muscle and warmth.

“You’re so goddamn handsome,” she murmured, and it hit him like a brick.

Joel ducked his head, almost embarrassed. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not flirting. I’m telling the truth.”

He didn’t know what to say to that, so he kissed her instead—kissed her slow and deep, until her body melted beneath him.

Her bra came off next. He didn’t rush, didn’t fumble—just pulled the strap down her shoulder and watched it fall like it was sacred. Then he leaned in, took her breast into his mouth, and sucked gently—felt her shiver beneath him, her thighs spreading just slightly in response.

“Joel—” she whispered, breath hitching.

“Tell me what you need, sweetheart,” he rasped, one hand trailing down to the button of her shorts. “You want me slow? Easy?”

“I want you, however you’ll give yourself to me.”

His jaw clenched. Christ. She knew how to break him open, piece by piece.

He took his time undressing her.

Her shorts slipped down over her hips, panties damp. He could smell her arousal, thick and sweet, and when he dropped to his knees between her thighs, she gasped.

“Wait—”

“I wanna taste you,” he said, voice low. “Been thinkin’ about it every night since Mississippi.”

She didn’t stop him after that.

He slid her legs open with both hands and leaned in, groaning against her when he finally pressed his mouth to her. She was warm and slick and already so ready for him, thighs trembling as he licked slow, patient circles around her clit. She reached for him, fingers tangling in his hair, back arching up as she bit down on her wrist to keep quiet.

“Joel—oh, fuck—please—”

He flattened his tongue, licked long and slow, then flicked gently until her thighs shook around his ears. Her orgasm built like a wave and broke with her legs wrapped around his shoulders, her hips rocking into his face as she whimpered his name over and over like a prayer.

He didn’t stop.

Not until she pulled him up and kissed him, tasting herself on his tongue.

Joel undid his jeans with shaking fingers, but she touched his wrist.

“Let me,” she whispered.

She pulled his belt open, tugged his jeans down just enough, and wrapped her hand around his cock.

Joel groaned deep in his chest—her touch soft, reverent. He was hard and aching and nearly lost it when she pressed a kiss to his chest.

“Condom?” she asked.

He nodded toward the bag.

She retrieved it, ripped the foil open with trembling fingers, and rolled it onto him slowly, like she wanted to savor every second.

Then she laid back.

Spread her thighs.

Waited.

“Come here,” she said.

Joel settled between her legs, lined himself up, and paused.

Because this wasn’t just a hookup.

This wasn’t just sex.

This was everything he’d been scared to feel.

He slid in slow, inch by inch, feeling her stretch around him, and bit back a groan when she gasped and clung to him, nails digging into his back.

“Goddamn, you feel—fuck, baby,” he muttered, burying his face in her neck. “You feel perfect.”

She wrapped her legs around him, pulled him closer.

He moved slow—deep, steady thrusts, letting her feel every part of him, letting himself feel everything. The warmth of her body. The way she whispered his name. The soft, pleading sounds she made when he hit that spot deep inside her just right.

“Joel, I—fuck—I think I—”

“I know,” he whispered, kissing her. “Come for me.”

And she did.

He felt her clench around him, felt her body fall apart, and finally—finally—let himself go.

He came with a groan, buried deep inside her, every muscle tensing before he collapsed on top of her, breath hot and ragged in her ear.

They laid there in silence.

Her hands traced lazy patterns across his chest. He kissed her shoulder once, twice.

Then, in the dark, she said:

“You okay?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just held her tighter.

Then—

“Not sure I’ve ever been.”

She smiled against his skin.

“Me neither.”

You wake up to birdsong and silence.

No trucks passing on the highway. No boots on gravel. No Joel rummaging through the duffel for coffee or keys or his worn-out map. Just stillness, and the warm weight of his arm slung across your waist.

For a moment, you don’t move. You just lie there, curled into his chest, listening to the soft sound of his breathing. It’s steady. Heavier than usual, like even he’s allowed himself a rare kind of rest.

The motel room is still dim. One of the curtains is half drawn, letting in a sliver of morning sun that catches on the dust in the air. Everything smells like last night—like motel soap and sweat and him. Like something real.

Your thigh brushes his when you shift slightly, and that’s when you feel it again—that ache between your legs, the good kind. The kind that reminds you it wasn’t a dream.

You press your face to his chest, hide the stupid smile that spreads across your mouth.

You’d never seen Joel like that before.

You’d seen him tired. Sharp. Guarded. Patient. Stern.

But not undone.

Not the way he was last night—hands trembling, voice breaking, whispering your name like he’d been holding it in for years.

And God, the way he looked at you afterward—like he’d seen the edge of something and chosen to fall anyway.

When he stirs beside you, it’s slow. A grunt under his breath, his arms tightening just slightly around your middle. His nose brushes the top of your head. He breathes in like he knows exactly where he is—and who he’s with.

“Morning,” you whisper.

His voice comes out rough. “Mornin’, darlin’.”

He doesn’t move away. Doesn’t roll over or grab his jeans like he’s got somewhere to be.

Instead, his fingers trail lightly along your spine. Absentminded. Gentle.

You tilt your head up. “You okay?”

Joel looks down at you, eyes soft in a way that makes your stomach flip.

“Think so,” he says after a beat. “You?”

You nod. “Yeah. I’m good.”

More than good. But saying that out loud would make your chest crack open.

He studies you like he wants to say something else. His brows furrow like he’s weighing it. Maybe wondering if last night changed everything—or if you’ll pretend it didn’t.

So you speak first.

“I don’t want this to be a one-time thing.”

His expression doesn’t change.

But something settles in him. Like a rope pulled tight just slackened.

“It ain’t,” he says. Simple. Final.

“Good,” you whisper.

Joel leans in, presses a soft kiss to your forehead. His hand slips under the blanket, warm and possessive against your back.

“I got no plans of leavin’ you behind,” he says quietly. “Not now.”

And something in your chest flutters—something dangerous. Something hopeful.

You rest your cheek against his heart and close your eyes.

Out there, the road’s still long. There’ll be towns and weather and tension. There’ll be bad days and good ones and probably some kind of reckoning when you get to wherever the hell he’s taking you.

But right now?

He’s staying.

And so are you.

divider by @strangergraphics

🏷️ @xodilfluvr @zevrra @joelmillersonlyprincess @alyhull @bluekat707 @catch1ngmoths

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e1ysianvisions · 10 days ago

Text

Cowboy Like Me

Part 1 - Dancing Is a Dangerous Game

Pairing: Cowboy!Tommy Miller x fem!reader

[Next Part] [Series Masterlist]

Summary: You've finished your final year of college and summer is about to begin, but you've got no home to go to. So, your friend Sarah invites you to stay at her family ranch back in Texas. That's where you meet Tommy Miller. He's handsome, charming and your best friend's uncle.

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, MDNI, Age gape (unspecified but reader is in her 20s while Tommy is in his 30s), No outbreak AU, Grief, Mentions of loss (reader's mother), Pet names, Praise, Jealous Tommy, Unprotected piv sex, Fingering, Hand job, alchohol consumption, cowboy hat rule (iykyk), duel POV

Word count: 3.9k

You knew you were in trouble the moment you first saw him in the airport. Tousled curls, freckles, and dark circles. And the smile that graced his lips when you and Sarah approached… just magnetic.

“Uncle Tommy!” Sarah squealed, rushing to fling her arms around the man.

“Hey kiddo,” He mumbled, squeezing her tight. “It’s good to have you home.”

You stood awkwardly behind Sarah, your arms wrapped around your torso as you watched the interaction.

“And you must be our new ranch hand,” He joked over Sarah’s head, Sarah playfully slapped his arm in response.

“She’s our guest.” Tommy only laughed, and you didn’t know whether it was due to your tiredness from your flight, but it was the loveliest sound you’d heard all day.

“‘Course,” He peels the girl in his arms away and took a step towards you, “Tommy Miller.” He introduces himself.

“I know.”

“Been talkin’ ‘bout me?” He turned to Sarah.

“All good things.” She reassured, holding back a laugh. The man glared at her before shaking his head. Sarah talks about her family a lot, she’s close with them. And from what you’ve heard, or been warned, her uncle Tommy is a real charmer.

You tell him your name, and he echoes your response of “I know.”, and you put your hand out for a polite handshake. Tommy ignores that and pulls you into a hug instead. You leant into the embrace, he smelled of soap, coffee and something else, something masculine, something uniquely him. Tommy gives you a final squeeze before announcing, “Welcome to the family, sweetheart. You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.”

“Hey!” Sarah laughs, playfully squinting her eyes at her uncle.

“C’mon lets get your shit and get outta here.”

The ride from the airport was quiet, mostly. Sarah fell asleep almost instantly, finally succumbing from the tiredness she’d been fighting all day. Leaving you and Tommy in a silence that was awkward but not entirely uncomfortable. You talked about your course, what you wanted to do now that you’ve graduated, you said you weren’t sure. In truth you hadn’t been sure of anything, not since your mom died.

“You’re young. You've got time.” Was what Tommy said, smiling at you through the mirror.

Later on that first day you all sit around a dining table for dinner, you sit next to Sarah and across from Tommy, and Tommy’s words from earlier ring in your ears, “Welcome to the family, sweetheart.” And for a second it almost feels like you're a part of one, passing condiments and engaging in conversation. Sarah is now fully awake and excitedly recalling everything she’s done since last being home. You find it unexpectedly easy to be around them, especially Tommy, who makes the effort to make you feel included. You feel a familiar, painful, emotion swell in your throat. You take a gulp of water.

“Thankyou for dinner, and for letting me stay here for a while.” You say when everyone’s finished with their food.

Joel smiles at you. “No need to thank us, kid. You’re welcome here as long as you need.” You smile back at him.

After dinner you’re helping Sarah with washing the dishes when Joel comes out to the kitchen with a groan. You and Sarah both turn your heads to look at the man.

“Tommy forgot to take these,” Joel says, holding up folded bedding. Sarah shakes her head as Joel goes to put his jacket on.

You wipe your hands on a towel. “I’ll take it over.” You say, stepping towards him.

“Sure? He’s just in the barn, I’ll be back in no time.” You gently pry the linens from him.

“I don’t mind, it’s the least I could do.” You say with a smile. “The barn, yeah?”

When you walk inside the barn, you find Tommy polishing a saddle. His brows furrowed as he concentrated on the task at hand. You allowed yourself to enjoy the view of his arms as he buffs the tan leather.

“Hey,” You say in a small voice. Tommy looks up, eyes dragging up your frame, smiling when he reaches your eyes.

“Hey there.” He replies, standing up. And for a moment, just a moment, you feel as though you’re drowning in his brown eyes and the honey-like drawl of his voice.

You clear your throat. “Joel said you forgot these.” You say, handing him the clean sheets.

“Yeah, s’pose I did.” He said taking them off your hands and walking to a back room. You don’t know why you follow him, but you do. The room is pretty small, a few storage boxes, a desk and a pallet of crates with a mattress on top. “You sleep here?” You ask.

He looks over his shoulder as he places the folded sheet on top of the mattress. “Not usually. But we needed somewhere to put ya.”

A sense of guilt gnaws at your gut. “I took your room?”

“Didn’t take it,” He said, turning to face you. “I offered it.” He took a step towards you.

“Sorry I’m putting you out.”

Tommy just shakes his head and flashes you another one of his charming smiles. “S’fine, sweetheart.” You look to the ground, Tommy puts a finger under your chin, making you look at him. “Really. S’fine. Don’t worry ‘bout me.” You can’t help but flush at his southern charm. God, you are in such trouble.

He then walks out the room, you suppose to continue the task he was doing before you showed up. And you should go and leave him to it, but then one of the horses peaks its head out and you help but stop where you’re standing and look.

“I’ve never seen a horse in real life before.” You whisper, mostly to yourself, but Tommy hears.

“Really?” You turn to face him and his eyebrow quirks up.

“Really.” You confirm.

“Alright then, c’mon.” Tommy nods his head, gesturing for you to follow him to the stable. The horse pokes his head out further and Tommy insensitively reaches his hand out.

“His name’s Bandit, he's mine.” Tommy tells you, the low timbre of his voice sending shivers down your spine.

“Gimme your hand.” You don’t think twice about obeying him. You reach your hand up and Tommy guides it to the horse. Tommy’s larger hand on top of yours as you feel Bandit’s velvet-like dark coat. The horses nuzzles into your touch, causing you to smile wide. You turn to see Tommy smiling just as wide, watching you.

“He likes ya,” He starts. “He’s a good judge of character. And like his rider he can appreciate a beautiful woman.” He whispers that last part in your ear, the shivers from before turning into waves of excitement. “I’ll teach ya to ride ‘em, if you want?”

“I’d like that.” Your gaze moves from his brown eyes to his lips, and when they reach his eyes again his pupils are blown wide.

Tommy clears his throat.“It’s getting late,” He says, removing his hand from yours, and moving away from your side, your body missing the warmth he provided.

“Yeah, should head back. I’m getting tired.” You say, turning to face Tommy before you walk out.

“Enjoy sleeping in my bed.” He says with a wink. Oh god, you really are in trouble if you have to live with a man who makes you feel so… makes you feel. And when you climbed into bed that night all that played in your mind was the playful glint in Tommy’s eyes as he said those five words. And you did. The sheets spelled like fresh linen but if you imagined hard enough you swore you could smell Tommy’s soap and coffee scent.

