just a tw: this an hs police au
content/warning: degradation, daddy kink, spitting, heavy spanking, exhibition, roleplay, etc. etc.
They had been in the middle of a telly binge session when she brought it up, and the statement was suggested so offhandedly that Harry thought he must have heard her wrong at first. He blinked. Turned his head to her. Blinked again. She wasn’t even looking at him, vision transfixed on the television. He wasn’t quite sure how the twenty-third episode of The Office prompted “can you be a little more rough in bed, honey?” so he had reached over to the coffee table for the remote.
And all he could come out with was, “What was that, dove?” in a voice sounding soft and absolutely bewildered.
“I love you,” she’d told him suddenly, seemingly afraid that she’d said the wrong thing.
“But I wish you’d slap me around more than just a little,” she supplied.
So. Not seemingly afraid she’d said the wrong thing. Harry seemingly had terrible judgement. He shifted slightly in his seat, turning fully towards her then, “...What do you mean?”
She chewed on the nail of her thumb, staring at his sinewy chest as if making sure she was using the correct terminology. Before she could respond, Harry wrapped his palm around her wrist, tugging the digit away from her lips.
“Don’t bite your nails,” he’d reminded her softly.
“Maybe we can roleplay,” Y/N suggested, gaze dancing from his own to his mouth restlessly. Roleplay? What more ideas had been hiding, brewing beneath her skull? And for how long? “Like. Maybe you can bring your car out to the back. Put on your uniform. Pretend you’re arresting me. And then...maybe just. Rough me up a bit?”
“Rough you up?” his brows had pinched, bemused. Settled, “Well, if we talk about what exactly you’re looking for, maybe I can deliver.”
It’s nearly midnight and her camaro is flying down some back-alley road, hurtling forward in the darkness. Trees rise overhead like teeth around her. A mouth waiting to swallow her whole. She lights a cigarette, pulls it from her mouth with a trembling hand. She doesn’t smoke, not anymore. Not often.
She slows considerably when she thinks she can make out another vehicle, glazed and glimmering under her headlights. It’s a white dodge charger, and the light illuminates its telltale detail. Sherriff. The headlights flicker on. It sits. Wastes only seconds before it emerges from the sidelines, wail prompting her to pull over.
“Officer,” Y/N starts, coy and shy. Inviting. The man rests his forearm on the top of her car, an expressionless curtain drawn over his face. He’s young. Swarthy from the Floridian sun’s gaze. But he’s not a native, the trace of an accent leaving hungry attraction in its wake.
“License and registration.” His tone is terse, leaves no room for flirting. Shit. She reaches into her glove compartment, hands it over with a dirty thrill climbing up her spine. He looks her ID over, eyes flicking to meet her face. Y/N wears a hopeful visage.
“Miss,” he glances back down at her documentation, “Y/L/N. D’you know just how fast you were going?”
“No, sir. But I should have paid more attention. Just in a rush to get home tonight, a little tired.”
“Right,” he draws his other arm up to the top, looms over her, “And you know how bad those are for you?”
Her mind illustrates it, now: the officer shirtless, uniform left strewn on the ground. Trousers still around his waist, just his dick sticking out through the zipper. He taunts her about “Punishment for smoking. I’ll show you just how bad cigarettes are.” His unfastened belt buckle digs into her skin as he takes her over the hood of his car, punching little gasps with each thrust. Like some cliche, hedonistically debauched pornography storyline.
“And you’re aware that the legal age to be in possession of Tobacco is twenty-one, now.”
He’s leering derisively at her. Hungrily. When she blinks, that impassive veil is back. Maybe it had never left.
“I’m sorry, sir. I thought it was still eighteen. I’m twenty-one next month.”
“Right. But you’re twenty, now. You’re in possession of it. And you were going about forty over the speed limit.”
She blinks. Pouts subtly. He sighs. Cicadas hum through the tension, gentle like a portend before the sound becomes an overpowering roar.
“Officer,” she glimpses at his nametag, “Styles. Isn’t there anything I can do?” Their song is still soft.
“Take a ticket. Watch your speed limit, next time.”
“I can’t take another ticket, sir,” she implores softly, eyes widening when he knicks her cigarette and throws it on the ground. Puts it out in the gravel with his boot.
“And don’t smoke,” his gaze is stern, brows pinched before they settle. A pith of familiarity spills, like traces of light cracking through poorly drawn blinds at dawn. “Get out of the car.”
“Step out of the car, Y/N.”
She swallows dryly, leaving the exhaust running before pushing the driver’s side door open. Sticks a foot out of the vehicle. The gravel crunches beneath her soles.
“That’s not very professional, calling me by my first name, Harry.”
“It’s sir or officer Styles to you,” he seethes through his teeth, dragging her by the ear to the hood of her car. The motion draws a subdued-sort-of sound. “Good girls don’t speed, and good girls don’t smoke.”
