Hi, can you make one of Marcel Styles (super shy, akward) and y/n finds him super hot so she seduces him and both have sex omg
Please, Love your blog as always, 💖
so, this is a bit different, it's slow and awkward because this is probably his first time touching a girl
words: 1.5k??
warnings: p in v sex (without protection), kissing, cream pie
***
The late-night quiet of the dorm was broken only by the frantic scratching of Marcel’s pencil and the hum of a small desk fan. He looked like he was vibrating. His spine was a rigid line, his shoulders hiked up to his ears as he stared at his chemistry manual through thick, black-rimmed glasses that kept sliding down his nose.
Y/n sat on the edge of his bed, watching him. She loved this part—the way his curls were a complete disaster from him running his hands through them, and the way his sweater vest looked a size too small over his broad shoulders. He was so incredibly flustered, and he hadn't turned the page in fifteen minutes.
"Marcel?" she said, her voice dropping to a soft, teasing lilt.
He jumped so violently his knee slammed into the desk with a loud thud. "Y-yes! Y/n? I’m... I’m sorry. I was just focused on the covalent bonds. They’re very... they’re very strong. Complex. Sorry."
Y/n stood up, the floorboards creaking as she stepped toward him. She didn't stop until she was right behind his chair, her hands coming down to rest on his shoulders. He froze instantly, his breath hitching in that jagged, shy way that always made her stomach flip.
"You’re shaking, Marcel," she whispered, her thumbs rubbing slow, soothing circles into the tense muscles of his neck. "Am I distracting you from your bonds?"
"N-no. You're... you're a great tutor. I'm just... I had a lot of tea," he lied, his voice pitching higher as she leaned down, her chest brushing the back of his curls. "I get very... caffeinated."
"Liars go to hell, Marcel," she teased, her lips grazing the shell of his ear, making him shiver. "I think you're shaking because I'm right here. I think you've been staring at the same diagram because you’re wondering what it would feel like if I kissed you."
Marcel’s hands gripped the edges of the desk so hard his knuckles turned white. "I—I shouldn't. It’s unprofessional. We have the midterms. I... I don't want to mess up our friendship."
"Look at me."
He didn't move. He looked like he was holding his breath, waiting for the floor to swallow him.
"Marcel. Look at me, please."
He slowly turned the chair, his face a deep, radiating crimson. He wouldn't lift his gaze past her chin, his chest heaving under the wool of his sweater. Y/n reached out, her fingers hooking under the bridge of his glasses and sliding them slowly off his face.
"Hey," he blinked, his eyes wide, green, and incredibly vulnerable without the lenses. "I can't... I can't see very well, Y/n."
"You don't need to see, Marcel. You just need to feel," she said, stepping between his knees. She grabbed his hands—those long, elegant fingers that were always fidgeting with pens—and guided them to her waist. "You have such big hands, Marcel. Do you know how often I think about them?"
Marcel let out a choked, tiny sound, his head falling forward until his forehead rested against her stomach. "Y/n... please. I'm not... I'm not like the other guys. I'm awkward. I’m clumsy. I’ll probably do everything wrong."
"You won't," she murmured, yanking his head back gently by his curls so he had to look at her. "You're exactly what I want. I want the guy who’s so sweet he’s shaking. I want the guy who’s been wanting me as long as I’ve been wanting him."
That was the breaking point. The shy, "good boy" light in his eyes didn't disappear—it just intensified into something desperate and devoted. He didn't stutter this time. He reached up, his large hands engulfing her waist, and hauled her forward until she was straddling his lap, the chemistry book falling to the floor with a heavy thack.
"Is this... is this really okay?" he rasped, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly register. "I don't want to... I don't want to be too much."
"Marcel, stop worrying and just show me how much you want me."
He didn't need to be told again. His mouth crashed against hers, and it wasn't a "nerdy" kiss—it was starving. It was clumsy at first, his teeth clinking against hers, but then he let out a soft groan and tilted his head, his tongue sliding against hers with a messy, frantic heat. One hand stayed anchored on her waist, while the other climbed up, his fingers trembling as they bunched her shirt.
"God," he breathed into her mouth, his breath hot. "You’re so... you’re so soft. I’ve wanted to touch you since the first day of lab. I just thought you'd think I was... weird."
"I think you're perfect," she whispered, helping him pull her shirt over her head.
When she was bare in front of him, he stopped completely, just staring. He looked like he was seeing something holy. He reached out, his thumb tracing the curve of her hip with a touch so light it was almost a ghost of a sensation. He looked up at her, his eyes shimmering. "You're so beautiful. I—I don't even know where to start."
"Start anywhere you want. I'm right here."
He stripped out of his clothes with a frantic, uncoordinated energy, his sweater vest ending up in a heap. When he finally pushed her back onto the bed, Y/n’s breath caught. He was massive—a thick, throbbing weight that he seemed almost shy about as he hovered over her.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, his face inches from hers. "I... I'll be gentle. I promise. Tell me if it’s too much."
He spread her legs wide, his touch incredibly careful, before he drove into her in one slow, liquid thrust.
Y/n let out a sharp cry, her back arching off the mattress as she was filled to the absolute limit. Marcel froze, his eyes wide and panicked, his forehead slamming against her shoulder as he stayed buried to the hilt. He was shaking so hard the bed frame rattled.
"Did I—did I hurt you? I'm sorry, I'll stop—"
"No," she sobbed, her nails scratching down his back. "Don't stop, Marcel. Please. It feels... it feels amazing."
He started to move then, and while he was still the "awkward boy," he was also completely devoted. Every thrust was deep and earnest, his large hands holding her like she was made of the most expensive glass. He wasn't "hammering" her; he was worshipping her, his head buried in the crook of her neck as he let out soft, hitching whimpers with every move.
"Y/n," he gasped, his curls matted to his forehead with sweat. "You're so... you're so tight. I can't... I can't breathe. Everything is so warm."
He leaned down, his lips pressing soft, frantic kisses to her collarbone, his movements becoming faster but no less sweet. He was completely focused on her, his eyes searching hers every few seconds to make sure she was still with him.
"I'm going to... I think I'm going to..." Marcel choked out, his voice thick. He gripped her hands, interlacing his long fingers with hers and pinning them to the pillow. "Look at me? Please, Y/n, look at me."
She opened her eyes just as he hit his limit. He let out a long, broken groan, his body stiffening as he filled her with a violent, pulsing heat. He didn't pull back; he just stayed there, his chest heaving against hers, his eyes welling with a few overwhelmed tears as he kissed her forehead over and over.
"I—I'm sorry," he whispered after a long silence, the stutter creeping back into his voice as he looked at the wreckage of the bed. "I think I was a bit... messy."
Y/n pulled him down, her heart aching at how genuinely sweet he looked. "Marcel, you were perfect. Truly."
He gave her a small, lopsided smirk, his fingers tracing the marks on her thighs with a quiet, worried look. "I—I don't think I was able to make you cum, Y/n. I got so... excited. I'm sorry. I—I'll try better next time. I'll focus more on you, I promise."
"Marcel, you don't have to apologize for enjoying yourself," she laughed softly, pulling him closer.
"But I want to," he murmured, his face turning cherry red again as he hid his smile in her neck. "I want to be... the best for you. Can we try again in a little bit? I'll be much better, I swear."