Tommy had said that line to make you flustered, he noticed throughout the day you blushed awful easy ‘round him. But he didn’t expect it to keep him up instead. The vision of you in his bed, in his sheets. Tommy knew you were off-limits, being Sarah’s friend and all. She would never forgive him if he made a move on you. And his brother… God he’d be so angry he couldn’t keep it in his goodman pants for once. It just made the thought of you all the sweeter, a forbidden fruit to admire, and admire only. But still, it didn't mean he couldn’t make you flustered, if only to see you flushed and biting your lip. Because that’s all he’ll allow himself to indulge in.

You liked Tommy from the first time you saw him at the airport, but you felt especially drawn to him after that first evening. Consciously seeking him out in every room you entered, asking after him, walking over to the barn to sit and drink coffee with him in the mornings. And he didn’t seem to push away your attention, which was nice. And the way he looked at you with such intensity made you feel wanted.

You took Tommy up on those riding lessons. Bandit was a gentle, steady horse. But as soon as Tommy’s hands gripped your hips to place you in the saddle, you lost all focus. The way he touched you felt natural. Like his hands were molded specifically for the curve of your hips. And the praises he’d give when you’d got something right. “Atta girl, that’s it,” “Doing so well f’me,” “You can do it, sweetheart, that’s it,” God, it’s a surprise you haven’t fallen off the damn horse with him talking to you like that.

It’s been a couple days since your latest riding lesson and you’re getting all dressed up for a garden party the Miller’s were hosting to celebrate Sarah’s graduation. You wore a simple white dress, a denim jacket for the chilly night air and some boots Sarah gave you once she realised you did not have the right foot wear for a ranch. You ruined your white sneakers helping with mucking out the horses your first week at the ranch.

Once you left the house your senses were immediately filled with the smell of meat on the grill.

There was a tent-like thing providing some shelter incase of rain and you made your way underneath where people were dancing to the music blasting from the speakers.

In between eating and drinking Sarah introduced you to her friends and the other people attending the party, other ranchers, business owners from town and a ranch hand that was way too charming for his own good. His name is Brody or something.

As the sun begins to set, the music slows down and couples begin to dance. Sarah goes and dances with her dad, leaving you to be a wallflower. That is until Tommy comes up to you, asking you to dance.

“I’m not much of a dancer,” You confess.

“I don’t mind takin’ the lead,” He teases. You flush, though you blame it on the alcohol in your system. It definitely has nothing to do with the panty-dropping smile he just flashed you. Nope. Not at all.

“I’m not so sure,” You mumble.

“C’mon, just one dance. Nothing dangerous.” Everything to do with Tommy Miller is dangerous, you’ve concluded. But you decide to humour him, anyhow, taking his hand and giggling as he leads you to the designated dance floor.

Tommy slides one hand on your hip while guiding one of your arms to his shoulder, before taking your spare hand in his. “See, just a dance. Nothin’ dangerous.”

“I think with you, Tommy, dancing is a dangerous game.” He flashes you another one of those panty-dropping smiles and if it weren’t for Tommy’s firm hold of you, your knees would’ve buckled beneath you for sure.

The song ended and one dance turned into two, two turned into three, and after four dances the two of you grabbed some more beers and left the tent. The two of you ended up sitting in the bed of his truck, talking, laughing, drinking. You end up taking off his cowboy hat at one point and putting it on your own head. You tip it slightly, and adding a drawl to your voice you say, “Look. I’m a cowboy like you.”

Tommy laughs at you. “That right, hm.”

“Mhm.”

Tommy licks his lips and leans in slightly. “Y’know we have a little rule ‘round here when it comes to takin’ a cowboy’s hat.”

“Really.” You muse, bringing your beer bottle to your lips.

“You wear the hat, you ride the cowboy.” You nearly spit out your beer. “I’ll let ya off this time, not knowing and all.”

“Maybe I did know,” You reply after a moment of silence. Tommy shakes his head. “Brody told me all ‘bout it earlier.” You tease, finishing off the last of your beer. Brody didn’t but after a couple weeks of Tommy teasing you, you’re enjoying giving him a taste of his own medicine.

“You stay the fuck away from that boy, you hear me? Already told Sarah that too.”

You give Tommy an innocent look, enjoying the look on his face too much. “Why?”

“‘Cause he’s a good for nothing piece of shit, that’s why. He acts all charmin’ but I know how he treats women. Don’t want’ya brokenhearted.”

You look at him for a moment. “You looking out for me, Tommy Miller?”

“Always.�� He replied.

You put the hat back on Tommy’s head, a little lopsided, but on. “Alright. No riding tonight, I guess.” You sigh.

Tommy laughs. “You’re trouble, girl.”

By the end of the evening your and Tommy’s conversation took a more serious turn.

“This has been a lovely evening. I’m sure Sarah’s feeling very loved by you two, what an amazing way to celebrate her achievements.” You can’t help the slight pang of jealousy stabbing your heart, you're happy Sarah has a family who loves her so fiercely. You just wished you had your people to celebrate these milestones with still.

“You too.” Tommy replied. You look at him puzzled. “It’s been for you too.” He nudged your shoulder. “You graduated too.” You feel yourself begin to tear up.

“We’ve not known ya very long, but we’re celebrating you, and your achievements, just as much as Sarah’s.” The alcohol in your system is not helping with your emotional state at this very moment.

“I don’t know what to say, thank you.” You try to blink away the tears but one falls.

Tommy gives you a look, his dark eyes full of emotions you can’t name. He brings a hand up to your cheek, wiping away your tears.

“C’mon let’s get you to bed, been a long day.” With that he walks you to your room. You opened the door, and you don’t know whether or not it was due to the alcohol in your system or all the emotions you’re feeling, but you turned back to Tommy and kissed him. A soft peck on the lips that can’t have lasted more than a second or two.

“Thank you.” You whisper against his lips. Tommy shakes his head and goes to argue but you silence him by putting your lips on his once again. This time you grew a little bolder with it. You snaked your hands up his arms and tangled them in his curls, moaning into the kiss when his hands landed on your hips.

When you broke apart and you looked into his eyes, Tommy looked at you as if you’d just given him the stars. An overwhelming feeling bloomed in your chest.

“Goodnight Tommy.” You said, turning to go into your room.

“Goodnight, Sweetheart.” That should’ve been it, you should’ve walked into your room. But you hesitated before crossing the threshold.

Tommy should have stopped you. Wasn’t right on his part to let you come onto him in that state, drunk and emotional. But he was only human. Your soft lips, the taste of beer and cherry lip gloss as he explored your mouth. And the way you seemed to lean into his touch… he was only so strong. And he’d had a few to drink himself. His lips crashed into yours once again as he pushed you into the room, kicking the door shut behind him. The two of you kissed each other with such hunger, hands exploring each other's bodies. This would be a good way to get you out of his system, he thought, before all this sexual tension caused him to do something stupid... well something more stupid. Besides, you both can blame the alcohol in the morning.

Tommy’s hands gripped the fabric of your dress. “Off, now.” He commanded. You watched his gaze dance across your body as you let the fabric pool around your ankles. He stares at you, pupils blown wide and with such intensity it leaves you breathless. You pull him in by his big, silver belt buckle. “Your turn.” You say, keeping eye contact as you undo the belt. All the while Tommy starts unbuttoning his dress shirt. It’s an intimate moment and the world outside these four walls fades away. You continue to strip him until the both of you are in your underwear.

Your lips are attacking each other once more as you fall into the bed, cowboy hat long gone somewhere on the floor, Tommy’s lips move to explore your jaw, neck and when he reaches your chest he unclasps your bra in one swift, practiced motion.

“Fuck,” He mumbles, leaning into to suck on your nipple. Your back arches, pushing into him as you tug the curls at the nape of his neck. His hands slowly slide up your thigh. Pushing them open before moving your panties to the side. Tommy groans at the feeling of you.

“You’re so wet, sweetheart.” You gasp as you feel his fingers move between your slick folds.

“S’all for me.” His brown eyes bore into yours with such passion it compels you to look away, flustered. Tommy uses his free hand to grab your jaw, forcing you to look at him.

“Look at me as I’m fucking you with my fingers, honey, or you don’t get my cock.”

You moaned as he dipped his first finger inside of you. Tommy’s hand moves to clamp over your mouth almost as quickly.

“Quiet, sweet girl,” He whispers in your ear, “Know from experience these walls are thin,” You don’t have time to ask him what that means when he’s knuckle deep, massaging that sweet spot inside you.

You writhed beneath him as his thick fingers began opening you up, his thumb toying with your clit. Your hips moved in rhythm with his fingers.

“That’s it, that’s my good girl.” He praises. You clawed at his shoulders, urging him to move faster as you grow closer and closer to your peak. And when you finally cum, you cum hard. Moaning into his palm as Tommy coaxes you through, singing praises into your ear.

“That’s a good girl.” You hear Tommy whisper as you come down from your high, he kisses that spot behind your ear, finally removing the hand on your mouth. You grab ahold of his face, bringing him in for a kiss. Nails scratching his back as he presses into you. You feel him, he’s hard and dripping and wanting. It makes you feel good, knowing you’re the cause of it.

Tommy removes himself from the kiss, finally sliding your underwear down your legs, before he stands up to rid himself of his. He’s big, bigger than anything you’ve taken before. When Tommy crawls back on top of you, “You’re so fucking beautiful,” He muses, using his calloused hands to spread your thighs, kneeling between them. Then he’s thrusting between your slick fold, coating his cock with your wetness. You whimper when the head brushes your sensitive clit.

“Wait,” You breathe out before he enters you. You move him so that he’s on his back, you straddle him and take his cock in your hand. “The rule was I ride the cowboy, right.” You smirk, going to place a chaste kiss on his plush lips, pumping his thick length in your fist.

“You need to wear the hat, sweetheart.” He groans. You fish the hat from off the floor placing it on your head. Tommy flashes you one of his lopsided, boyish grins and you can feel yourself getting wetter and needier by the second. Tommy has made a real mess of you.

“You gonna ride me or what, cowgirl.” He murmurs against your lips, taking a hold of your hips, guiding you to sit on his dick. Using that same, steady grip he uses in your riding lessons. You kiss him hard as he stretches you out, muffling all your moans with his lips. As you begin to move, his hands digging into you impossibly tighter. Tommy’s head tilts back, cursing through gritted teeth. The feeling of you gripping him is almost overwhelming. You use this opportunity to attack his neck, your hands exploring his big shoulders, his chest and his soft tummy.

As you get closer to your second orgasm, the more your body begins to ache. Tommy’s hips meet yours in every thrust and one of his hands came down to where your bodies joined to play with your sensitive clit. You came for a second time, biting into Tommy’s shoulder as you fucked yourself on his cock.

As you were coming down, Tommy rolled you onto your back as he started fucking you hard into the matress, chasing his own high. The hat is once again discarded, in truth you had no idea when or where it went, the only thing you can think of is Tommy. His scent filling your lungs, his lips on your flushed skin, his cock filling your pussy perfectly.

When he’s close and his thrusts start to become sloppier he pulls out, fucks his fists before coming on your stomach. You welcome the weight of him as he collapses on top of you. The two of you catch your breath as your fingers draw patterns on his back.

“Shit, sweetheart.” Is all Tommy can manage to say through laboured breaths.

“Good?” You ask.

“I’m in fucking heavan.” He mumbles nuzzling into your chest.

Once the two of you caught your breath, Tommy went to fetch a damp towel to clean you up. When he was done he started to collect his clothes. You sat up and reached for his arm.“Tommy.” You whisper. He gives you a half-smile. “Sorry, sweetheart, but I gotta go if we don’t wanna get caught.” You know deep down that he’s right, but it still stings. You tug at his arm. “Stay,” You plead. “Just until I fall asleep. Please.”