“I’m sorry, am I under arrest?” Y/N questions, tone appalled.
“I’ll give you two options,” he says, hand resting against her lower back. He could trace her hip. Flip up the hem of her sundress. Y/N trembles in anticipation, drunk on the thought of him discovering she’d left her panties off tonight. “You could take the ticket,” his palm lifts, fingers wandering to the edge of her attire, “Or,” The fingers test over the hem. Teasing. “You could take your punishment like a good girl and leave with a couple of welts. Which one is it?”
She croons in eager longing, inhale sharp when his nails dig into her thigh, crescent prints abaft his grip.
“Is that a gun or are you just happy to see me?” she looks back at him, eyes impish and lips quirking.
Her grin crumbles when he hikes the gown up swiftly, delivering a solid strike with his palm, “Oh yeah? We’re cheeky tonight? All that sass is going to be gone in a second, that’s a promise.” He hadn’t commented on her lack of underwear. Another hit lands.
“You’re not going to be speeding or smoking after tonight.”
“You’ll make sure of it?” she tacks on for him, high and giddy. His hand retracts. He sighs, again. She makes out the vague sound of a belt buckle clinking, chest thrumming desirously.
“You’ll be begging me to just give you a ticket,” he ensures firmly before the leather of his belt drags over her skin.
“Wait, I’m sorry,” she amends, solemn and regretful, “I’m sorry, don’t. I’ll stop.”
“You’ll stop?” His drawl is smooth behind her, dripping with a libidinous edge that spawns a warmth between her legs, “No, I don’t think you will.”
“I want you to really lay it on me,” she’d said, foot swinging as a telltale of uneasiness, “I want you to,” she’d paused, “hit me with your belt, maybe?”
“You want it that hard?” Harry sat up, processing, “Are you sure?”
“We can have a safeword,” Y/N assured, and the cogs in Harry’s head had turned. And turned. And turned.
The first strike burns, gradually, in a wave. Doesn’t hit her at first, punches a stunned gasp from her. The keen comes when the belt retracts. When the wave of fiery pain drives onto the shoreline, after.
“Please.” Another hit. Her legs fidget as she suppresses a groan. As the pain ebbs, a weak little current flowing away, pleasure blooms. Again. Y/N doesn’t stifle her noise this time, legs trembling and hand shooting back to cover herself. The officer doesn’t say anything, just grunts before a handcuff siezes the straying hand. She whines. Struggles when her other wrist is grappled for.
“If you realized how to play your cards right we wouldn’t be in this position, would we?” her hands are rendered useless when she tests the restraints. He leans back onto the hood, situating himself before hauling her over his lap. One leg situates atop her calves.
“Please, officer,” Y/N tries, before a litany rains upon her. He doesn’t focus on an area, just on the strength and speed of each strike. Structures his delivery. Doesn’t give her a window to vocalize between each hit. She moans, high and soft and sweet through the succession of three.
“Are you going to be a good girl?” He prompts, palm incessant.
“Yes, yes, fuck, yes,” she whimpers, hiccupy and concupiscent, “Yes, please.” Y/N can feel tears on her face, running down from her waterline through her makeup. Throbs in all the right places, cunt burning and wet.
He draws her up by her forearms, demeaning. Turns her around to gaze at her face. She’s sniffling, eyes watery and round. He hums, cheeks dimpling as a smirk of malice plays against his lips. Coos tauntingly, calloused finger brushing at the tears escaping. Perhaps the cicadas were never roaring.
“Aw, did I go too hard?” The officer says, brows creasing in pity before hardening in resolve. Her chest trembles in snivels when he reaches behind to caress her backside in harsh wanting. “Stop crying, or I’ll give you something to really cry about.”
She toes at the abandoned belt, gravel crunching. He squeezes harder. “Yes, sir.”
There’s a soft breeze in the night, a gentle, atmospheric lull. It envelopes them, before his palm retracts and his hands settle on the top of her dress. His fingers work deftly, undoing the buttons of her dress in ardor.
“Step out,” he commands, crouching to remove the garment. He crumples and flings it after she shakily treads over it. Steadies her with a warm press on her waist.
“Can you,” She licks her lips, the warmth thrumming at her core, “Can you take your shirt off?”
She meakly adds “sir” when he quirks a brow at her, eyes questioning. “I want - I want to feel your skin on mine when you fuck me.”
There’s a momentary glimpse of that same familiarity in his eyes, like when his scolding of her cigarette had hit too close to home. He doesn’t like it when she smokes. It’s gone.
“What makes you think I’m gonna fuck you?” He huffs, before his fingers get to work on his own button and zipper. She ogles his shaft as he pulls it out, hard and long and thick with desire.
“Because,” she sniffles softly, evening out her tone, “Because I know you want to fuck me.”
His eyes dance with cruelty, hard and cold, but his lips shift in mirth. A contradiction. The eyes win.