"Okay, okay!" she held his chin as she kissed him, and the smile he gave her, almost melted her heart.
I wrote this in a month, and it's an extensive story with a lot of depth. it's called how to break a monster: its about a pirate who kidnaps a princess because she is the finest possession in the sea, and he wants to own her
it's available for purchase in my shop here. it has 35k words. it's priced at 5 dollars
How to Break a Monster is a tale of a pirate and a princess. He kidnaps her, treating her like a loot—a prize in a cage. But on the open sea
warnings: contains significant non-con sex and violence. graphic violence because its a pirate story.
the first chapter, you can read here before you decide to purchase
hii can you write something abt nanny makes three where they punish yn maybe something like that?they're my fave also lovee your work sm😚
sure, yeah! it's in third person this time.
a hard reset*
words: 5.4k
warnings: ffm threesome: harry and amy are dominants, and y/n is their submissive. use of a blindfold, rough, unprotected sex ub multiple positions, oral (f receiving), spanking, squirting, multiple orgasms. y/n has a degradation and humiliation kink. aftercare 😙
***
Y/n was stressed.
College was kicking her ass, and she didn't want to admit it. She had always been the bright kid, but college wasn’t like school. She still needed time to adjust—to figure out how to actually perform at this level. And being a nanny for the kid during finals week wasn't helping.
Y/n was perched on the kitchen counter, her system design notes spread out like a mess around her. Her head felt like a lead weight, and her eyes were burning, practically begging her to just close them for five minutes.
Oliver sat right beside her. He’d already finished his homework—mostly just multiplication tables and some basic word problems—but watching him work made her feel like an idiot. It was pathetic. An eight-year-old was cruising through his shit, while she was staring at her diagrams like they were written in an alien language.
Amy and Harry had both made it back early that evening. They were holed up in their room watching TV, trying to stay out of her way so she could focus. She knew she should have just gone back to the dorms, but her roommates were so damn loud and brainless that she’d honestly rather take her chances studying next to a second-grader.
The silence in the kitchen was brittle, held together only by the hum of the fridge and the scratching of Oliver’s pencil. Y/n was at her absolute limit, her head buried in her hands as the diagrams blurred into a mess of meaningless lines.
The floorboards creaked as Harry stepped out of the bedroom. He didn't say anything, trying to be quiet, but as he reached behind her for a plate, his sleeve caught the edge of a glass. It tipped, sliding off the counter and shattering against the tile with a violent, sharp crack.
The sound was the final straw. Y/n snapped, her head whipping around as she lashed out before she could even process who she was talking to.
"Are you serious? Are you actually dumb?" she yelled, her voice raw and shaking with a month's worth of built-up frustration. "Can't you even handle a damn plate without breaking something?!"
The kitchen was dead silent, the air still vibrating from her shout. Y/n felt her heart hammering against her ribs, the reality of what she’d just said—and who she’d said it to—starting to sink in. She expected anger, or at least a sharp reprimand.
Instead, Harry didn't even flinch. He looked down at the shattered glass, then slowly looked up at her. There was no flash of temper in his eyes; if anything, he looked amused, a dark, knowing glint settling in his gaze as he took in her shaking hands and flushed face.
He didn't address her outburst. Instead, he turned his attention to the table.
"Olly," Harry said, his voice calm and steady. "What if you went over to the Smiths' tonight? I bet Leo’s still up."
Oliver’s mouth was still slightly open, his eyes darting between his dad and Y/n. The Smiths lived right next door and practically treated Oliver like their own; a night over there meant video games and no bedtime.
"Really?" Oliver asked, already reaching for his backpack.
"Really. Go on, pack a quick bag. I'll walk you over."
Y/n just sat there, frozen on the counter, her notes forgotten. She watched in a daze as Harry efficiently helped the kid shove a few things into a bag and ushered him out the front door. The house felt unnervingly quiet the moment the door clicked shut.
Fifteen minutes passed. Y/n didn't move. She couldn't. She just stared at the broken glass on the floor, the weight of her own exhaustion and the looming consequences making her feel small.
Then, the front door opened and closed. Heavy footsteps moved through the hallway, heading straight back to the kitchen. Harry stepped into the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, watching her. The "amused" look was still there, but it had sharpened into something more dominant, more focused.
"So," he said, his voice dropping an octave as he looked at the mess on the floor and then back at her. "You’ve got a lot of mouth tonight, don't you?"
"I-I’m sorry," Y/n stammered, her voice small and cracking. "Harry, I didn’t mean—I'm just so tired, and the notes, and I—"
"Get down," he said. It wasn't a shout. It was a calm, low-frequency command that cut right through her frantic rambling.
Y/n swallowed hard and slid off the counter. Her legs felt a little like jelly as she walked toward him, her head hanging, the guilt pooling in her stomach. As she got closer, the height difference hit her harder than usual. He towered over her, a solid wall of quiet authority that made her feel incredibly small.
She stopped right in front of him, looking up with an apologetic, weary face. Harry didn't move his hands from his pockets. He just looked down at her, his eyes tracking the dark circles under her eyes and the way her bottom lip was trembling just a fraction.
"You’ve got a lot of fire in you tonight," he murmured, his voice vibrating in the small space between them. "Is that how we speak to people in this house now? Just because a glass breaks?"
Harry didn't wait for her to answer. He took a slow, heavy step forward, forcing Y/n to back up until the edge of the kitchen island pressed into her lower back. He didn't touch her, but he didn't have to; he just loomed, his shadow swallowing her whole.
"You don’t scream in my house," he said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, gravelly register. "Especially not at me. And you never let that kind of language fly in front of my son. Do you understand how out of line you are?"
"I’m sorry, I’m so sorry," Y/n whispered, her breath hitching as she looked up at him. She felt the sting of tears, the exhaustion finally breaking her down. "It won’t happen again, Harry, I swear. I just—I lost it. It’ll never happen again."
From the doorway, Amy didn't say a word. She just watched with her arms crossed, her eyes tracking the way Y/n was trembling. There was no pity in Amy’s expression—only a quiet, predatory interest. She liked it when Y/n was this undone.
"Saying it won't happen again doesn't fix the fact that it already did," Harry murmured, finally reaching out to tilt her chin up so she couldn't look away. "You're wound way too tight, and you've forgotten your place. We need to reset that brain of yours before you go back to those notes."
Harry didn't say another word. He just pointed at the floor.
The tile felt freezing against Y/n’s knees, the transition from the height of the counter to the hard ground making her stomach flip. She stayed there, her hands trembling on her thighs, her breathing shallow as she stared at Harry’s boots.
Amy finally moved from the doorway. She didn't walk; she stalked, her footsteps silent until she was standing right behind Y/n. Without warning, Amy’s hand clamped around the back of Y/n’s neck, her thumb pressing firmly into the sensitive dip of her jaw. There was no softness in the grip, no "it's okay" in her touch.
"Look at me," Amy murmured, her voice like silk over gravel.
Y/n tilted her head back, her throat exposed and pulsing with her heartbeat. Amy didn't wait. She leaned down, her teeth grazing the skin right over the jugular before she bit down hard. Y/n let out a sharp, choked gasp, her fingers digging into her own leggings as the sting flared into a deep, throbbing heat. Amy didn't pull away until she was sure the mark would stay dark and ugly for a week.