Tommy knows he shouldn’t give in, he’s already done that too much tonight. But you’re looking at him with big, hopeful eyes and he knows he can’t say no to you. And so he stays, until you fall asleep. And a bit longer after that. Probably too long. But he likes it too much, you in his arms, in his bed, the gentle rise and fall of your chest and you dream. Tommy’s dreaming too, of the two of you meeting under different circumstances. One where you’re not Sarah’s best friend and off-limits. One where he can openly want you.

~~~

Ahh this is my first time writing on here, I hope you enjoyed it!

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h0useslut · 1 month ago

Text

as long as you’re with me you’ll be just fine ✮

pairing : aaron hotchner x fem! bau! reader

w/c : 1,1k

genre : hurt/comfort, once again ANGST, romance

warnings : mentions of violence, blood and overall the aftershocks of a traumatic case, bit of an age gap

summary : reader struggles with the aftermath of a case. despite disobeying aaron’s orders, he can’t help but offer comfort to his soft spot, and remind her that she’s safe in his arms.

a/n : sorry i’ve been mia these days!! but im back and so excited for this fic! await for more to come ;)

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . જ⁀➴°⋆ ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ જ⁀➴°⋆ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ જ⁀➴°⋆

The smell of blood on your face.

That’s the only thing you could feel. Emily’s shouting became distant, and the scene that was unloading in front of you became blurry.

The unsub had lunged at you. You fought back, of course you did. Between your choked pleas, phrases like— “You don’t have to do this” or “You’re better than this”, Derek had managed to get a clear shot at him.

And here you were now.

In a rusty attic, trembling as his blood was scattered across your face and shirt. His lifeless body lay on the floor, while you fought for a steady breath.

“Hey, hey” A steady voice came from behind you, but it still seemed distant. Someone approached you, but you couldn’t make out who it was. Until that someone touched you.

Gentle hands —Aaron’s gentle hands— pried your fingers from the white knuckle-dying grip you had on your vest.

Aaron was infuriated by the fact that you went inside to face the unsub, unarmed and alone— completely ignoring his commands.

But the way you looked at him absolutely and utterly terrified?

Yeah. His chest tightened as you tensed and were truly out of it.

He’d save the lecture for later. Bringing you back to reality came first.

You didn’t know when— you didn’t know how. But he’d brought you outside, making you sit down on a nearby bench.

Crouching down in front of you, —hands on your knees— he made sure his voice was anything but angry.

“I need you to take a breath for me. Can you do that for me sweetheart?” He coaxed, his hands bringing your own in a firm— grounding grip.

“Can’t—” You wheezed.

The blood on your face felt too much. Everything felt like too much. Why had you even gotten in there?

Your mind raced with thoughts, making it impossible for you to calm down.

And then, a sob came out.

Had it not been for the ache in your chest, you didn’t realise it had come from you.

Aaron moved swiftly. He got up, sitting next to you. Arms wrapped around you, till your head was near his chest.

He didn’t care that he got his clothes bloodied. The pure trauma on your face was enough for him.

“Breathe, breathe for me”

You tried to focus on the sound of his voice, forcing your lungs to obey — even though the air still felt heavy. One of his hands came to stroke your hair, shushing you softly as your heart-wrenching sobs turned into hiccups.

“That’s it” he murmured, “Just like that”

You tried to say something, anything that would make the situation better. You couldn’t though. The lump in your throat made sure you couldn’t get a single word out.

Aaron noticed. He noticed that you were somewhere else. Not entirely present with him.

Eventually, when your breathing steadied and your body sagged in his arms, he decided to speak.

“Let’s get you out of here, okay? Need to clean you up”

“N-No. It’s— I—“ You started to protest, but he stopped you.

“It’s not a question. Come on, sweetheart”

You didn’t have the energy to fight again. He helped you to your feet, one hand steadily on the small of your back as if you’d break.

Guiding you to his SUV, he grounded you with every step. His hand on your knee lingered a little longer than it should have when he buckled your seat, but you didn’t seem to mind. You just stared at him, with a look that he couldn’t decipher.

The entire ride was silent, for the most part. Your hands were folded in your lap, mind wandering off back to what happened.

To your horror, Aaron wanted to talk about it.

“You should’ve waited for back up” He bit, voice sharp. Not like the one he used at first.

You had it coming, you knew that. But you didn’t know it would sting so much.

“I know” you replied, voice shaky.

“My orders are there because I need every one of you to be safe.” he paused, “I need you to be safe”

You swallowed thickly, trying to stop the tears.

“It’s not because I don’t trust you—“ He continued, knowing what you were probably thinking.

Inexperienced. Younger than him. Afraid of making mistakes and being a burden to the team. So of course, in your brain, it sounded natural that he wouldn’t trust you.

But this wasn’t the case. If anything, he saw things in you that you struggled to comprehend.

He still had to say something about disobeying him— That was his job.

Another beat of silence.

The car pulled up, meaning you reached the hotel. You lost track of time, and before you knew it you were in a room.

His hotel room.

You let him take you by the hand and guide you to the bathroom, where you sat on the counter.

He turned to you with a wet cloth, meant for your face.

“I’m going to clean you up, okay?” He whispered, brushing the sweaty hair that had fallen on your face.

You didn’t mean to flinch when the cold cloth came in contact with your cheek, but it happened.

“Sorry”

“I’m not going to hurt you, you’re safe” He reassured you, wiping the blood.

“I didn’t mean to make you mad” You croaked out, your eyes searching for his. You felt a little calmer now, cleaner. He dropped the cloth, putting his hands on the sides of your legs.

“It’s not about making me mad, Y/N”

It came out quieter now, but it held weight— as if he was choosing his words with care.

“You scared me”

Your breath caught. You pulled your lip between your teeth, trying not to burst into another set of tears.

You had scared him?

You had managed to scare Aaron Hotchner.

A man who didn’t let anything slip. A man who was in between your legs, his hands splayed on your thighs. Holding you firmly, but not hurting you.

His words weighed in on you. You willed yourself to speak, but he cut you off.

Gently this time.

“I need you to let me protect you. When I say don’t, you do not go inside to meet the unsub, almost unarmed and with no backup”

“I can’t stand seeing you hurt.”

“Okay,” You said, voice sounding wary and fragile. Your vision was blurry with tears, and Aaron didn’t hesitate to bring you closer to him again.

“Shh, I’ve got you” He soothed, his large hand coming to rub soothing circles on your back.

“Let me take care of you tonight”

And you let him.

You let him help you into clean clothes, his clothes. As he tucked you into the bed, your hand darted to his wrist.

“Don’t go”

And instantly his eyes softened.

He shook his head, a small frown on his lips. Lying down beside you, he spoke against your temple,

“I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart. As long as you’re with me you’ll be just fine.”

That’s the last thing you remember. His gentle voice lulled you into a deep, much-needed sleep.

#Spotify #fanfic #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner comfort #criminal minds #fem!reader #reader insert #bau team #hoe 4 hotchner #hurt/comfort #agegap #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid might be watching #bau x reader #angst

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drewsctover · 29 days ago

Text

illicit affairs | smau au

dbf!joel miller x reader 𓈒 ⭒ ݁ .

synopsis .ᐟ . . . you've always had a little thing for joel — your dad's best friend. but that night — when he picks you up drunk from a party and stays with you until your dad gets back from the hospital — something changes. maybe it's the way he takes care of you. or maybe... you just stopped pretending.

warnings .ᐟ . . . age gap, social media au, curse words, fluffy but angst too, suggestive content, grief, alcohol use, some mature themes, english is not my first language so bear with me :)

chapters. 𓈒 ⭒ ݁ .

01. | 02. | 03. | 04. | 05. | 06. | 07. | 08. | 09. | 10. | [more to be added]

extras. 𓈒 ⭒ ݁ .

reader’s and joel’s ig profiles.

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vrtualchg · 15 days ago

Text

IN THE LAP OF EXCESS

he was sin in a suit. sharp jaw, sharper tongue, and a mouth full of trouble. she was too young, too bold, too curious. and she liked the way he looked at her—like he had no right to want her, but wanted her anyway. tony stark knew better. but that didn’t stop him from pulling her into his penthouse, sliding between her thighs like she was the last bad decision he’d ever make. maybe it should’ve been a mistake. but god, did it feel like power.

pairing:older!Tony Stark x younger!reader

genre: age gap, billionaire x intern, smutty tension, seduction at a party, mentor kink

tw: MDNI 18+, explicit sexual content, age gap (legal I SWEAR), power imbalance, morally gray behavior, filthy dialogue, whiskey-soaked tension, implied infidelity, dominant older man, “you’re fucking someone young enough to be your daughter”, degradation & praise

The same glinting sea of crystal flutes catching light like shattered stars. Tailored suits whispered against one another, threads stitched with old money and silent ambition. Diamond-drenched smiles flashed across the room, sharp enough to draw blood, and the air was perfumed with the unmistakable scent of obscene wealth—aged whiskey, designer leather, foreign cologne that lingered like a dare.

It wasn’t a party. It was a pageant of power. A mating ritual for the elite, where net worth replaced pheromones and laughter was just another form of warfare. Everyone dressed to impress, but more importantly—to intimidate. Sharks in silk. Jackals in Tom Ford.

Tony Stark had seen it all. Hell, he'd built the goddamn ballroom they were dancing in—metaphorically and otherwise.

He wore black Armani like sin, every seam tailored with surgical precision, his presence cutting through the noise like a scalpel. A living contradiction—grit polished to a mirror sheen. Charm and danger woven into flesh and fabric.

He moved through the crowd with lazy magnetism, trailed by whispers and second glances. A nod to a senator’s wife, who giggled like she was half her age. A smirk at a tech CEO who would sell his soul—and maybe already had—for a Stark Industries deal. Tony didn’t do handouts. Especially not to men who begged with champagne breath and damp palms.

The endless drone of shallow conversation eventually scraped against his nerves.

He peeled away, slipping toward the bar where a veteran bartender—one who’d weathered every era of Stark’s destruction and resurrection—poured before he arrived. No questions. Just ritual.

“You know what I like,” Tony muttered, voice low and rough—like gravel soaked in honey. The whiskey was served neat. Deep amber. A drink that tasted like legacy, guilt, and too many ghosts.

He had barely raised it to his lips when something shifted in his periphery.

A girl.

No. A woman—but only barely.

She stood out instantly. Not because she was trying to. Because she wasn’t. No designer logos clinging to her curves, no vulgar display of borrowed wealth. Just soft shadows and quiet confidence. A silhouette framed by the chaos, sipping red wine like she belonged, like she hadn’t just walked into the lion’s den with bare hands and bold eyes.

Tony blinked. Someone bring their daughter? Or worse—an underaged plus-one with daddy issues and a forged invitation.

He leaned casually against the bar, giving her a look that was too slow to be subtle, head tilted with feline curiosity.

Then she turned.

And fuck.

Pretty wasn’t the word. Dangerous was closer. Lipstick the color of blood and bad ideas. Eyes wide enough to get a man in trouble. She looked young. Too young. FBI-knock-on-your-door young. His libido sat up and took notice while his common sense muttered don’t be an idiot, thats a lawsuit waiting to happen.

But then she smiled. Cool. Unshaken.

“Do I have something on my face, or...?” she asked, lips curving like she already knew she did.

Even her voice had edge. Smooth with the tiniest bite. Like silk pulled tight over a blade.

Tony took a long sip, buying himself a second to recalibrate. “No. Just trying to figure out which chapter of the sorority handbook covers sneaking into billion-dollar parties.”

She laughed—honest and unpolished. Then bit her lip, and Tony nearly groaned.

“Sorry to disappoint,” she said. “No cult. No glitter. Just me.”

“Mm. You sure?” he drawled. “Because I’m getting heavy ‘freshman with a fake ID’ energy.”

“I’m twenty-one,” she replied, lifting her glass in mock indignation. “And I’m an intern. Not that I was invited.”

Tony blinked. Then laughed—a rich, unrestrained sound that turned heads.

“You’re seriously telling me—the guy who wrote the guest list—that you snuck in?”

She shrugged, unapologetic. “Figured if I was going to get thrown out, it might as well be by someone interesting.”

For a moment, he just stared. Admiration stirred, quiet and dangerous. She was clever. Sharp. Bold. The kind of girl who could accidentally undo a man—just by looking at him like that.

Jesus. His mind was already slipping. Lipstick smeared. Dress hiked. Those lips wrapped around his cock, sucking and milking him dry.

Focus, Stark. He sipped again, letting the burn snap him back to center.

Still, he leaned closer. Couldn't help it. His breath brushed her ear, his cologne thick in the air—wood, spice, and sin.

“You even old enough to be drinking?” he murmured, pretending it was a joke.

She met his gaze, calm and unblinking. “I told you. Twenty-one.”

“Right. And I’m just Tony,” he said, smoothly interrupting her before ‘Mr. Stark’ could leave her lips. “Call me that again and I’ll start looking around for my father.”

She laughed again, softer this time. It was dangerous. Because it wasn’t flirtation.

It was fun.

“What are you drinking?” he asked, shifting slightly closer, enough to catch the whisper of her perfume—sweet, delicate, but grounded. Not like the powdery clouds most girls drowned themselves in. It smelled like summer and secrets.

She held up her glass. “Not sure. Some old man gave it to me.”

Tony exhaled a sharp laugh, letting his head drop for a second.

“And you just took it?” he asked. “Christ. I don’t know if you’re brave or just stupid.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Why not both?”

He chuckled darkly, his gaze dropping to the neckline of her dress. Low. Elegant. Deceptively innocent.

She caught the look and smiled, slow and knowing. “He seemed pretty set on me taking it. And I hate being rude.”

Flirting like it was just another man—not Tony Stark. And that? That got under his skin in the best possible way.

So he stayed. Talked. Asked her name. Got her to laugh again—light, real, nothing like the false noises echoing around the ballroom. Topped off her glass every time it dipped below full. And eventually, when the conversation got too warm, when the looks got too long, he leaned in close and murmured:

“Follow me upstairs.”

Then he walked away.

No looking back. He didn’t have to.

She came.

Tony sank into the leather of his penthouse armchair, legs sprawled, glass hanging loosely from his fingers. The elevator pinged. He didn’t need to look.

“Took you long enough,” he muttered, voice husky with something heavier than alcohol. She stepped in, eyes wide as they took in the rich, restrained decadence—floor-to-ceiling windows, soft jazz humming from invisible speakers, the city sprawled out below like a conquered kingdom.

“Nice, huh?” he said, lifting his glass in a lazy toast.

She nodded, stepping between his knees.

His hand slid to her hip—warm, steady. He guided her down, slow, deliberate. “Sit,” he murmured.

She did. Settled over him. His hips shifted upward in welcome.

Her breath caught. Shaky. Barely audible. His smirk returned.

He set his glass aside, both hands now on her—roaming over hips, up her sides, beneath the fabric.

No bra.

Sweet. Fucking. Hell.

His palms found her chest, a perfect fit for his hands. He gave a slow, reverent squeeze.

“You’re pretty touchy,” she whispered, voice barely there.

“You want me to stop?” he asked, thumbs brushing across sensitive skin.

“No.”

She breathed it out, soft but certain, her breath ghosting over his lips just before they collided.

The kiss was not sweet. It was messy. Desperate. Teeth clashed, tongues tangled, and Tony groaned against her mouth as his hands roamed freely—palming her tits, thumbs brushing across hardened nipples under that dangerously low-cut dress.

“You playing a dangerous game, sweetheart,” he murmured against her lips, voice gravel and sin. “Coming up here. Sitting on my lap. Kissing me like that.”

“Who said I don’t like danger?” she whispered back, hips rolling subtly, just enough to make him hiss.

Tony’s grip tightened on her waist. “You don’t even know what danger is,” he growled.

She just smirked, lips slick, pupils blown. “Then show me.”

That snapped something loose in him. One big hand slid up to wrap around the back of her neck as he kissed her again, rougher this time, like he was trying to memorize her mouth with his own. His other hand stayed anchored to her hip, guiding her against the hard line of him beneath his trousers.

“You realize,” he muttered between kisses, voice low and dangerous, “you’re fucking someone old enough to be your father.”

She bit his lower lip, not gently. “You’re the one fucking someone young enough to be your daughter.”

That made him laugh—dark and amused. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, leaning back just enough to look at her. “You’ve got a mouth on you.”

“Isn’t that why you brought me up here?” she replied sweetly, rocking her hips again, slow and calculated.

Tony’s eyes darkened as he stared at her. “Careful,” he said, voice like velvet and broken rules. “You’re gonna make me do something reckless.”

“Maybe I want you to.”

That was all it took.

In one swift movement, he stood, hands gripping her thighs as he walked them both over to the massive bed like she weighed nothing. He tossed her down onto the silk sheets, watching her bounce once, hair a halo of temptation around her flushed face.

“Stay there,” he ordered, already undoing the buttons on his dress shirt with practiced efficiency. “Keep your hands to yourself. If you’re good, I’ll let you touch me.”

Her lip curled in challenge, but she didn’t move. Not yet.

Tony shrugged off the jacket and shirt, muscles cut and golden under the low light, his arc reactor casting a soft glow against his chest. He looked like sin wrapped in money and scars—older, yes. But powerful. Hungry. The kind of man who devoured girls like her for breakfast and never looked back. He crawled onto the bed like a fucking panther, slow and deliberate, settling between her legs. Her dress had hiked up high enough to reveal her thighs, smooth and soft and begging to be touched.

“I should feel bad about this,” he muttered, hands sliding under the hem of her dress, dragging it up her body inch by inch. “But I don’t.”

“You really don’t,” she breathed, arching into him as his fingers found the edge of her panties.

Tony grinned. “Nope. Not even a little. You came up here looking for trouble, sweetheart...”

He dipped down, mouth brushing the inside of her thigh, hot and wet.

“...And you fucking found it.”

Tony’s lips trailed fire down the inside of her thigh, teasing the bare skin exposed by that dangerously short dress, and she gasped—half from surprise, half from the sharp heat spreading low in her belly. His hands gripped her thighs like he was marking territory, thumbs stroking slow, deliberate patterns just above the fabric of her panties.

“God, you’re so fucking soft,” he murmured against her skin, voice husky and low. “You don’t even know what you’re doing to me, do you?”

She shivered under his touch, eyes dark and hungry, and Tony was already pulling those panties aside with a cocky smirk—because why waste time?

His tongue flicked out, teasing her folds, licking a wet stripe up her core, making her back arch off the sheets. She grabbed a fistful of his hair, tugging him closer, breath hitching as he sucked a harsh kiss right where she wanted him most.

“Stark...” she gasped, voice raw.

“It’s Tony,” he murmured against her, sliding two fingers inside her with a slow, torturous rhythm. “You’re twenty-one, and you’re already making me this desperate. It’s criminal.”

“Maybe I want you to be desperate,” she whispered, voice thick with want.

Tony chuckled darkly, fingers curling inside her, thumb circling her clit with expert precision. “Oh, sweetheart, you have no idea.”

The age between them? It was electric. Forbidden. Every touch, every kiss, every whispered word was a delicious, wicked violation.

He pulled back just long enough to unzip his pants, his cock springing free—hard, thick, and absolutely made for her. He leaned back in, aligning himself with a slow, deliberate slide that stole her breath away.

“You’re fucking someone old enough to be your father,” he said low, teeth grazing her ear, voice thick with lust and amusement.

“And you’re fucking someone young enough to be your daughter,” she shot back, biting his neck.

He slammed into her then, slow at first, savoring every inch, every gasp, every curve that clung to him. She clenched around him, a mix of shock and ecstasy tightening her muscles.

Tony’s hands roamed, gripping her hips, pulling her flush, hips snapping with a cruel kind of rhythm. “You’re mine tonight.”

Her nails raked down his back, breath ragged and wild. “Make me forget everything but you.”

The room filled with the sound of skin slapping, heavy breaths, whispered curses, and the delicious tension of two bodies out of sync with the world — perfectly, dangerously in tune with each other.

This has BEEEEN sitting in my drafts, and I thought I’d let it out of its shackles while I work on the part two of the Draco story 😆 its exam season too so bare with me💔

#tony stark #tony stark smut #tony stark x reader #agegap #I don’t know what this is #the avengers

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venusmotel · 9 days ago

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“five laps” 🩸 coach toji fushiguro x fem!reader

cw : coach x student dynamic, period blood, nonconsensual touching, coercion, grooming, manipulation, power imbalance, psychological conditioning, humiliation, dubcon, implied masturbation, emotionally disturbing themes, vulnerable reader, slow burn escalation, age!gap

summary : you were just supposed to run five laps. but your body gave out before your will did cramping, bleeding, humiliated under the sun while coach fushiguro stood there and watched.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀.ೃ࿔* 𐙚. ݁₊⋆❀˖° °❀.ೃ࿔* °❀.ೃ࿔*

you’re on your fifth lap around the track, and it feels like your lungs are about to collapse. your legs are giving out, your chest is burning, and the sharp pulse of cramps has been stabbing through your lower belly for the last fifteen minutes but he won’t let you stop.

coach fushiguro’s voice cuts through the heat like a blade.

“pick it up. you run like that in an actual game, you’ll get eaten alive.”

he’s standing under the shade of the fence with his arms crossed over his chest. tall. broad. black sunglasses hiding his eyes, whistle hanging from his neck, forearms thick and veined beneath the tight stretch of his dark athletic tee. you can see the outline of his pectorals, the taper of his waist, the sweat already forming on his temples despite the way he hasn’t moved. his joggers cling low around his hips, worn and black and pushed up just enough to show the size of his calves. thick. muscled. heavy.

he looks like a man who used to fight. like a man who still could.

you’ve heard stories. the other girls whisper about him all the time. ex-fighter. street stuff. illegal circuits. gambling problems. dropped out of the system. picked up a wife, dropped her too. has a kid, somewhere. the school keeps him because he gets results. and because no one really wants to be the one to fire him.

you knew he was intense. but you didn’t know he’d be this cruel.

“coach,” you gasp, trying to slow, grabbing your side. “i told you, i really can’t today..“

“you think anyone gives a shit when you’re on the field?” he snaps. “what, you think cramps are a reason to walk? this how you want your opponents to see you? holding your belly like a little girl?”

your face flushes. with heat, with pain, with embarrassment. he says it loud enough that some of the others hear, and your stomach twists.

you keep running. you have to.

but it happens before you even make it halfway around again. warm. thick. slow. blooming in your underwear and seeping out fast through the thin material of your compression shorts. it’s not a light stain, either it’s heavy, visible, unmistakable. your thighs feel wet. your legs slow.

you stop mid-step and just stand there, chest heaving.

when you glance down and see the blood soaking into the light grey fabric, you want to disappear. your skin goes cold. the sun is still beating down on you, but all you feel is the pulse in your ears and the heat behind your eyes.

“what now?” his voice again. impatient.

you don’t answer. you can’t.

his steps are heavy when he walks up behind you. when he finally sees it, when his gaze drops down to your thighs, there’s a pause.

“…shit.”

you don’t look at him.

“locker room. go.”

your throat is tight. your vision is hot with tears and sweat and humiliation. you walk fast, head down, clutching the hem of your shirt to cover the blood but knowing it’s useless.

the locker room is empty. you strip your shorts off quickly and throw them in the sink, turning the water on cold, scrubbing the stain in silence. your panties are soaked. you didn’t bring anything. you didn’t expect it to be this bad.

you’re still trembling when you sit down. the locker room is quiet, echoing with your breath, the ticking pipes behind the wall, the drip of the faucet from where your shorts hang heavy in the sink. the towel clings to your thighs, damp with sweat and blood and heat, and your legs stick to the wood of the bench every time you shift. you don’t have anything else to wear. you don’t have the energy to care.

your stomach hurts. your back hurts. your face still burns with humiliation.

and toji is sitting right next to you.

he doesn’t speak at first. just leans forward with his elbows on his knees, forearms thick and veined, one of his hands lazily hanging between his thighs. he smells like his car air freshener, sweat, cologne that’s too faint to be fresh anymore. his shirt sticks to the shape of his back, damp with heat from earlier, but he doesn’t look uncomfortable. doesn’t look like a man who just spent half the afternoon yelling at you for being slow. he looks relaxed. like he belongs here. like this is nothing.

you hate that it makes you feel so small.

the silence in the locker room isn’t real silence. there’s still the buzz of the overhead lights, the steady drip of the faucet you forgot to turn off, the low, distant creak of pipes somewhere behind the walls. but to you, it feels deafening. like the air itself has gone heavy. thick with something you can’t name. your skin is clammy beneath the towel, sweat drying sticky between your thighs, and your stomach aches with the slow, mean pulse of cramps that haven’t let up since you started running. your legs are trembling beneath the bench, not from fear, but from sheer exhaustion. the kind of aching that makes you want to curl up on the tile and just lie there until someone turns off the lights and locks the door for the night.

you’re seated at the very edge of the bench, barely perched, towel pulled tight around your hips and upper thighs, and nothing underneath except a thin pad that already feels like it’s sliding out of place. your shorts still bloodied, still damp hang limply over the edge of the sink a few feet away, dripping diluted pink water into the drain. your panties are damp too. from sweat, from blood, from the humid weight of everything happening at once. you’ve never felt more raw, more visible, and more exposed in your life, and yet you sit frozen next to a man who hasn’t taken his eyes off you since he sat down.

toji isn’t speaking. he hasn’t spoken in nearly a full minute now. just breathing slow, the steady rise and fall of his broad chest drawing your attention no matter how hard you try not to look. his arms are folded loosely, resting against the heavy spread of his thighs, but there’s nothing relaxed about the way he’s positioned. the weight of him makes the bench creak slightly beneath you both his thick legs opened wide, one elbow propped on a bent knee, the other arm draped low with his fingers loosely hanging between his legs, thumb grazing the inner seam of his joggers. he’s still in his tight black tee from earlier, the material clinging to the swell of his chest, faint sweat stains darkening the collar, the underarms. his shoulders stretch the sleeves to their limit. there’s a vein bulging in his forearm, twitching occasionally. you can see the outline of every muscle, even in this shitty fluorescent light. he’s not trying to impress anyone he just looks like that. all the time.

he shifts slightly, the sole of his foot dragging against the tile. you don’t look at him directly, but you feel it the deliberate motion, the tension in his thighs, the sudden pressure of silence wrapping tighter around your throat. he leans forward just enough to make the towel around your waist feel too small, too thin, and you tighten your grip on it without realizing. the edges of your fingernails dig into the rough cotton, your knuckles tight, your body tense with a shame you don’t know how to carry. you can’t sit normally. the pad’s thick between your legs, and every time you shift, you can feel it slide. your inner thighs are wet, sticky, and cold. you keep thinking you still smell the blood.

“you’re shivering,” he says eventually, not looking at you when he says it. his voice is low. casual. so casual it makes your skin crawl. “bench is cold, huh? that wood doesn’t give you much.”

you don’t answer. your throat is too tight to speak. your fingers squeeze harder around the towel.

he shifts again, just slightly, his knee brushing yours. it’s not subtle. he doesn’t apologize. doesn’t pull away. just lets the contact stay.

“i know you don’t wanna talk right now,” he murmurs after another beat. “probably feelin’ like shit. sore. humiliated. mad at me. all of it.” his voice is smooth, almost warm, like he’s offering sympathy but the words are sharp enough to cut. “but you didn’t quit. not even when you bled through your shorts. you kept going.”

he finally looks at you then. head tilted slightly, those dark eyes dragging over your profile with the weight of something heavy and unreadable.

“that’s strength. you hear me?”

you nod, slowly. like you’ve been trained to.

he exhales softly. leans back a little, but not enough to create space. the air between you feels like it’s shrinking. hotter. thicker.

“most girls would’ve cried. curled up. begged to leave. but you didn’t. you ran until you couldn’t anymore. you sat here covered in blood, and you’re still here.” his voice dips lower, gravel in it now. “makes me think you can handle more than you think.”

his hand twitches. you notice. barely. but it’s there. a slow shift in his lap. a slight spread of his fingers against the stretch of fabric between his thighs. it’s not obvious. not blatant. but your stomach drops all the same.

he’s hard.

you don’t move. your breath is shallow now. every inch of you is buzzing. raw.

he turns slightly on the bench, facing you more now, and his knee presses tighter against yours.

“you ever had someone tell you how proud they were of you for just surviving?” he asks quietly.

you shake your head.

he clicks his tongue.

“that’s a damn shame.”

his hand moves.

not to you. not yet.

to himself.

a slow shift. a palm dragging along the front of his joggers. adjusting. pressing.

you pretend not to see it.

he pretends you didn’t notice.

“you don’t need to feel embarrassed, y’know,” he says, that same soft, falsely kind tone back in his voice. “about your body. about bleeding. about sitting here like this.”

you say nothing.

“you’re just a girl. your body does what it needs. and i’m not a fuckin’ teenage boy. i don’t flinch at a little blood.”

he laughs low under his breath, and you want to cry from how calm he sounds.

“i’m a grown man. you understand?”

you nod again, barely.

“and that means i can be here with you. like this. no problem.”

he places his hand beside your thigh. not touching you. not quite. but it’s there now. heavy. warm.

you still don’t breathe.

then, softly, he mutters:

“you want me to wait with you ‘til your shorts dry?”

you nod. again. you don’t know why. maybe because you’re too tired to argue. maybe because you think he’s being kind. maybe because you want it to mean something other than what it does.

his fingers brush against your outer thigh. just lightly. the edge of the towel.

and he sighs like he’s been holding something in for hours.

“you don’t have to say anything,” he murmurs. “i’ll just sit here. stay close. keep you warm.”

his hand lingers.

he doesn’t move his hand. not entirely. just lets it rest there. fingers spread wide beside the slope of your thigh, barely grazing the towel that’s clinging to your skin. the fabric is damp now from the heat of your body, your sweat, the airless locker room, and you can feel it clinging tighter with every shift you make every small adjustment that causes the pad to tug between your legs, sticky and thick and awful, like a reminder you can’t escape. you try to keep still. to keep your legs together. but you’re aching. not just sore worn out. like something deep in your hips has gone soft and hollow and needs rest. needs warmth.

he can tell.

“you’re really tense,” he says, not unkindly. his voice is calm now. lower. like you’ve already passed some invisible test and he’s rewarding you for surviving. “your muscles are all locked up. you cramp worse like that, you know?”

his fingers slide. not over the towel under it. just enough to brush your skin. your bare thigh. the edge of your hip. slow and light, like it’s unintentional. like it’s an accident you shouldn’t comment on. like it would be rude of you to notice.

you flinch. but you don’t say anything.

he hums softly. doesn’t stop.

“could massage it out,” he says, fingers tracing lightly in slow circles now. “if it helps.”

you shake your head. your voice barely rises. “it’s okay.”

he nods. doesn’t argue. just lets his hand drift a little higher on your leg, settling there again. warmer now. more present.

he’s still palming himself when he thinks you’re not watching. slow movements under his joggers, lazy pressure against the bulge you won’t let yourself look at, but feel all the same. you can hear the shift of his weight as he adjusts it. you can hear his breath deepen just slightly when your thighs part a little wider from the way you’re sitting.

he’s not in a hurry. that’s what makes it worse.

he’s letting you feel the pressure. letting you feel him waiting.

“you were really fuckin’ strong today,” he says after a moment, like he’s picking the thought out of his own head. “ran ‘til your legs gave out. bled through your fuckin’ shorts. sat on this bench in your panties and kept your mouth shut.” his voice dips, drops thick into the space between your ears. “you didn’t cry. not once.”

your heart skips.

he shifts closer. just slightly. the side of his body brushing yours.

“i’ve coached a lotta girls. none of them took it like you did.”

his hand lifts.

you think he’s going to pull away.

but instead, he reaches for the edge of the towel slowly, deliberately and adjusts it like he’s being helpful. like he’s covering you better. but his fingers brush the underside of your breast as he does it. just for a second. slow. padded. thick.

you gasp, barely.

he doesn’t react.

“you cold?” he murmurs again, softer now. his breath is against your cheek.

you nod, just to say something. to fill the space.

he lifts his arm and lets it settle around your shoulders.

“told you not to sit bare on the bench. here.”

and then gently, slowly he pulls you sideways until your body leans into his chest.

you tense.

“it’s okay,” he says instantly, warm breath brushing your ear. “relax. it’s just me.”

his hand is heavy where it rests on your waist. his thumb moves in small, slow circles just beneath the towel. and you can feel the outline of his cock now. pressed against his thigh. solid. hard. slow pulses through the fabric like he’s savoring the way your body settles into him.

you whisper something. you don’t know what.

he tilts his head.

“mm?”

you swallow hard. “coach…”

his arm tightens around your shoulders.

“shh,” he says. “you’re okay. just let me hold you for a bit.”

you stop talking.

he smells like sweat and soap and something warm underneath it all. not cologne just man. salt and heat and clean laundry and his own skin. and it’s worse than if he reeked. because it makes him feel safe.

his other hand moves to the edge of the towel again.

you don’t stop him.

he lifts it slightly. just enough to expose the top curve of your thigh. your hip. the crease where the pad begins to peek between your legs. and his hand hovers there. doesn’t touch. just waits.

you can feel him looking.

he exhales like he’s trying not to groan.

“you don’t even realize how fuckin’ strong you are,” he murmurs, his lips almost brushing your hair now. “sitting here all quiet, bleeding into a towel, like it’s nothing. any guy who gets to see you like this should be fucking grateful.”

his hand finally settles high. just beneath your ribs.

and starts to slide up.

you freeze.

but he says it again.

“relax.”

and you do.

you don’t know why.

but you do.

his hand settles beneath your ribs, large and warm and firm, and for a moment he just leaves it there palm open, fingers splayed, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your side. you’re too aware of your own body now. the curve of your waist. the thin towel clinging wetly to your back. the blood between your thighs growing colder by the minute. you’re exhausted, sore, half-naked, pressed into his chest like a child too tired to think. and you can feel him shifting underneath you.

his thighs are thick beneath yours. steady. like stone. and the bulge straining inside his joggers is unmistakable now solid against your hip, twitching subtly every time you breathe. he hasn’t said anything about it. hasn’t drawn attention to it. but he doesn’t move you away, either. doesn’t flinch. he just lets it be there, pulsing under your body like it belongs. like he earned it.

his fingers start to move again.

this time upward.

slow. slow enough to convince you it’s nothing. that it’s casual. his palm brushes the bottom curve of your breast, the edge still hidden beneath the towel and pauses there.

you suck in a breath.

he exhales. slow. deep.

“you’re alright,” he says gently, like he’s calming something in you. “you’re still shaking.”

you try to deny it, but you are. not just from the cold anymore. from him. from how close he is. from how heavy he feels on every part of your body, even the parts he hasn’t touched yet.

his thumb brushes the underside of your breast.

you flinch.

he presses a little firmer.

“you’re sore here too, huh?” he asks, low and thick in your ear. “from the run?”

you don’t answer.

“you always tense up in your chest when you’re cramping,” he murmurs. “tightens the whole area.”

his palm cups your breast fully now.

no more pretending.

he does it slowly like he’s helping. like this is about relief. like this is normal. like a coach massaging pain from a muscle. his fingers sink in slightly, firm but not cruel, just heavy enough to make you feel it in your spine.

you exhale sharply.

he leans in closer.

“feels better, doesn’t it?”

you can’t speak.

“i got you,” he says again, softer now. “just breathe. let go.”

his other hand moves. slides down your side. brushes the edge of the towel again. he shifts you on his lap slightly adjusts your position and the pad between your legs presses tighter. it shifts, slips, catches against your soaked panties. and you gasp just a little from the sensation. the pressure.

Toji’s breath hitches.

he moves behind you, adjusting again, and his cock presses firmer against your hip.

he doesn’t hide it now.

his hand squeezes your breast again. slower now. he’s not checking for soreness anymore. he’s groping you. playing with the weight in his palm like it belongs there. and he says nothing about it.

the towel starts to slip.

you tighten your grip on it.

he hums softly.

“don’t hide,” he whispers. “you’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. your body’s beautiful.”

he presses a kiss to your temple.

“soft little thing. stronger than all of them, and still so goddamn soft.”

his thumb drags across your nipple, slow and deliberate through the thin fabric of your sports bra.

you whimper.

barely.

he hears it.

he doesn’t stop.

“just a little more,” he says, his voice syrup now. “just wanna help you relax.”

and you believe him.

or maybe you want to.

either way you let him keep going.

his hand doesn’t leave your chest. it cups you fully now, warm and large and steady, his thumb grazing the slope of your breast in slow, lazy sweeps that blur the line between comfort and possession. he holds you like it’s normal, like you’re just sore and he’s just helping, like a hand on your tits is the natural follow-up to pain. your body is stiff against him, spine pulled tight like a branch about to snap, but he keeps petting. keeps squeezing. his hand is heavy and sure, dragging against sore skin and swollen tissue, like he’s soothing something broken. like he’s done this before. like he has the right.

his other hand doesn’t move either. it stays low on your side, curled around your waist, his forearm locking you to his chest like he doesn’t even want you to realize you’re trapped. you can feel the shape of him pressed beneath you hard now, thick and undeniable, the pulse of his cock grinding slow into the underside of your ass each time your legs shift. he doesn’t hide it. doesn’t flinch. he just lets you feel it. lets you sit right there like it means nothing. like you’re supposed to feel how turned on he is. like he earned it.

“let me get this off,” he says suddenly, voice close to your ear, his fingertips slipping just under the tight hem of your sports bra. “probably too tight.”

your breath hitches, heart catching on the panic in your throat. your hands move, instinctive, grabbing his wrist as your body arches away from him slightly.

“wait, coach..”

but he cuts you off before your voice even builds. doesn’t snap, doesn’t argue. just sinks deeper into that low, warm tone that makes everything worse. indulgent. slow. syrup-thick.

“hey… it’s okay. i’m just helpin’. period makes your chest sore, right? i heard that’s real bad sometimes. ’s nothing. not weird.”

his fingers slide higher. he’s not pushing now. just moving slow along the line of your ribs, like he’s mapping where the pain lives. his breath is warm against your cheek, and you feel him nod behind you like this really is about cramps. like he believes it.

“just wanna take a look. help you loosen up.”

you hesitate. you hate how your body softens. hate how his voice slides into you like heat. everything in you wants to say no. to flinch. to pull away. but he holds you steady, and you’re tired, and sore, and bleeding, and so damn hot, and you don’t want to be touched but you don’t want to fight either. his hand still rubs gentle circles into your side. he kisses your cheek like it’s nothing.

“trust me, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

and you do.

he tugs the fabric up slow. slow enough to give you time to stop him, which makes it worse. slow enough to make it feel like a choice, like you gave it to him.

the sports bra peels from your skin with a wet, sticky sound, sweat clinging beneath it, heat trapped in the cotton. your tits spill free, nipples already flushed and tight from the ache, and the cold air hits them like a slap. your arms cross your chest before you can stop yourself, a useless reflex, shame pouring down your back as you feel your own nipples harden and betray you.

toji groans low behind you. not dramatic. not fake. it’s the sound a man makes when something in his hands fits too well.

“fuck,” he mutters, one hand already sliding back to your chest. “look at that.”

you turn your face away. eyes squeeze shut. your breath is hot and trapped behind your lips, and you feel the panic live behind your teeth but no words come.

he cups one breast in his palm. then the other. both full, soft, trembling in his grip. he doesn’t just hold them. he plays. he bounces them gently, like he’s weighing the change in mass. his thumbs roll under the nipples, grazing the sore parts, dragging across the skin with slow, greedy pressure.

“y’know,” he says, half-laughing under his breath, “i always thought girls were prettiest on their periods.”

your whole body goes still.

he leans closer. not threatening. not harsh. soft. calm. like he’s telling you something intimate.

“get all warm. all swollen. tits so fucking soft and cute,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your cheek as he speaks, dragging low toward your jaw. “so perky. so bouncy.”

he gives them another light shake in his palms, groans again when they jiggle for him, nipples flushed, skin damp and puffy from heat and hormones.

“fuckin’ adorable.”

you whisper his name. not loud. not pleading. just quiet and confused and wrong. your voice doesn’t sound like yours.

his thumb rolls one nipple. slow. steady. his hand cups the weight like it belongs there.

“you feel that? how tight you are right now? that’s blood workin’ through you, sweetheart. makes everything softer. prettier.”

he kisses your cheek again. lower now. near the jawline. closer to your mouth.

“not gross. not ever.”

then his hand moves.

down.

across your belly.

slow.

comforting.

like a man who’s about to check if your pain has gone away.

his fingers drag the towel down slightly. you feel the shift of fabric as your bare stomach tightens, as your thighs twitch and your whole body wants to close.

but he doesn’t stop.

his hand slides between your legs.