"That's for the noise," Amy whispered against her ear, her breath hot. "Now, stay still. Harry’s got a solution for those tired eyes of yours."
Harry came back into the kitchen, a black silk tie dangling from his fist. He didn't look angry anymore; he looked settled, like he was finally in his element. He stepped into Y/n’s space, his thighs brushing against her shoulders as he looked down at her.
"Since you can’t seem to focus on your notes without losing your mind," Harry said, his voice low and steady, "we’re going to take away everything else. No more reading. No more looking at us. Just feeling what we do to you."
He stepped behind her, the silk sliding coolly over her burning eyes. He pulled it tight, knotting it at the back of her head until everything went pitch black. Y/n’s world narrowed down to the sound of Harry’s breathing and the weight of Amy’s hand still heavy on her neck. Her lips were still shaking, her chest heaving as she waited for the next touch.
"Good girl," Harry murmured, his hand finally coming out of his pocket to slide into her hair, tugging just enough to make her whimper. "Now, don't move. Don't speak. Just wait for us."
He leaned in close to her ear, his voice a ghost of a threat. "If I hear one more sound out of that mouth that isn't a thank you, we're going to have a very different kind of night. You understand?"
She nodded.
He reached down, his large hands sliding under her armpits, and hauled her off her knees like she weighed nothing. Before she could find her footing, he hoisted her up and slammed her back onto the cold kitchen counter, right over the mess of her useless notes.
"Hands and knees," he grunted, his voice thick and commanding. "Now."
Y/n scrambled to obey, her palms flat against the laminate, her blindfold making the world a disorienting void of heat and friction. She heard the sharp rasp of a zipper and then felt Harry’s rough palms on her hips, his fingers digging into her skin as he yanked her leggings down. He didn't be gentle about it; he manhandled her, his grip bruising and certain as he bared her to the chilled air of the kitchen.
While Harry was busy at her back, Amy moved in from the front. Her hands were smaller but just as relentless, her rings cold against Y/n’s skin as she bunched up her shirt and pulled it over her head. Y/n felt the snap of her bra being undone, her breasts spilling out into the open.
"Look at her," Amy purred, her voice vibrating right against Y/n's collarbone. She reached out, her thumb and forefinger catching a nipple and rolling it until Y/n let out a jagged, broken moan. "So much noise for a girl who’s supposed to be quiet."
Harry was right behind her now, his heat radiating off his chest and pressing into her spine. He didn't waste time. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of her lace underwear and tore them down her thighs, leaving her completely exposed. His hand, large and calloused, slid between her legs, his palm cupping her heat with a heavy, possessive pressure.
"She's soaking," Harry noted, his voice a low growl in her ear. He slid two fingers deep inside her, his thumb grinding against her clit with a rhythm that made her vision swim behind the silk tie. "All that screaming and she was just frustrated. Is this what you wanted? To be handled?"
Y/n’s head thrashed, her forehead pressing into the counter as Amy leaned over her, her mouth finding Y/n's neck again, sucking and biting at the sensitive skin. She was caught between them—Harry’s fingers stretching her open, working her over with a brutal, steady pace, and Amy’s hands roaming over her chest, teasing her until she was nothing but a mess of raw nerves.
She wasn't a student anymore. She wasn't a nanny. She was just a thing for them to play with, a body reacting to every sharp pull and heavy thrust of their fingers.
"Please," Y/n whimpered, her back arching like a bow as Harry shoved a third finger into her, his knuckles bruising and relentless. She was slick, her heat drenching his hand as he pumped into her with a rhythmic, heavy thud.
She was right on the edge, her breath coming in jagged, pathetic hitches. Her internal muscles clamped around him, her body ready to snap—but the moment she started to go over, she let her posture sag, her spine rounding as she tried to sink into the pleasure.
Crack.
A stinging, open-palmed slap caught her square across her soaking cunt. The sound was deafening in the quiet kitchen. Y/n let out a choked, strangled shriek, her knees buckling instantly. She would have hit the floor if Harry’s hand hadn't shot out to catch her throat, pinning her back against the counter while his other hand forced her thighs even wider.
"I didn't tell you to relax," Harry growled, his voice a dark, vibrating threat against her ear. "Keep that ass up. You don't get to come until I say so."
He didn't give her a second to recover. He jammed his fingers back inside her, harder this time, bottoming out against her cervix with a brutal, steady pace that had her sobbing into her blindfold.
While Harry worked her over from behind, Amy reached out and grabbed the crumpled system design notes. She smoothed them out on the counter right under Y/n’s nose, her eyes scanning the diagrams with intelligence.
"System design," Amy murmured, her voice dripping with a mocking kind of boredom. "I know this shit backwards and forwards."
She looked up, giving Harry a sharp, glaring look that said she was done playing nice. Amy leaned over Y/n, her hand sliding down to catch Y/n’s chin, forcing her head back until she was looking up at the ceiling she couldn't see.
"You’re failing this because you're too busy being a brat," Amy hissed, her free hand wandering down to where Harry was still railing Y/n with his fingers. She shoved her own fingers into the mess, joining him, the two of them stretching Y/n to the absolute limit. "Maybe if you focused on being a good little hole for us, your brain wouldn't be so fried."
Amy leaned in closer, her lips brushing against Y/n’s burning ear, her voice dropping to a cruel, velvety whisper that made Y/n’s stomach do a backflip.
"Tell you what, sweetheart," Amy purred, her fingers working in tandem with Harry’s to keep Y/n’s core pulsing and raw. "Since you’re so worried about your grades, let’s have a real exam. I’m going to ask you five questions on this system design bullshit. If you get three right, you get to come tonight. We'll let you melt into the counter."
She paused, her hand moving from Y/n’s chin to wrap firmly around her throat, squeezing just enough to make Y/n’s breath hitch.
"But if you don't..." Amy let out a low, mocking laugh that sent a chill straight down Y/n’s spine. "If you fail me, we’re going to use you however the fuck we want. You’ll be going into that test tomorrow so sexually frustrated you won’t be able to think straight. And don't even think about trying to get yourself off in the dorms—we’ll know. We’ll check. And the punishment for that? It'll leave you fucked out and walking sideways for days."
Harry groaned behind her, his thick, hard cock twitching against the small of her back as he waited for the signal to destroy her. He didn't just stand there; he reached down and grabbed her by the waist, hauling her forward until her chest was smashed flat against her notes on the kitchen island. He pulled her so far over the edge that her toes were barely scraping the floor, her weight supported entirely by the counter and his bruising grip.
With one hand pinning her down, Harry used the other to stroke himself right against the crack of her ass. He was massive, a hot, throbbing weight that felt like a heated iron rod against her skin. He let out a low, guttural huff as he slicked himself with her own moisture, preparing to split her open.
"First question, brat," Amy hissed, slapping the paper right in front of Y/n’s blindfolded face, the sound sharp and demanding. "Which scaling method eliminates a single point of failure by distributing the load across multiple independent nodes? Answer me while Harry’s inside you, or it’s an automatic fail."