and then he cups the pad. full and firm. right over your underwear. right over your cunt.

you jerk. flinch. instinctively.

but his arm around your waist tightens.

he doesn’t let you go.

his voice doesn’t change.

“still hurtin’ down here?” he asks gently, like he’s checking in.

his hand stays there. warm. spread wide. like that’s a normal place to rest it. like it’s part of the treatment.

“cramps still bad?”

you don’t respond.

your body is locked.

he palms you lightly. through the pad. it’s soaked now. you feel it drag against your folds with every breath.

“shouldn’t have pushed you that hard today,” he murmurs. “that’s on me.”

he rocks you. gently. his thigh shifts. your hips move with it.

your head spins.

“but you took it. like a good girl.”

his hand rubs.

slow.

gentle.

like he means it.

and he tells you again, voice soft, steady, the same line he always says when he’s doing something he shouldn’t.

“i’m just helpin’.”

he doesn’t take his hand away.

he holds you like that, fingers spread wide across the thick swell of your pad, palm cupping the blood-soaked cotton like it’s nothing, like he’s proud of it. the heat of him sinks into you through the damp fabric, heavier with each pass of his hand, rubbing so slow and easy you almost forget how much he’s touching. his thumb stays near the top, barely grazing the edge of the pad, and the pressure is light but it’s there. enough to make your thighs twitch when he catches too close to where it throbs.

he feels it.

and moves his hand in soft little circles.

“bet it still aches,” he says, voice low and steady against your ear. “always worse at night.”

you nod once. it’s barely a movement. your head is down, eyes half-closed, the weight of exhaustion sitting heavy in your shoulders. you want to go home. shower. lie down. pretend none of this happened.

but you’re still on his lap. still naked under the towel. your tits are out and your panties are sticking and the cotton between your legs is soaked through, and toji’s hand is right there. warm. steady. comforting.

too comforting.

he’s still got your thigh in one hand and your waist in the other, holding you still, keeping you open. your legs rest over his and you can feel the thick press of his thigh between them now, just beneath the pad. every time he shifts, it rocks up into the heat of your cunt.

“you’re strong, baby,” he says, almost like he’s talking to himself. “fuckin’ strong.”

his hand moves again. back to your chest. he cups one tit, slow and warm, bouncing it gently in his palm.

“pushed through a full run. bled through your shorts. didn’t cry once. just came back here, stripped down, and sat like this. like a fuckin’ champ.”

he gives your nipple a soft roll between his thumb and forefinger, and your body jerks.

“that’s what i mean,” he breathes. “girls don’t get enough credit for this shit. nobody sees how fuckin’ beautiful you are like this.”

his other hand returns to your cunt. not between the panties, not yet. just on top of them. full and firm. he presses slightly harder this time, grinding the pad against your folds like he’s trying to soothe the pressure. you feel how wet it is. how warm the cotton’s gotten. how it shifts against you when he rubs in little circles.

his voice lowers.

“you ever have someone take care of you like this before?”

you don’t answer.

“nah. i know you haven’t. nobody sees how sweet you are. nobody notices how soft you get when you’re hurt. i do.”

he rubs slower now.

“i do, i see it every time.”

he lifts the towel just enough to look down at your lap, at the small red stain soaking into the fabric, the wet press of the pad against the crotch of your underwear.

his voice drops again.

“you’re so fuckin’ cute like this. don’t even know it.”

his fingers drift lower. not inside. just grazing the edge. not yet.

“i’ll wait ‘til your shorts are dry,” he says softly. “just sit with me a little longer. let me help.”

he kisses your jaw.

his cock pulses under you.

and you sit there. barely breathing. bleeding into his hand.

letting him rub.

because his voice is so warm.

and you’re tired.

his fingers dip down again. two of them grazing along the side of the pad, following the edge where the blood stopped soaking. he touches so soft it barely registers but it does. the motion presses the cotton closer to your skin, shifting it deeper into the heat of your cunt, dragging the fabric across the throb.

“does it feel like it’s leaking through?” he asks gently, thumb stroking along the side of your thigh. “couldn’t tell from the front.”

you shake your head. your mouth stays closed. you don’t know what to say.

his hand moves again. under the towel. full palm pressing into your lower belly, the other staying between your legs.

“mind spreading for me, baby?”

you flinch.

“just wanna check the back. it’s probably climbing up. happens when you sit too long.”

you don’t respond. your hands tighten on the towel.

he kisses your jaw again. his voice lower. warmer.

“c’mon. just for a sec.”

you shift.

your thighs open slightly.

he hums.

“there you go.”

his fingers dip between, soft, slow, spreading the backs of your legs until the pad is fully visible between the round press of your ass cheeks, the cotton dark where it’s soaked deepest, clinging to the center seam of your panties. it’s almost coming off, tilted to the side. like it shifted from all the rubbing.

he breathes out low.

his hand stays on the inside of your thigh, fingers rubbing lazy circles.

his fingers slide lower. two of them brushing along the elastic edge of your panties, right where they press into the top of your inner thigh. he rubs there for a moment, slow and thoughtless, like he’s just making room to check but he doesn’t stop.

his voice dips low beside your ear, breath warm.

“lemme just…”

he trails off. the words don’t finish. like he’s so focused he forgets to lie.

your thighs twitch as his fingers slip beneath the fabric. he curls them just under the edge, lifts it away from your skin slightly, then slides the waistband down an inch. the pad shifts with it, dragged sideways with a sticky sound, clinging wet between your folds. you flinch.

but he keeps going.

he tugs the whole strip of fabric gently to the side—panties and pad at once pulling them off-center, fully baring the curve of your inner thigh, the start of your pussy. you feel air hit the blood-slicked heat there. the mess. the shame. and worst of all, his breath when he looks.

he stares for a beat. silent.

then hums, voice thick and low.

“yeah,” he murmurs. “leakin’.”

you go still. your hands grip the towel tighter, fists curling, nails digging into the fabric. but you don’t say anything. your mouth is dry. your heart won’t slow down.

his fingers trace lower. right where the edge of the pad has left a faint red line across your skin. a streak of blood that smeared against your thigh. it’s not dripping. not fresh. just stained. and somehow that makes it worse.

“you didn’t feel that?” he says softly, brushing the mark with the back of his knuckle. “been bleedin’ through this whole time.”

he strokes again, higher now, finger sliding dangerously close to the crease where your lips begin. he doesn’t touch you there, not quite but you feel how close he is. how badly he wants to.

“poor thing. no wonder you were so quiet.”

he tugs the pad further aside. it’s still stuck to your panties, but tilted now, shifted out of place so the soft part of your cunt is exposed underneath, just barely visible between the cotton folds.

his breath thickens.

“look at you.”

his fingers stay on your thigh, rubbing circles like it calms you, like this is something he’s doing for your benefit.

“gonna need to change that one,” he says quietly. “not doin’ much now.”

he doesn’t move to help. doesn’t offer another.

he just keeps looking.

his hand slides back to the waistband, gripping your panties in one fist, tugging them a little tighter to the side so the cotton cuts against your thigh and leaves your pussy open to the air.

“still bleedin’,” he whispers, more to himself than to you.

his thumb slides between your thighs, stopping just above your clit, pressing into the skin without shame. just holding.

“you’re still so warm.”

and then, finally, he leans back a little.

“want me to help clean it?”

he holds you still for a moment. just breathes. his hand between your legs, thumb resting gently above your clit, the pad tugged to the side and your panties clinging wet between your cheeks. you can feel the blood cooling now. feel your own heat against the air. feel the way his thigh is still flexed under you, cock throbbing through the thick cotton of his sweats.

then he shifts.

his hands slide to your waist, warm and sure, and he lifts you slightly just enough to turn your body. he moves slow, like he’s being gentle with something hurt, something breakable. he lays you back across the bench, the towel half slipping down your chest, your bare skin sticking faintly to the cool wood beneath you.

your back arches slightly on instinct. your legs curl in.

he doesn’t let you close them.

his hand slides between your knees, thumb pressing lightly until they part. his voice comes close to your ear again, soft and simple.

“lay back for me.”

you do.

“good girl.”

he moves to the end of the bench, crouching low between your spread legs. the angle shifts everything. your hips tilt forward. your thighs open wider. the pad now hanging uselessly off to the side, panties twisted and soaked, your cunt spread open and quiet under the fluorescent lights of the empty locker room.

he just looks for a moment. doesn’t speak. doesn’t blink.

and then his voice comes, calm and level, a little quieter.

“why aren’t you sayin’ anything, sweetheart?”

you blink slowly, eyes on the ceiling.

“i don’t know.”

his hand presses your thigh down again, making you open wider.

“you always get quiet like this?”

you nod once. voice steady.

“sometimes.”

he hums.

“not when you’re with me though.”

his gaze lingers between your legs, and he reaches for the towel draped across your waist, folding it carefully in one hand. he dips the edge down, pressing it gently between your thighs.

“tell me what you’re feelin’ right now.”

you swallow, voice low.

“tired.”

he smiles faintly.

“mm. what else?”

the towel rubs a little deeper. slow back and forth between your folds, wiping the blood gently, dragging against swollen skin. the pressure isn’t firm. but it’s enough.

“warm.”

“where?”

“my stomach.”

he presses the towel higher, over your pubic bone, thumb slipping close to the top of your slit.

“down there too?”

“yeah.”

he moves slower. deliberate now. the towel folds tighter. his fingers press through the fabric as he wipes, nudging the lips of your pussy apart just enough to see what he’s cleaning.

“what about here?” he says softly, rubbing right along the crease. “still ache?”

you exhale, slow and flat.

“a little.”

his voice gets quieter.

“do you want me to keep cleanin’?”

you stare at the ceiling. breathing steady.

“yes.”

and that’s all he needs.

he folds the towel in half again, eyes never leaving your cunt. the blood is sticky now, clinging in streaks along your lips, your inner thighs, the curve under your pussy where it dripped and dried. he presses the fresh cloth between your legs and wipes you slow, from the back of your slit to the front, dragging upwards in one long, soaking line.

and he groans under his breath.

“fuck.”

his hand shakes slightly.

“you’re so fuckin’ pretty down here.”

his fingers don’t use the towel anymore.

it’s been set aside, forgotten at the end of the bench. his palm is bare now, two fingers pressed to your cunt, sliding slow between the folds like he’s checking for bruises. he doesn’t go inside. doesn’t stroke your clit. he just drags his fingers up the soaked seam, from the curve near your ass all the way to the top of your slit slow, steady, with the same deliberate rhythm he uses when stretching after a workout. like this is part of your cooldown. like this is normal.

his fingers press firmer into your thigh, spreading your legs slightly wider as he shifts forward on the bench. the towel’s half-fallen now, twisted somewhere near your hip, your cunt exposed under the harsh locker room lights panties pulled to the side, pad soaked and tilted, blood streaked down your folds and inner thighs, tacky and dark.

he breathes slow. deep. you can hear it.

“just gonna clean you up,” he murmurs, like it’s a kindness.

his thumb brushes just beside the mess, dragging a faint line into the skin of your thigh.

then his hand slides up, palm dragging over your belly again.

you’re still warm there. your skin soft and flushed from the heat, your muscles taut from the cramps and from how long you’ve been sitting open like this.

he moves slow. deliberate.

one hand on your lower stomach, steady and grounding, the other slipping between your thighs again with no hesitation.

he palms the pad. presses down.

you jerk. not enough to stop him. just a reflex.

“still so full,” he mutters, like he’s impressed.

his fingers hook under the waistband of your panties now.

he peels them gently to the side, dragging the damp cotton down your thigh, just far enough to see all of you.

the pad sticks for a second wet, stubborn, saturated with blood.

he pulls it free. it makes a soft, tacky sound.

you flinch again.

he holds it up between two fingers for a beat, stares at the deep red bloom soaked into the center.

“you didn’t even tell me,” he says softly. “you just kept runnin’ through this.”

he tosses the pad into the trash behind him.

then he turns back to you.

and settles his palm between your thighs again.

bare now. nothing left between your skin and his.

your cunt is soaked.

blood. sweat. the mess of the day.

your lips are sticky, soft, parted slightly from the way your legs have been open too long.

you can feel it all.

and now he does too.

his hand cups you. full. warm.

he exhales slow.

“fuck,” he says.

and starts to rub.

slow circles.

not over your clit. not inside. just pressure broad, heavy palm dragging along the whole heat of your pussy like he’s checking for tension.

the smear of blood under his hand leaves streaks.

he spreads it.

down. up. again.

you gasp once. quietly.

he doesn’t stop.

“don’t worry about the mess,” he says under his breath. “this is normal. this is what a body does.”

his voice is soft. steady.

his hand rubs again.

and again.

you want to close your legs.

you don’t.

he presses a little harder.

your hips rise just slightly.

your breath catches.

“cramps worse now?”

he says it like a real question. like he doesn’t feel your body twitch under his hand.

you nod once. barely.

his thumb presses lower. not on your clit just beneath.

“mm. should’ve known. blood this thick… probably backed up.”

he shifts.

his fingers slide down again.

then, without warning, he slips two fingers between your lips shallow, not deep. just enough to feel the heat.

he groans low in his throat.

your eyes squeeze shut.

“you’re swollen,” he murmurs. “poor baby.”

he strokes you there. inside your folds. slow and soft, not pushing in, just parting you gently.

his fingers are soaked immediately.

you can feel it.

you know what’s on his skin.

and he doesn’t flinch.

“been sitting here so long. all of this buildin’ up. you didn’t even notice, did you?”

his fingers rub slow, dragging the mess through your slit in lazy, thoughtful strokes.

your voice is barely a whisper.

“coach…”

he doesn’t stop.

“i know. you’re tired. this ain’t how you wanna be touched.”

his thumb presses to your hipbone.

“but it’s how your body needs to be touched right now. just let me take care of you.”

his hand moves lower again.

his fingers press to your entrance.

not inside.

just resting.

he breathes heavy.

“you feel how warm that is?”

he drags the tip of his middle finger through the mess again, blood slick and thin now that it’s been warmed by air and motion.

“this ain’t dirty,” he says firmly. “this is natural. beautiful. strong.”

he strokes again.

your thighs twitch.

you swallow a sound that nearly leaves your throat.

“you’re bein’ so good,” he murmurs.

his voice lowers.

“lettin’ me help like this.”

he cups you one more time. full, slow, steady.

holds it there.

no more rubbing. just heat. pressure. presence.

you can feel the shape of his palm against every part of your cunt.

he leans in slightly.

“you don’t even know how proud i am of you.”

his breath is warm against your cheek.

“you bled through your fuckin’ shorts,” he whispers.

“and still made me hard.”

you don’t breathe.

his hand shifts again.

moves up.

over your belly.

then to your chest.

he cups one breast. slow. heavy. full-handed.

and says it again.

“strongest girl i’ve ever coached.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀.ೃ࿔* 𐙚. ݁₊⋆❀˖° °❀.ೃ࿔* °❀.ೃ࿔*

hi, angels. i know i disappeared for a while i needed a break to breathe, and i didn’t want to post anything half-done or soulless. thank u for still being here. thank u for waiting.

this piece is quiet, sick, slow, and heavy. it’s for the girls who like tension that never lets up.

love.

💒venusmotel

218 notes · View notes

xxgoblin-dumplingxx · 9 months ago

Note

Agegap!reader

Have it ever happened that the kids watched a edit and went show her or B

I want to see the kids reaction to Agegap!reader being on trending topics and all over their for you page on edits please!!!!!

Stephanie looked down at her phone and snorted. "Oh the girls are INTO it today."

"It's everywhere," Tim said, slightly disgusted.

"What is a 'mood board'?" Damian asked, "And why is Father always shirtless in them?"

"Ugh," you crinkle your nose, "Sorry."

"You should be," Stephanie said, "All I want is fanfic and I keep getting RPF of you and Bruce in the tags. I didn't even know you were that flexible."

You sip your coffee and cringe slightly. It was easier to ignore this part of your life when you didn't live in a house full of kids. You saw clips and gifs. Your team would keep you updated when you were a meme. But otherwise? You tended to avoid all this. "I'm probably not."

"I found one where you were cheating on Bruce with Dick and then Tim found out- it wasn't bad. Even if they couldn't decide how to use commas," Jason put in. "Can't wait for the update."

"Ew. So gross." You shake your head vigorously and set your coffee cup down, "That's enough internet today and I didn't even log in."

"Same," Dick said. "You're not my type."

Bruce walked into the breakfast room, "I don't want to know. New topic." He swooped down to kiss your head and took his seat.

"Please," you implore. "This is gross."

"Shopping today?" Steph asked you. "Retail therapy. School sucks."

"Yes," you answer nodding. "Much better. Now we just have to decide-"

"I wanna go," Dick whined, "But I'm not holding bags. Or getting a pedicure."

"So go to the Arcade and wait-"

"Alone?" Dick gasped, "I'll be lonely-"

"Congrats, Tim," Stephanie said, "you get to come and play with Dick."

"But what if I want a pedicure?" Tim asked

#bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne #minors dni #ask answered #reader insert #agegap!reader

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freedomfireflies · 1 year ago

Text

Punished*

Summary: The one where you've been a brat to your dominant, Harry, and he's finally had enough.

Word Count: 5k

Content Warning: 18+, smut, degradation, spanking, voyerism, daddy kink, sir kink, age gap (6 years but not explicitly mentioned), exhibitionsim if you squint

Right about now, somewhere across town, Professor Styles is pulling your panties out of his pocket.

If you’re correct, he’ll be standing in the lecture hall, giving his opening remarks for his Applied Mathematics class, and reaching for his favorite pen. He’ll dip into his pocket, feel the silky fabric against his fingertips, and he’ll know.

And you will be royally and magnificently fucked.

Because around the time he realizes just what it is that you’ve snuck into his jacket, he’ll also realize that it means you are somewhere across town not wearing any underwear at all.

And he’ll be fucking furious.

But that’s why you did it. It’s what he deserved. After spending all evening torturing you, teasing you, edging you, and taunting you…he left you. Gave you exactly 0 orgasms by the time you went to bed, claiming you didn’t deserve any after being such a brat all day.

In your defense, you weren’t a brat. No, you didn’t exactly do the few things he’d asked of you. And no, you didn’t communicate with him that you were struggling with your essay and feeling stressed and overwhelmed. But you figured an orgasm would help fix a lot of that. Instead, he left you with none.

You felt rather proud of yourself as you subtly and effortlessly dropped your panties into the pocket while you kissed him goodbye. Knowing he’d be pissed and that he’d punish you for it. You secretly hoped he’d pull them out in front of the whole class. Or in front of the other faculty.

Either way, you knew the text was coming. And when your phone pings as you’re leaving your own class, you can’t help but smile.

You’re in big fucking trouble, little one.

You bite your lip with glee as you head across campus. You don’t answer his message and you certainly don’t apologize. After all, the day is far from through.

Around four, you return to his apartment. His office hours aren’t over until five and then he has a faculty meeting which will keep him out until seven. It’s hard some days to be away from him for so long. You miss him. It’s even worse that he doesn’t work at the same university you attend, so there’s not even the slightest chance that you’ll catch a glimpse of him during the day.

It bothers you more than you’d like to admit. And maybe that’s why you like to challenge him. Because at least if he’s upset and punishing you, he’s paying attention. You don’t want to settle into a routine where he comes home, gives you a quick fuck and a kiss, and falls asleep.

Or even worse…ends the agreement altogether.

You want to know you’re interesting enough to keep around. That you make this relationship worth it for him. He wants to be dominant. And you want to be his submissive. And even if that means getting spanked and edged from time to time…that’s okay.

So, once you get back to his place, you make a plan. He isn’t too upset yet. He needs a push. A gentle nudge.

And you know exactly how to nudge him.

You find his portable security camera, the one he only sets up when he’s out of town and away from the apartment. You bring it into the bedroom and then you turn it on. You know it’ll send him a notification that it’s active and that it’s sensed movement. From there, he’ll be able to open the app on his phone and see everything the camera does.

Which will be you.

On the bed.

Naked.

And touching yourself.

Breaking his favorite rule.

He won’t be able to do anything about it, either. Between office hours and faculty meetings, he won’t have time to send you a chastising text. He won’t have time to warn you or threaten you.

But he will be able to watch. You know he will. Even if he has to pull it up behind a notebook, his eyes will be glued to the screen and the thought alone makes you giddy.

You set the camera on the dresser, giving him the perfect view of where you plan to sit against the headboard. You strip off your shirt and skirt, but there’s no need to discard of your underwear—he already knows where it is.

You crawl onto the mattress, and you settle yourself into the collection of pillows. You find your favorite dildo and you spread your legs and you look directly into the lens.

Then, you smile.

You start slow, first by rubbing your clit, and settling into the sensation. Praying that Harry is somewhere watching right now. Then you start to tease yourself. One finger…then two. Slowly thrusting them into your cunt until you can add a third. The sounds are wet and delicious, and you moan his name even though he can’t hear you.

When you finally work yourself up to the dildo, you’re shaking. It doesn’t take long for you to cum—twice. Making a mess on his bed and on your thighs that you don’t exactly plan to clean up just yet. And after a quick break…you go back for round three before finally tapping out.

And once you’re through and feeling rather victorious, you wait.

However, waiting proves rather difficult once eight o’clock hits and he’s still not home. Then eight becomes nine and you don’t even have so much as a text.

And you realize not much later that he’s turned the tables.

Not only does he have the upper hand, but he’s using that hand to squeeze you out. To make you sit and sweat and bite the ends of your fingernails. He wants you to realize that he’s won. Even after everything you did today, he’s still won and he’s going to continue winning and you are undoubtedly fucked.

So, when the door finally opens about fifteen minutes later, your heart drops to your ass.

He strides in rather calmly. He tosses his keys into the bowl by the hallway. He slips off his large coat. He loosens his tie. And then he heads to the bar for a bottle of scotch.

He pours himself a drink and he doesn’t look at you as you sit on the sofa and wait anxiously for his reaction. He doesn’t offer you a hello. He doesn’t glare or even smirk. He keeps his back to you, and he takes two very deliberate sips.

Finally…he turns around.

He leans against the counter and begins to roll his sleeves up to his arms. Then, he crosses them over his chest, and in a gentle murmur says, “Hi.”

Desperate to please and to move the scene along, you scoot to the edge of the couch and place your hands in your lap. “Hi, Sir.”

He hums. Soft. Amused. “Sir, hm?”

You nod. “Yes. You are Sir, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” he echoes. “But you certainly didn’t treat me like one today, did you?”

You resist the urge to smile. “What do you mean, Sir?”

He pushes off the bar and takes one step closer. Then, he reaches into his pocket and pulls your panties free, dangling them from his finger. “Why were these left in my coat today, little one?”

“Oh…were they?” You bat your lashes. “Oops. I guess I forgot where I put them.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, Sir.”

He takes another step. “And does that mean you were in class all day without any?”

You shyly glance toward your lap. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“…yes, Sir.”

“I see.” He puts them back in his pocket. “So, like a little fucking whore, you paraded around campus in nothing but a short skirt with no goddamn panties just to piss me off?"

"...yes, Sir."

"Did you touch yourself during class?"

You blink up at him. "I thought about it. But I waited until I was in my car during lunch."

His expression grows harder. "So you touched yourself twice today. Without asking my permission for either one."

"That's right, Sir."

"And you wanted me to find your panties while I was teaching, then, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“To mock me.”

“No, Sir.”

“No?”

You shift and offer him your best pout. “I only wanted your attention, Daddy.”

“You have it.” He nods his chin at you. “But that’s not all you wanted, is it?”

You clear your throat. “What do you mean, Professor?”

He reaches now into his other pocket, pulling out his phone and hitting a few buttons before flipping the screen toward you.

And there you are. On the bed. Writhing, moaning. Coming.

Harry looks at you. “You went through quite a bit of trouble to make sure I’d see this, didn’t you?”

You bite your lip.

“In fact, not only did you want me to see you disobeying my rule, you wanted to rub it in my face. Wanted me to get caught watching you in front of all my colleagues and students.” He clicks the phone off. “Isn’t that right?”

He wants your honesty and even though you’re tempted not to give it to him…you need to see him upset.

You straighten up and look him dead in the eye. “That’s right, Sir.”

He leans back and studies you. He’s fighting a smirk now, but that mischievous green gives everything away. “Because you wanted my attention.”

“Yes.”

“And this is how you thought you’d get it.”

“Yes.”

“And how is that working for you so far, little one?”

“Pretty well, actually. You’re here, and you’re pissed, so…”

He leans closer. So suddenly, in fact, that it makes a breath catch in your throat and your eyes pop open.

He rests his hands on his knees and stares right through you. “Fine,” he agrees in an almost devious purr. “If you want me to punish you, darling, I will. In fact, I’d like nothing more than to bend you over my knee right now and feel your skin grow hot from my hand.”

You swallow.

“And then, once you’re fucking soaking my trousers, I’ll sit you down and return your generous favor.” He smiles. “And you…will thank me for every single spank and every single orgasm. The only words I will hear out of this mouth are, ‘Yes, Sir,’ ‘No, Sir,’ and ‘Thank you, Sir.’ Is that understood?”

You nod sheepishly. “Yes, Sir.”

“Good.” He straightens up. “You know what to say if you want to stop, yes?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Tell me.”

“Yellow or red.”

“Good. And what’s our safe word if you’d like to pause the dominant, submissive relationship and just be us?”

“Sunflower.”

“Good girl.” He reaches for your chin, pinching your cheeks tight between his fingers before forcing your head up. “What’s your color right now?”

“Green, Sir.”

“And you understand that my punishment is not a reward for this behavior?” He grips you a touch harder. “Just because I’m giving you what you want doesn’t mean I approve of the means in which you got it?”

Your lashes flutter as you nod in his hold. “I understand…Sir.”

“But you’re not the least bit sorry…are you?”

Slowly, you shake your head.

He smiles to himself before dipping down once again until his lips are only inches from yours. “I plan to change that.”

Your stomach flips.

With that, he releases you, and nods toward the bedroom. “Go. Wait on the bed. I’ll be in when I feel like it.”

You don’t waste another second. You run toward the bed and you sit on the edge and you wait like a good girl. You obey him because you know how badly you want what comes next.

He takes his time. He has another drink. Slips off his shoes. Maybe even answers a few texts. Then, after he’s finished teasing you, he strolls into the bedroom.

He says nothing as he takes a seat beside you on the mattress. He hardly even looks at you. His expression is stoic—unrelenting. The way it always is when he’s slipping further into the punishing dominant role.

“Come,” he says, and pats his thigh.

You do. You crawl over his lap and lay your stomach over his knees, bare ass eager and waiting.

He squeezes your hip. “Are you ready, little one?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good.” He smooths his palm over the curve of your left cheek before there’s a sharp smack to the right.

You jolt, sucking in a quiet gasp. “Thank you, Sir.”

You hear him hum appreciatively. He does it again to the other side this time. Hard. Firm.

“Thank you, Sir.”

Again and again. Sometimes on the same side, sometimes in a specific pattern. He goes until you’re nearly numb and tears are pooling in your eyes. The same way arousal is pooling between your legs. Exactly the way he wanted.

Because it’s not the pain that does it for you. It’s his pain. It’s the knowledge that he trusts you enough to do this. And you trust him enough to let him.