The kitchen island was a mess, as Harry’s massive hands clamped onto Y/n’s waist. With a rough, sudden heave, he hauled her upward, spinning her body mid-air until her spine slammed against the cold counter. He didn’t give her a second to catch her breath before he was grabbing her ankles, shoving her knees back toward her shoulders until she was forced wide open, her vulnerability fully exposed under the harsh, clinical kitchen lights.
"Answer me!" Amy barked, leaning over Y/n’s trembling frame, her eyes cold and predatory. She didn't wait for a response before her hand snaked down, her fingers finding the slick, engorged heat of Y/n’s center. She began to flick her clit with a brutal, sharp rhythm—a stinging, relentless friction that sent jagged sparks of overstimulation through Y/n's nerves. "Focus, you pathetic little slut! Horizontal or vertical? Choose carefully."
Y/n was a map of raw ruin. Her labia were dark, swollen, and dripping with a thick, translucent cream that smeared across the counter and Harry’s thighs as he lunged back in. The sound was a rhythmic, disgusting, wet thud—flesh slapping against flesh as he buried himself to the hilt, stretching her weeping entrance until the skin turned a pale, taut pink from the tension.
"She’s stalling, babe," Harry growled, his voice a low vibration that Y/n felt in her very marrow. He pulled back nearly all the way, teasing the sensitive walls of her core, and then lunged back in, his weight throwing her further onto the island with every punishing strike.
Amy’s sneer deepened as she watched Y/n’s thighs quiver uncontrollably, slick with a mix of her own heat and Harry's sweat. She pinned the hypersensitive, pulsing nub of Y/n’s clit against the bone, the sharp pressure making Y/n’s toes curl and her back arch off the laminate.
"Look at you," Amy hissed, her voice dripping with disdain. "Spread so wide, leaking all over the island like a broken toy. Give me an answer, or I’ll let him break you apart right here."
Harry’s breath hitched, a low, guttural sound, as he gripped her thighs one last time, pulling out with a wet, suctioning pop that left Y/n’s entrance twitching and weeping onto the laminate.
He stepped back, the sudden void leaving her cold and gasping, her legs still hooked back toward her shoulders, trembling uncontrollably.
Amy stepped into the space Harry had vacated, her shadow looming over Y/n’s exposed, pulsing heat. Her eyes were dark, devoid of any mercy as she looked down at the mess they’d made.
"Still nothing?" Amy purred, though the edge in her voice was lethal. "Still too pathetic to even choose your own ruin?"
Without warning, Amy reared back and delivered a brutal, full-palmed slap directly to Y/n’s open cunt.
Amy didn't wait for the answer. She just swung. The crack of her palm against Y/n's heat was the only sound in the kitchen, a sharp, stinging shock that sent a jolt straight to her teeth. Y/n's knees buckled instantly, her breath hitching into a pathetic, broken sob.
"Answer me!" Amy hissed, her hand hovering just inches from the throbbing, swollen mess she’d just made.
Y/n’s head thrashed against the counter, her nails screeching against the wood as she tried to find air. Her vulva was a map of raw sensation—pulsing, engorged, and dripping a fresh, translucent slickness that smeared across her reddened skin. The slap had sent a jolt of pure, agonizing electricity straight to her clit, leaving it heavy and hypersensitive, twitching with a life of its own.
Harry watched from the shadows, his chest heaving, his eyes fixed on the way Y/n’s thighs quivered and buckled under Amy’s shadow.
"She’s breaking, Amy," Harry murmured.
Amy didn’t look at him. She leaned down, her fingers hooking into the edges of Y/n’s stinging entrance, pulling the swollen folds apart to inspect the damage. "She isn't broken yet," Amy whispered, her thumb pressing down hard into the center of the fresh, hot welt she’d just delivered. "Are you, you useless little thing? Now. Horizontal or vertical? If I have to hit you again, I won't use my hand."
The silence that followed the slap was heavy, broken only by Y/n’s jagged, pathetic whimpers. Her thighs were still twitching, the skin of her inner labia a deep, angry rose from Amy’s palm. Finally, through the tears and the haze of overstimulation, she choked it out.
"Horizontal," Y/n sobbed, her voice a wrecked thread. "Horizontal, please..."
Amy’s predatory stiffness vanished, replaced by a slow, terrifyingly beautiful smirk. She didn't move away. Instead, she leaned in closer, her eyes locked on the way Y/n’s core was still pulsing, weeping fresh, hot slickness onto the counter.
"Good girl," Amy purred, the sudden change in her tone almost more destabilizing than the cruelty. "I knew there was a brain in there somewhere."
Amy didn’t waste another second. She gripped Y/n’s thighs, her thumbs digging into the soft flesh to wrench her even wider, exposing every sensitive, stinging inch of her to the air. Then, she dipped her head.
The first contact was a long, slow lap—Amy’s tongue was hot and sandpaper-rough as it swiped from the very bottom of Y/n’s aching entrance all the way up to the swollen, throbbing nub of her clit. Y/n’s hips bucked off the tile, a sharp gasp catching in her throat as the stinging pain of the slap was instantly drowned out by a flood of pure, liquid heat.
Amy was relentless. She buried her face in the mess, her nose pressing against Y/n’s hood while her tongue worked with a wicked, expert rhythm. She sucked the hypersensitive bead into her mouth, swirling against it until Y/n’s cries of frustration broke, pitching higher and turning into raw, shameless wails of pleasure.
Harry stepped back in, his large hands coming up to pin Y/n’s wrists to the island, watching with dark intensity as Amy feasted. Y/n was completely undone, her back arching into a bow, her heels digging into Harry’s shoulders for leverage as her mind finally snapped. The kitchen was filled with the sound of Amy’s wet, greedy laps and the frantic, rhythmic slapping of Y/n’s thighs against the counter as she spiraled toward a shattering peak.
Just as her back arched and her toes curled with the first ripple of a climax, Amy felt the tension. With a sharp laugh, she ripped her mouth away.
"Not yet," Amy hissed.
She didn't let Y/n drift. Instead, she started slapping Y/n’s clit—hard, rhythmic cracks that sounded like a whip against wet pavement. Each blow was a stinging reset that turned the budding orgasm into a jagged ache.
Harry stepped back in, hooking Y/n’s knees and hiking them toward her chest until she was folded in half. He slid back in with a heavy grunt, stretching her weeping entrance to the limit.
"Focus, slut," Harry growled, his hips grinding into her as he established a punishing, bottom-heavy rhythm.
Amy leaned over her, eyes cold. Between Harry’s deep thrusts and the constant sting of Amy’s palm hitting her cunt, the questions started again. Rapid fire. Cruel.
One. Two. Three.
Y/n’s mind was a wreck, but the fear of being left empty and sexually frustrated pushed her through. On the fourth correct answer, Amy’s face shifted into a dark, satisfied hunger.
"Clever little thing," Amy whispered.
She surged forward, her mouth crashing against Y/n’s in a bruising kiss. While they tangled tongues, Amy shoved her own fingers—slick with Y/n’s cream—into Y/n’s mouth, forcing her to suck on them like a toy.
Amy pulled her fingers from Y/n’s mouth with a wet pop. She reached for the belt of her robe, yanking it loose and letting the silk slide off her shoulders to the floor. She climbed onto the island, her knees boxing Y/n’s head in as she lowered herself.
The contact was immediate—Amy’s wet, hot center pressing firmly against Y/n’s mouth, cutting off her air.
"Drink me in, you little slut," Amy commanded, her voice a low vibration Y/n could feel against her lips.
Harry didn’t miss a beat. He leaned over Y/n’s bucking frame, his large hands pinning her shoulders as he crashed his mouth against Amy’s. They kissed with a frantic, bruising hunger, their tongues tangling over Y/n’s muffled sobs. The sight of them—her two masters connecting over her broken, used body—fueled something primitive in Y/n’s core.
Harry’s thrusts became violent, a rhythmic, heavy wreckage that shook the entire island. He wasn't teasing anymore; he was slamming into her, his pelvis hitting her bruised thighs with a disgusting, meaty thud. The scene was obscene, and Y/n mentally thanked them for sending Oliver next door instead of his own room.
Locked in their own heat, Harry and Amy used Y/n like a living vice. The pressure from Amy’s weight on her face and the relentless friction from Harry below pushed Y/n over the edge. Her back arched into a sharp bow, her fingers desperately scratching at the laminate as her vision whited out.
In no time, Y/n’s body gave up. A frantic, high-pitched wail was lost against Amy’s skin as she began to squirt, a hot pulse that spread everywhere. The string soaked Harry’s thighs and splattered across the counter. Her entrance clamped down on him, twitching in a series of violent, uncontrollable spasms, her cheeks full of tears.
Amy pulled back from the kiss, looking down at the shaking, sobbing mess beneath her. She felt the spray against her own inner thighs and let out a cold, mocking laugh.
"Look at this," Amy sneered, grinding her weight down to stifle Y/n's gasping breaths. "You’re leaking everywhere. A total, mindless mess. Do you see how pathetic you look, Y/n? Drowning in your own filth while we don't even have to look at you."
Harry’s breath hitched, a low, gutteral rattle in his chest as he reached his limit. With a final, violent thrust that buried him to the hilt, he jerked back, pulling out with a wet, suctioning snap. He didn't waste a drop inside her; instead, he gripped his length and painted her stomach with thick, hot ropes of cream, the pale slickness sliding down her sweat-soaked skin and pooling in her navel.
He leaned over Y/n’s shaking frame, ignoring her sobbing gasps as he crashed his mouth against Amy’s once more. They kissed with a frantic, bruising hunger, their tongues tangling over the wreckage they’d made of her. Harry’s hands stayed pinned on Y/n’s shoulders, using her as a literal brace while he tasted the salt and heat on Amy’s lips.
Amy pulled back just an inch, her eyes blown wide and dark with a lethal high. She shifted her weight, sliding her dripping heat directly over Y/n’s mouth.
"Clean it up, slut," Amy hissed, her voice dripping with venomous authority.
She forced Y/n’s head back against the stone, her thighs clamping like a vice around Y/n's face. Amy began to grind her swollen, aching center against Y/n’s lips, demanding every bit of her tongue. Y/n had no choice but to drink her in, her muffled whines lost against Amy’s skin as the woman used her mouth like a mindless toy. She was crying, her mind foggy from the orgasm while she tried her best to make her cum.
Amy’s fingers tangled in Y/n’s hair, yanking her head back to expose her throat while she ground her weight down. There was no finesse in the movement—just the raw, heavy pressure of Amy’s slick heat crushing against Y/n’s mouth. Amy’s breath came in jagged stabs, her hips snapping in a frantic rhythm as she used Y/n’s face to reach the ledge.
The friction was relentless. Y/n’s tongue worked desperately, her muffled whines lost against Amy’s skin until Amy finally stiffened. With a sharp, broken cry, Amy’s walls clamped down, her climax hitting with a violent shudder that forced Y/n’s head hard against the stone.
She didn’t let up, and kept grinding herself against her tongue while she rode out her orgasm. After a few seconds, she let up, but she wasn’t done.
"Clean it," Amy panted. "Every drop, slut. Don't let a bit of me go to waste."
Y/n obeyed, her mind a static-filled void as she licked the salt and cream from her own lips and Amy’s thighs.
When she finally tried to slide off the counter, the floor didn’t feel solid. Her feet touched the tiles, but her knees just... gave out. She went down hard, her body collapsing into a shaky heap.
The heavy, suffocating heat that had filled the kitchen for the last hour vanished instantly. In its place was a sudden, quiet stillness.
"Easy, baby," Harry murmured. The sharp, jagged edge was gone from his voice, replaced by a low, steady rumble. He was on the floor with her in a second, his big hands tucking under her arms to keep her steady. He didn't try to make her stand; he just let her sit there so she wouldn't fall again.
Amy knelt down in front of her. The mean, mocking look she’d been wearing was gone. She reached out, her thumb catching a stray tear on Y/n’s cheek. "You went pretty far under that time," she whispered, her voice soft and maternal. "Just breathe. We’ve got you."
Harry stepped away for a moment and came back with a warm and damp cloth. There was no aggression left in him as he knelt between her legs. He was careful, almost clinical, as he wiped the mess from her skin with slow, soothing strokes. He didn’t say a word, just focused on cleaning her up and bringing her back to earth.
Amy slipped into the hallway and came back with a pile of soft clothes—Y/n’s favorite big T-shirt and some leggings. She worked quietly, sliding the shirt over Y/n’s head and gently guiding her limp arms through the sleeves.
"Drink this," Amy said, holding a glass of cold water to her lips. She was patient, waiting while Y/n took small, shivering sips before unwrapping a granola bar. "Eat a little. You need the sugar. Your heart was going a mile a minute."
Y/n let her head fall back against Harry’s chest. The contrast was dizzying—going from the wreck of the last hour to this quiet, tender care. She felt hollowed out, her body still humming with the aftershocks of everything that had happened.
"You back with us?" Harry asked. He kept his hand flat against her lower back, rubbing slow, warm circles into her skin.
Y/n gave a small, tired nod. The water helped clear the fog in her brain, and the kitchen felt normal again—just the hum of the fridge and the two of them watching over her. They helped her up slowly, letting her lean against the counter for support.
As they settled into the calm, Harry leaned in close. The gentleness didn't go away, but a flicker of that old authority came back into his eyes. He gave her a long look that made her breath hitch.
"I hope you heard us," Harry snarled, his fist yanking her head back while Amy’s nails bit into her hip. "Next time, we won't just use fingers. We’ll have you fucked raw and split open until you can't walk for a week. You’re our toy—don't you fucking forget who you belong to."
***
tell me if you liked this! my inbox is open for requests
Hi can you make one where Harry is super jealous and possesive? With daddy kink and some punishment please,I love LOVE everything you write, you are my favorite here🩷
here it is! it's not too much on the "super" thing but I tried, hope you like it
mad*
words: ~1k
warnings: possessiveness, daddy kink, unprotected p in v sex in multiple positions, spanking, sort of dacryphilia, multiple orgasms
***
“Did I allow you to move?”
“No, no–no” you stammered, gulping hard as you brace for impact.
The spank still hits you off guard. The sting is delicious, and the way his arm grabs your ass and spreads it open as he fucks into you over and over again, it feels too good.
Too good to be apologetic.