He wants to take the time to punish you and make you a better submissive. And even though you annoy him and challenge him, he wants to keep you around. He isn’t going to lose interest.

But most importantly, he enjoys it just as much as you do.

By the fifteenth spank—with a few moments of rest in-between—you’re raw and undoubtedly very warm. Despite his slight anger, he makes sure to caress your skin and show it a bit of care along with the abuse. He listens closely for your safe word, and he only continues once you’ve thanked him. A sign that you’re coherent and still present in the scene.

After a couple more, he stops. “Tell me again why I’m doing this. Let me know that you understand.”

Through a few sniffles, you manage to answer, “Because…I disobeyed your rule.”

“And?”

“…and I disobeyed you.”

“And?”

“I went to class without any panties.”

“Mm.” He seems to huff to himself. “What else?”

“I could have embarrassed you in front of your students and colleagues.”

“And?”

“…and I’m not sorry about any of it.” You glance over your shoulder. “I’m a bad submissive.”

“You are,” he agrees. “Quite possibly the worst. My sweet angel became my little devil overnight all because she’s an attention whore who needs Daddy to constantly put her in her place.”

He reaches for your jaw again and forces your attention on him.

“Is that what you are, darling? A greedy little slut who throws a tantrum anytime her dominant stays out late? You have to disrupt my life, my work, and my students because you’re so cock-dumb and desperate?”

Your heart is racing. The degrading comments make your insides wrench in the best way as you squeeze your thighs together. “…yes, Sir.”

“I provide for you,” he continues, pinching your cheeks with a rather unrelenting grip. “I care for you. I work hard to make money just so I can spend it on you. And what do I get in return? A disobedient little fuck-toy that can’t follow a single goddamn rule. All because she couldn’t tell me she missed me.”

He pulls you up until you’re sitting and your ass begins to throb in pain as you’re forced over the rough fabric of his trousers.

“Tell me you missed me,” he demands sharply. “Be a good girl for once and tell me what you really need.”

“You,” you breathe. “I need you, Professor. I missed you. I wanted you around.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that sooner, huh?” He wraps his fingers around the back of your neck. “Why did you play games with me?”

You pout. “Because I like playing with you.”

He scoffs. “You’re a brat. You’re a fucking brat and you need to be broken.”

With that, you’re nearly shoved off his lap as he moves to one of the dressers to search for something.

Handcuffs.

You already know what comes next and even though you know you won’t like it…you can’t help but feel just a little excited.

“Move to the headboard,” he says. “Hands on the bars.”

You scoot into position, wrists firm against the poles as he tightens the cuffs and makes sure they’re nice and snug.

In this position, he can do anything he wants. He can fuck you, he can taste you, he can have both holes at once. And you can’t do anything but let him.

Once you’re where he wants you, he gets off of the bed, and begins to unbutton his fancy shirt.

You enjoy the show. In fact, you practically drool as you watch those long, nimble fingers pop each button on the way down. The way the fabric slides against his tan, tattooed skin before dropping down his arms and onto the floor. The way he tugs on his belt before undoing his pants and letting those go as well.

And there he is. Clad in nothing more than his briefs, that beautiful, gorgeous body on display. He puts in quite a bit of time to keep up his appearance and stamina. If he’s not teaching and he’s not with you, he’s at the gym. He runs, he does yoga, he plays basketball. He’s a very fit man and you honestly can’t believe how lucky you are to reap the rewards of his hard work.

Your lips part, ready to call for him. Your eyes feel heavy with lust and your legs are practically trembling. You part them in anticipation as he drops his briefs and puts a firm hand around his cock.

He strokes himself a few times before he grabs his phone. You stare like you’re in heat and maybe you are because fuck, the way his tip is so red and swollen and absolutely delicious. And his hand, his glorious hand. Nothing has ever looked so good. The way he squeezes and pumps. The way his thighs flex as he walks back toward the lounge chair in the corner of the room to sit. The way the tattoos move with every thrust.

You blink. “Wait…what are you doing?”

His eyes snap to yours. “Did I say you could speak?”

“…no, but—”

“Excuse me?”

You exhale sharply. “No, Sir.”

“No.” He leans back, one hand still around his cock while the other rotates his phone until he can watch the screen clearly. “What I am doing is returning your favor.”

Your brows furrow.

“See…you wanted to touch yourself. Without me,” he explains almost smugly. “You wanted to torture me. When I couldn’t do anything about it. When I couldn’t touch you or feel you or taste you. So, I’m following your lead. I’m letting you watch. I’m letting you see everything that you’re missing.”

And you realize then. You understand. You understand and you fucking hate it because this is so much worse than what you were imagining.

“Harry…Harry, wait—”

He clicks his tongue and shoots you a startling look of waning. “What did I say?”

You whimper. “Sir, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I made a mistake. I was just…I missed you and I—”

“I don’t care,” he says before he hits a button on his phone and the speakers come alive with the sound of your voice. “You get to watch me while I get to watch you. And it’s a shame. Because now I have to waste it on myself instead of filling that sweet pussy the way you love.”

You whine again but it’s lost beneath the sounds of your pants coming from his phone. He doesn’t look at the real you. He looks at the disobedient version on the screen. The one with spread legs and a rather pornographic moan that almost embarrasses you.

He fists himself in the kind of way that makes every glorious muscle in his arm flex and tighten. It’s cruel how he makes you wait here, calling his name. Unable to do for him what he’s doing for himself.

“Look at you,” he exhales, lashes fluttering as he stares at your performance. “Stretching your little cunt with your fingers. Bet it felt good, didn’t it?”

“Yes…yes, Sir—”

“Did you think of me, little devil? Did you think of my fingers when you were fucking your little pussy. Did you pretend they were mine?”

You nod so fast, your head aches. “Yes, Sir.”

“I bet.” He squeezes the tip and hisses before moving back down. His chest is heaving, skin practically glowing beneath the lamp beside him. He’s beautiful like this. Jaw clenched and thighs spread. “I imagined your voice when I was in my meeting, watching. Didn’t have the sound on…but I knew. I know your sounds. Play them in my head on a loop.”

You yank on the cuffs and you don’t care that they’re cutting into your wrists. What he’s doing hurts so much more.

“And that fucking dildo,” he continues. He groans softly and his hips lift. “Yet another toy you aren’t meant to use without me. But there you are. Taking it so well. All the way, hm? Like it’s nothing.”

You need him to look at you. He’s so close and you just…you need him to put his eyes on your body and see the way you’re dying without him. It’s warm in his light and you think you might disappear if he doesn’t look at you just once before he finishes.

“It’s such a shame,” he murmurs. “Such a shame that you’d rather have silicone than my cock.”

You sniffle. “Daddy, no—”

“And if that’s what you want, that’s what you’ll get. For the next week, if I decide you get to cum, I’ll use the toy. And then I’ll let you watch as I finish myself off alone.” Finally, he looks up, and you want to wilt. “Or maybe I’ll use a toy, too. Maybe the fleshlight we got.”

Tears dance down your cheeks. You wish he was inside of you right now. Fucking you, stretching you. Pressing down on the bulge in your belly so you can really feel him. His hand is nothing compared to your pussy and you both know it.

“Professor, please—”

“Uh-uh,” he tuts. “No. You don’t get to cry. You don’t get to beg or feel sorry. You asked for this. You wanted to hurt me. To be punished and be noticed. So, I’m noticing you, darling. And what I’ve noticed is that I’ve been far too lenient with you.”

You squeeze your thighs in an attempt for relief, but it does nothing and he knows it.

“See, I thought you were good.” He rests his head back against the chair, overcome with pleasure, and you know he’s trying hard to hold out. “I thought…that when I asked you to do something, you did it. That if you needed me…if you needed to cum…you talked to me. You followed our rule and you obeyed. But clearly I don’t punish you enough if you think slipping your panties into my coat is a fun little game.”

“Sir…Sir, I don’t, I’m—”

“Or maybe they’re just the wrong sort of punishments,” he barrels on. “What you really wanted was to be spanked and tied up. Maybe even wanted me to use my belt, hm? Be rough with you? Make you cry? And I gave it to you. Because I’m a good dominant. But I need to be a better one. And a better dominant makes sure his submissive learns her lessons.”

You try to sit up. Catch his eye again. Plead with him. Because you don’t like where this is going.

“Starting now, your punishment will hurt. It will teach. If you so much as roll your eyes when I speak to you, I’ll have you sleeping in the guest room until you can fix your attitude.” He glances over his phone screen and hums when he sees you finish. “And if you try to pull another stunt like you did today, you won’t get to cum at all, and I might even send you back to your apartment.”

The tears feel hot as they drip down your chin. “Daddy…”

“Tell me you understand,” he demands of you now. “Tell me that you hear my rules. That you plan to obey them and respect them the way you need to obey and respect me.”

You’re tempted to throw a tantrum. To thrash and cry and beg, but you know it’ll only make things worse. So, you make a quick motion with your head, and whimper, “Yes, Sir.”

And your submissive reply is what tips him over the edge. He cums—hard—and with a rather lewd moan before spilling all over his hand, stomach, and thighs.

You hate it. He was right, it is wasted. Staining his skin instead of yours. To be washed off and disposed of instead of slipping down your throat or filling your cunt. A cruel, sadistic punishment that he seems to enjoy.

And he still doesn’t look at you. He doesn’t acknowledge your pain. Pretends you’re not even in the room. Instead, he grabs a washcloth from one of the drawers and cleans himself up before coming over to you. So there’s no chance you’ll get even a single drop.

He sits on the bed beside you and looks down. He pinches your chin—softer this time—and makes your tear-filled eyes look at him.

“I expect you to follow these rules, little one,” he repeats gently. “And I expect you to understand why you’re being punished. I don’t do it to hurt you. In fact, it hurts me more than it hurts you. Having to send you away or use a toy instead of giving you my cock? That’s not what I want. But it’s what you deserve. And I have to be a good dominant and make sure you learn your lesson.”

You try to nuzzle yourself closer to his hand and he smiles. “I do understand, Daddy, and I’m sorry. Just…just missed you.”

His expression softens now and he seems gutted. “So you said. And I’d like to know what I’ve been doing to make you feel so neglected so that it doesn’t happen again.”

You shake your head quickly. “Nothing, Sir. Just…your hours have been later. And sometimes I have a lot to study. And by the time we’re both finally home, we have to sleep. And then I feel like I haven’t seen you in weeks.”

He coos and reaches down to press a kiss to the tip of your nose. “Oh, darling. I know life is a bit hectic right now. And I haven’t called to check-in as much as I should, have I?”

You sniffle. “You have. But a check-in doesn’t replace the real thing.”

“I know.” He leaves a kiss to your cheek now. “I’m so sorry, my love. With the end of the semester, I’ve got so much grading to do, and so many final projects to oversee. There’s a lot of discussion happening in our department, and I’ve been pulled in a lot of different directions. I’ve been absent and neglecting one of my favorite priorities. And for that, I’m so sorry. And I will try to do better. Can you forgive me?”

You smile and nod as quickly as you can. “Always, Daddy.”

He chuckles. “My good girl. But you know that just because I haven’t been as present doesn’t give you a right to act out, yes?”

“…yes, Sir.”

“And I expect you to talk to me in the future if you’re feeling like this?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good. Do you have any questions for me?”

You nod again. “Can you please hold me?”

His smile feels like a breath of spring. “Of course.”

He undoes the cuffs and takes careful hold of your wrists. He grabs some calming salve from the nightstand beside him and applies it to the slight marks on your skin, just to make sure you’ll be all right and won’t feel any more pain. And once it’s on, he pulls the covers back, and tucks you both in.

You feel good in his arms, your cheek against his heart. There’s still a very prominent ache between your thighs but you know better than to ask him to relieve it. This is part of your lesson. He’ll make it up to you later—even if he only uses a toy to do so. But it won’t even matter because it’s him. And you’ll take anything he gives you.

The slight scruff on his face scratches your forehead as he rubs it against you to make you squeal. And you feel so happy now that he’s your Harry again. The man you feel safest with.

“Harry?” you whisper after the room has gone quiet.

“Hm?”

“I really am sorry about the panties. I didn’t want you to get caught.”

He laughs softly and kisses your temple. “I think if anything, it would have given me points.”

You grin. “The girls would have been so jealous.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.”

“I do. You’re hot, Professor. I don’t have to be your student to know all of your students want to fuck you.”

He glances down with a smirk. “All of them, hm?”

“Every single one. Have you seen yourself? Have you seen what you wear? And your hair and that beard and those eyes—”

“Okay,” he murmurs, and cups your cheek. “You’re very sweet, darling. And maybe you should give me your panties more often so I can remind everyone who I belong to.”

Your heart skips. The word belong means something more to the two of you than it might to anyone else. As his submissive, you do belong to him.

But he belongs to you, too. You belong to each other. This is a partnership—a relationship, no matter the dynamic. And the idea of him flaunting your claim on him makes you giddy.

“Daddy?” you whimper.

“Yes, little one?”

“Can we please change the subject before this gets any worse for me?”

His brows furrow. “Worse?”

You shift your legs between his and his eyes widen when he feels the smearing of arousal against his thigh.

“Ah,” he breathes before smiling. “M’sorry, honey. Know it must really ache, hm?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And after all this edging, it’d probably feel so good to cum, wouldn’t it?”

Another nod. “Yes, Professor.”

“Mmm.” He kisses you. “Too bad. Maybe next time, yeah?”

You groan but you do kiss him back. Because you know that next time…

He’ll make it worth it.

Hehe this was fun and I am so down to explore them more later if we ever want!!! THANK YOU FOR READING 😭💞

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