He pulls out, his cock glistening in your juices as a spank hits you on your cunt.
“Ah, oh fuck-”
“Shut up. You fell on him.” another spank, and it makes you wetter, somehow.
“You spilled your drink all over yourself and gave him a nice view of your tits.” another spank, and he spits on it then, the wetness landing on your clit. His fingers get to work then, spreading it around and playing with the tiny bundle of nerves, making you whimper as you struggle to hold eye contact
“That jerk is probably jerking himself off, imagining these” he grabs your right breast, and bites the nipples “when he knows that I own you” he does the same to the left one, and you’re this close to sobbing.
“He knows that I’m the only one who gets you fuck you silly till you beg me to stop, because you’ve cum too much”
He holds your waist with both hands, and pushes back in, and your back arches off the bed. He pulls out, and pushes back in, with too much force, just to see you wince.
You bite your lip, holding the bedsheet like a vice.
“Say it”
“It-it hurts-”
“What hurts?”
“You-your-”
“My what?” he spanks your clit again, before pushing back in and bottoming out, letting you feel all of him.
You let out a strangled sob, eyes watery as you speak properly for the first time that night.
“You’re being cruel!” you almost yell, and he just stares at you.
“You’re being a dick over something that wasn’t even my fault! I didn’t know I was going to trip over and embarrass myself!”
“Didn’t you?”
“No! I didn’t”
“Didn’t you?” He starts moving now, slow, deep strokes that make it harder to concentrate on the conversation.
“I told you that dress and those heels were a bad combination. That dress is difficult to carry. And you wore that with the highest heels just to piss me off”
You pout, making a small face. You know he is right.
“Am I right?” he asks.
You look away immediately, staring out the window. He grabs your chin and makes you look at him.
He arches his brow, and reluctantly, you nod.
“Words, y/n”
“Yes” you speak, in the smallest voice possible.
He pulls out, and begins to get off the bed.
You get up abruptly, shuffling after him.
“What-what are you doing? We-we’re not done”
He stands up, looking for his boxers. “We are. You can't admit that you were wrong, you don’t get my cock”
Your mouth drops open, and you grab his wrist.
“I said-yes. Maybe you didn’t hear”
He turns to you fully, tall and intimidating as he hovers over you.
“Say it again.”
“What?”
“You know what”
“I–I’m sorry”
“And?”
“I–It was my fault, I should have listened to you, and I didn’t. I embarrassed myself, and you, and-and accidentally flashed somebody”
He chuckles, and you smile
“So you’re not mad at me anymore?”
His eyes darken, and he pushes you onto the bed. He flips you around, and positions you on your hands and knees.
His hands grab your throat, and pull you flush against him. His cock is just behind you, lined up against your ass, thick and hard.
You gulp.
“I am. I am mad at you. And you’re going to make it up to me”
“How?”
His grip on your neck tightens
“How-how, daddy?”
He smirks.
“I’m going to fuck you. And make you cum. As much as I want. And you’re going to thank me for every orgasm I give you tonight.”
You nod, knowing he will keep his promise.
“Understand?”
“Yes-yes, daddy” you nod.
“Good girl.” He pushes in in one go, and holds you against him, feeling your throat tighten as he sets a brutal pace.
“Oh-oh fuck–”
His other hand finds your clit, strumming against it like he plays his guitar, driving you crazy. Your legs fall open wider, and it’s not long before you fall apart, falling onto the bed as he fucks you through your orgasm.
His hands finds you ass, squeezing it, making you say it.
“Th-thank you, daddy”
You’re rewarded with a kiss to your back.
His speed slows down into shallow thrusts. He lets you ride your orgasm, and wipes the tears escaping the corner of your eyes.
A few seconds later, he’s back to his punishing pace, and you sob into the bed as you pussy throbs. You pout, but it doesn't take long for your eyes to roll into the back of your head, another orgasm rolling through you.
“You’re going to cum 7 times tonight. One for each inch of that heel you wore to piss me off”
hi! I'm back after 3-ish months. my sister got married and these 3 months have been a lot.
but hopefully, I'm back now for good and I'm going to start posting again. I also wrote a new pirate story which I will be putting up in the shop soon:)
hi babe! i bought recently one of your stories but something went wrong so i thinkkk i get a refund tomorrow :( will be buying again butttt theres just an error on my side? Hope ur doing great! just wanted to let u know thats ur great
hi! i wrote this story as a part of a commision, and now i am putting it up on my shop. its called "daddy's little girl"
harry is a kidnapper in this one, who kidnaps y/n and takes her to his cabin in the woods where he molds her to be his little girl (ddlg dynamic: both adults)
cw: kidnapping, heavy use of tranquilizers/sedatives, dubcon/noncon elements. also includes heavy use of bondage and other equipments. also read individual warnings before each chapter. one chapter is heavy ddlg.
you can buy it here
a blurb from the story: you can read it here before buying
halloween gang bang
CONTENTS OF THE STORY:
CHAPTERS:
1. A Tuesday
2. The abduction
3. Mine now
4. Eager Little Thing
STANDALONES:
The sundress
A porno
Anal Play
DDLG
Halloween Gang Bang
The doctor’s visit
summary: something inspired by the recent louvre heist. this is a slow burn, let me know if you like this part and there will be more
words: 3.1k
warnings: kissing, teasing
***
Harry Styles was a good detective. The kind people in the department called a natural—sharp eyes, quick mind, never too loud but always in control of the room. He’d been in the force long enough to know when to talk and when to listen, when a silence gave away more than a confession ever could. His colleagues joked that he could read a person before they even opened their mouth. Maybe that was true. But it didn’t help him much outside the job.
He was in his early thirties, tall, lean from years of running after suspects and skipping proper meals. His green eyes had that restless light, the kind that never really softened, even when he smiled. There was always something behind them—some calculation, some unspoken curiosity. He had a crooked grin that used to work like a charm when he was younger, before the late nights and half-finished cases dulled its edge. His hair was dark, always a little too long for regulation, brushed back carelessly with his fingers. His suits carried the faint smell of gun oil and coffee, his badge the faint scratches of wear.
He’d had relationships, sure, but none that lasted. Cop life didn’t leave much space for someone else. People got tired of canceled dinners, of the phone ringing at midnight, of him coming home still half-anchored to a crime scene. After a while, he stopped trying too hard. He told himself he was fine that way—better alone, cleaner, quieter. But sometimes, when the night stretched too long and his apartment felt like a waiting room, he caught himself wishing for someone who didn’t mind the mess.
That evening had been one of those nights. A long case closed, a suspect in custody, his body running on caffeine and habit. He didn’t plan to go anywhere special—just wanted a drink somewhere dim, somewhere he didn’t have to think. The kind of bar that didn’t ask questions. He found one near the river, an old place with brass fixtures and soft light, and stepped inside with the easy confidence of a man who’d seen too much but still wanted to pretend the world could surprise him.
The bar was small and half-empty, the kind of place that collected secrets instead of noise. A saxophone murmured low from the old speakers, and the air smelled faintly of oak and smoke. Harry took a seat at the counter, loosened his tie, and nodded to the bartender. “Whiskey,” he said. “Neat.” The first sip burned in a way that felt like relief.
He let his eyes wander, more from habit than curiosity—faces, hands, postures, a thousand small tells his mind catalogued without effort. Then he saw her.
She sat alone in a corner booth, framed by the dim light like she belonged there more than anyone else. Red dress, silk maybe, the kind that caught the glow of every flickering candle and made it look like it was alive on her skin. Her hair fell over one shoulder, and her lipstick matched the dress perfectly, too perfect, like she’d planned it that way. She wasn’t looking around or waiting for anyone. She just sat there, back straight, glass of whiskey in hand, her gaze fixed on something only she could see.
Something in the quiet pull of her presence caught him. He’d seen a hundred beautiful women in a hundred bars, but there was something about her that didn’t fit the usual pattern. No phone in her hand, no glance at the door, no restless shifting. Just calm. Controlled. Untouchable.
Harry turned slightly, pretending to check the mirror behind the bar, studying her reflection instead. She looked younger than him, but not by much. He watched the way she lifted her glass—slow, deliberate, her red nails glinting against the amber liquid.
He told himself he wasn’t going to say anything. That he’d finish his drink and leave. But she shifted just enough to glance his way, and that single look—brief, knowing, almost amused—was all it took.
He stood, smoothed his jacket, and crossed the room.
Her eyes met his as he stopped at the edge of the booth. Up close, they were impossible to read, the kind of eyes that could make a man forget he’d come over with a plan.
“Mind if I sit?” he asked, his voice roughened by the whiskey and the hour.
She looked at him for a long moment, eyes moving over his face like she was reading something written there. Then she nodded once, slow. “If you’re buying the next round.”
Harry smiled, small and lopsided. “That’s the easiest deal I’ve made all week.” He slipped into the seat across from her. The atmosphere was weirdly warmer here than the booth, and he caught the faint trace of her perfume—smoke and something floral he couldn’t name.
“You look like trouble,” she said, resting her chin on her hand.
“Occupational hazard.”
“Cop?”
He blinked, surprised. “That obvious?”
“Only to someone who’s been watched before,” she said, taking a sip of her drink.
Harry leaned back, studying her. “You have a good eye.”
“I have to,” she said. “I like knowing what I’m getting into.”
“And what do you think you’re getting into now?”
Her mouth curved. “You tell me, detective.”
He laughed quietly, shaking his head. “You’re quick.”
“I get bored easily.”
“That so?”
She hummed, tracing a circle on the rim of her glass with one finger. “So far, you’re holding my attention.”
There was a pause then—not awkward, but tight, charged. The kind of silence that felt like it was meant to be broken by something other than words. He wanted to ask her name, but it felt like the wrong move, too ordinary for the moment.
“You come here often?” he asked instead.
“Sometimes.”
“Alone?”
Her eyes flicked up to his, a spark there now. “Until someone interesting shows up.”
He didn’t look away. “Glad I could help with that.”
She smiled—not wide, just enough to make his pulse catch. “Don’t thank me yet. I haven’t decided if you’re worth the whiskey.”
“I could try to convince you.”
“I’m sure you could.” She leaned in a little, voice low. “But I like watching men work for it.”
He couldn’t help the grin that tugged at his mouth. “You’re not making it easy.”
“Wouldn’t be any fun if I did.”
He laughed under his breath, the sound low and warm. “No, I don’t suppose it would,” he said, letting his eyes linger a second too long. Her lips curved like she could feel the weight of his stare.
“So what is fun for you?” she asked.
He tilted his head, that lazy grin returning. “Depends who’s asking.”
“Someone who doesn’t mind getting into trouble.”
His pulse jumped. The way she said it wasn’t flirty so much as a promise wrapped in silk. The kind of line that makes a man forget logic, clocks, everything.
He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, his voice dropping to match hers. “You should be careful with talk like that. I might start thinking you mean it.”
“I only say what I mean,” she murmured, eyes on his mouth now.
For a second, he thought she was going to close the distance between them. The air felt thick, heavy with whatever it was building in that small booth. Her perfume curled around him, and his heartbeat thudded somewhere in his throat. He could almost feel it—the slide of her voice, the heat that would follow if she leaned in just an inch more.
But instead she smiled, tipping her glass toward him. “Looks like we need another round.”
He stood, smoothing his jacket again, steadying himself with a quiet breath. “Don’t move,” he said, half teasing, half hoping.
“I’ll be right here,” she said, and it sounded like a lie that he wanted to believe.
He went to the bar, ordered two more whiskeys, kept her in his peripheral the whole time. The bartender poured slow, chatting about nothing, and Harry nodded without really listening. His mind was still in that booth, the shape of her smile replaying behind his eyes.
When he turned back, the booth was empty.
For a moment, he just stood there, glasses in hand, scanning the room. The red dress was gone. The candle still flickered where she’d been sitting, her glass empty. On the table lay a few folded bills—more than enough for their drinks—and a small tip resting neatly beside them.
Harry set the glasses down, shook his head and exhaled a quiet laugh through his nose.
She’d vanished as easily as she’d appeared.
He slid into the booth again, looking at the space she’d left, the faint smear of lipstick on her glass, the smell of her perfume still clinging to the air. He didn’t know her name, where she’d gone, or why his pulse was still racing like he’d just chased someone down an alley.
But he knew one thing for sure—she’d left him wanting, and he had a feeling he would meet her again.
—
Three nights later, he found himself back at that same bar. He told himself it was for the quiet, for the whiskey, for the comfort of familiar shadows—but when he pushed through the door, he already knew what he was hoping for.
The place looked the same: low lights, soft music, the faint hum of conversation. But when his eyes adjusted, he saw her.
Same corner booth. Different dress.
This one was black, satin, the kind that clung like it had been poured on her. The neckline dipped low enough to make his pulse stumble, the slit in the skirt showing just enough to make him forget why he’d even stopped coming here. Her hair was down this time, loose around her shoulders, catching the dim light in a way that made her look more dangerous than beautiful.
He stood there longer than he meant to, just watching. She hadn’t seen him yet, and he took a moment to get his breathing under control, though it didn’t help much. He’d thought about her more than he wanted to admit—usually late, after too many drinks, when the apartment felt too quiet. Every time he closed his eyes, it was that red dress, that smile, that last glance before she’d disappeared. He’d imagined what might have happened if he hadn’t gone to the bar for that second round.
Now she was here again, as if she’d stepped straight out of one of those thoughts to torment him.
When she finally noticed him, her expression didn’t shift much. Just the faintest trace of a smile, slow, deliberate, like she’d been waiting for him to find her again.
Harry crossed the room before he could think better of it.
“You’ve got a bad habit of disappearing,” he said, stopping by her table.
“You’ve got a bad habit of looking for me,” she replied, her voice soft, smooth, like she already knew exactly how he’d sound saying her name—if he ever learned it.
He exhaled a laugh, shaking his head. “I don’t usually chase people.”
“Maybe I’m not most people.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
She gestured toward the seat across from her, that same effortless grace that had hooked him the first time. “Sit. You look like you could use a drink.”
He slid in, eyes never leaving her. “Depends. You planning to stay long enough for me to finish it this time?”
Her lips curved slightly. “Depends. Are you planning to buy this one?”
“Always,” he said, and it came out rougher than he meant it to.
The corner of her mouth twitched—she’d caught it. “You’ve been thinking about me.”
He laughed once, quiet. “You sound pretty sure about that.”
“Your eyes give you away.”
He leaned back, fingers drumming lightly on the table, pretending to be at ease. “Maybe I have.”
Her gaze slid down his face, lingered at his mouth for a fraction too long before returning to his eyes. “Good,” she said simply.
The bartender came by, dropped off two drinks. Neither of them said thank you. The air between them had gone too still, too charged. Harry’s hand brushed hers as he reached for his glass, and she didn’t pull away.
“You left me with the check last time, didn’t let me pay” he said.
She smiled, soft and teasing. “Then let me make it up to you,” she said, voice light, eyes a little too warm.
He blinked, the edge in him melting right away. “Yeah? How?”
“Come on,” she murmured, slipping her hand into his, tugging him toward the door before he could think. The night air hit cool and sweet as they stepped out, streetlight gold pooling around them. Her laughter floated off the brick as they turned into the alley beside the car.
Then her hands were on him.
It wasn’t something Harry had seen happening tonight, not at all. But he wasn't complaining. . Her mouth found his, quick at first, then slower, deeper. His breath hitched, body leaning into hers like gravity had shifted. She pressed close, fingers tracing his jaw, his neck, tugging at his collar until he groaned, low and helpless.
Her kiss deepened until the rest of the street fell away, the quiet night replaced by the sound of their breathing—ragged, uneven. Her lips moved with purpose, soft and hot, and when she tilted her head and bit lightly at his lower lip, he made a sound he didn’t mean to, a low half-moan that melted into her mouth.
She didn’t stop. Her tongue brushed his, slow and teasing, tasting him, drawing him closer until his back hit the wall and she was pressed against his chest, both of them trembling with it. Her hands were everywhere: at his collar, in his hair, sliding down to the edge of his jacket. He could feel her pulse under his fingertips when he caught her waist, but she was already moving again, already leading.
Her lips trailed down the line of his throat, just barely touching, each kiss leaving a faint mark of warmth. He gasped, eyes half-closed, trying to keep up with her rhythm. The air between them was damp and sweet, smelling of her perfume and rain on asphalt.
When she came back to his mouth, she kissed him harder. Not careful anymore, just hungry. Their teeth bumped once, and she laughed quietly against him, the sound breathless, almost affectionate. He felt his knees go weak when she tugged on his lower lip, then soothed it with a slow stroke of her tongue.
He whispered her name, or tried to, but it came out rough, swallowed by another kiss. She answered by gripping his shirtfront, pulling him closer until there was nothing left between them but heat.
Then, without breaking eye contact, she caught the glint of metal at his hip. One cuff still clipped there from work. She smiled—small, knowing—and before he could speak, she caught his wrist, guided it to the cold iron bar of the window, and click.
The sound cut through the night.
He stared at her, breathless, lips swollen, chest rising fast. She leaned in again, brushing her lips against his one last time, slow and lingering, just enough to make him chase after her when she pulled back.
She looked at him—his wrist cuffed, his chest still heaving, his mouth red from her kisses—and smiled that slow, dangerous smile that always meant trouble. Her lipstick was half gone, a smear of it on his chin.
“Guess that evens us out,” she murmured, fingertips brushing his jaw, light as a tease.
Harry tugged once at the cuff, metal biting his wrist, but didn’t bother calling out. His chest still rose and fell too fast, his lips still warm from hers. He made a strangled sound, half laugh, half plea, but she was already stepping back, fixing her dress, hair messy in the streetlight and absolutely owning it.
She turned once more before walking away, eyes glittering with mischief. “Debt settled, detective.”
Then she left him there, cuffed to the window, his pulse still racing, the taste of her still on his tongue, and the kind of dazed smile only a man completely wrecked could wear.
—
It had been a week since the alley. Eight days since Harry had felt her lips, the clink of his own handcuffs, the sound of her heels echoing away. He’d replayed it more times than he’d ever admit—every breath, every tilt of her head, every flash of red in the dark.
Now his apartment was quiet, save for the hum of the fridge and the low rain outside. He’d just gotten home from the precinct—long day, new case, the kind that made even the most seasoned detectives curse under their breath.
The Louvre job.
Whoever had done it was brilliant. No prints. No cameras. No alarms tripped. Gone with half the collection’s crown pieces—paintings, jewels, rare things that should’ve been impossible to take, all vanished in a matter of minutes.
He loosened his tie, poured himself a glass of scotch, and sat down on the couch. The rain hit harder against the window. Then—three sharp knocks at the door.
He froze.
No one knocked this late.
When he opened it, the hallway was empty. Only a small velvet box sat on the floor, tied with a thin black ribbon. Beside it—a cream envelope with his name written in looping, deliberate handwriting.
Harry crouched down, heart beating faster than it should’ve. The scent hit him first—faint jasmine and smoke. Her perfume.
He picked up the envelope. The handwriting was unmistakable—elegant, confident, just like her. He tore it open carefully, eyes scanning the short, looping script.
Dinner. At Le Miroir. Tomorrow, 8 PM. Wear something pretty.
He exhaled through a sharp, quiet laugh, the kind that never reached his eyes. She was playing with him again, pulling the strings, knowing exactly how much he hated it—and how much he wanted more of it.
Then he turned to the box. Small, black, velvet. He untied the ribbon, the knot slipping apart too easily, as if she’d known he wouldn’t be able to resist.
Inside, on a bed of silk, lay an emerald pin. Bright as fire in green glass, elegant enough to belong in a museum.
He lifted it by the edge, turning it toward the light, studying the cut, the weight, the clarity. Years on the job had trained his eyes to spot details others missed—the faint hallmark at the clasp, the way the gem caught the light just so.
And he would be lying if he said the emerald didn’t look exactly like one of the ones stolen from the Louvre.
i have everything posted since 6/6/24 when i joined! 🐙🐙
oh my god - could you please, please, forward them to me, and please, take as much time as you want. over the next month, or till the end of the year? and only the longer stories (5k+ words), and series.
i am planning on starting another membership on subscribestar (as soon as it gets verified) and in exchange for helping me i could give you a couple months on there for free?
i just sent! if there is any of my personal information, please please please ignore! i am sad you lost your work and this was my favorite series you ever did!! it’s only right that it’s back with you! 🐙🐙🐙 if you didn’t get it just let me know!
girl I need ride a cowboy back please 🥹🥹🥹 anddd the last age gap gang boss harry you posted to patreon pleaseeeeee🥹
ride a cowboy ia unfortunately gone now 😭😭😭 it was only posted there but if any of you still have it on emails or anywhere i would really appreciate it
hi! been a while since i wrote and posted on here. kinkoctober 2025 collection is now available on my ko-fi shop. i would post writings here too i just need some time for that.
you can buy it for 5$ from here
it has 14 stories, and 32k words, total 100 pages.
here's an index of the stories, as well as a sample one you can read before you buy!
hi! been a while since i wrote and posted on here. kinkoctober 2025 collection is now available on my ko-fi shop. i would post writings here too i just need some time for that.
you can buy it for 5$ from here
it has 14 stories, and 32k words, total 100 pages.
here's an index of the stories, as well as a sample one you can read before you buy!