“Do you want to get on your knees or do you want me to pick the belt back up?” he glowers, grip tight in her hair. He guides her to the ground. “I’m gonna fuck that pretty, little mouth. Then, maybe I’ll fuck you. Depends how good your mouth is.”
She shifts, the floor digging into her skin like needles. Urging her on. She wraps her lips over his tip. Gasps when he pulls her back and slaps her.
“Did I tell you to do that?” Harry glares, voice hard and tongue sharp, “You’re a pathetic set of holes for me to use. You don’t decide when to do what. Get that through your head and this gets a lot easier and a lot more fun for the both of us.”
“Sorry,” she chokes, skin burning. Her head turns. The second hit isn’t nearly as hard as it is loud, but she flinches nonetheless.
“Sorry, sir,” She amends, loudly, gaze soft and lips trembling. He hums.
“Open your mouth, stick your tongue out,” Harry orders, bending down so their faces are close. Spits. “Keep your tongue out, don’t swallow.” Grasps his cock, rubs over her tongue with the head. Nearly groans from the sight. “Fuck. Dirty, little bitch.”
Harry takes a second, admires the pretty little portrait: bare and shivering, eyebrows slightly pinched from the rocks digging into her knees, pink tongue out and inviting against the underside of his dick. Fuck. She’s still handcuffed, wrists restrained behind her. Her chest rises and falls in anticipation, nipples pebbling under the night chill. He thrusts in to the hilt.
“Look at me,” he tells her when her eyelids shut, pinched in concentration, “I said, look at me,” he incites, weaving through her tendrils and tugging harshly. She meets his rigid gaze with her own, timid and wanting. Her throat jumps around his cock. “Shit, yeah, fucking slut, you like having your mouth fucked?”
Y/N moans wantonly around, chasing when he moves to retract. “Be a good little girl and stay still,” he exhorts, chest heaving when he thrusts back into her mouth, “Shit, know you love it when daddy uses you.” Love it, love it, love it, a mantra runs across her mind, love it, daddy, love it, daddy, every time he thrusts back in. “Yeah, just like that- fuck - always let daddy use all your pathetic, little holes to get himself off.”
His thrusts grow in rigor, harsh and unforgiving against her throat. “Don’t wanna cum, gonna pull out and fuck you.” Y/N groans in response. Yet, when he slows and grasps the base, she follows it, lips enclosing it as she suckles harder, tongue lapping against his crown.
He hauls her off with a harsh motion, tears her backward with a stiff grip, cock visibly throbbing. He doesn’t waste a second before smacking her. She sputters, a fresh wave of tears leaking across her cheeks.
“What the fuck did I tell you? Did I tell you I wanted to cum?”
“No,” she mewls, shoulders heaving gently as she bites her lip.
“No, I said no,” he echoes, before dragging her up by the underarm and encouraging her over the hood of the camaro, “I’m keeping my shirt on now, since you don’t know how to follow directions.”
His hand cracks down on her once before she feels his tip playing against her entrance. “Should’ve cum on your face, let you drive home like that.”
She whines, subservient and scornful, when his hips shift and he propels forward, hard and fast. “Was gonna eat you out, too,” he admits between thrusts, “Don’t think you deserve to cum tonight.”
“Please, please, please, Harry,” she wails, before she’s pulled back with a strong grip on her neck. “It’s sir or officer Styles,” he mouths the reminder against the shell of her ear.
He plunges into her and pulls out, the harsh drag of him leaving her raw.
“Please, sir, please can I cum?” the plead spills from her lips, loud and erotic in the silence. The woods sing around them, a melody of insects and wind. High, soft pants and low, animalistic grunts.
“No, it’s a punishment,” he decides, and she sobs.
“We never-“ a hiss escapes through her teeth, voice almost pained, “We never talked about that.”
He groans, nearly drowning out the sound with the clap of skin between them, the brute strength behind his movements, “That was,” his voice cracks, low and firm, “Before you decided to smoke.”
“Maybe I’ll fuel some real fire behind it too,” Y/N had suggested. Harry picked at a button on the remote with the nail of his thumb. “Like, actually piss you off.”
“Don’t actually piss me off,” He’d told her, “You won’t like it.”
He doesn’t like it when I smoke, Y/N thinks, before he gives her one last thrust, pulls out, and erupts in laces over her back. Milks himself with a hand and a sensuous moan. She sobs.
The act’s up, Y/N can tell when a content exhale is released behind her and a soft caress moves over her hip. Pauses as if it’s examining the damage. The trees shift in the breeze, rustling in fulfillment over her. Just trees. She blinks, staring down the abandoned gown. Crumpled and illuminated beneath her headlights. Her car door opens and shuts, and a tissue (retrieved from her glove box) wipes over her back.
“C’mon, dove. My pretty girl. The prettiest baby,” he amends gently, fondles over her skin in adoration after each swipe, “Took it so well, baby. Took everything.”
She sighs, eyes leaking in paltry, “I wanted to cum.”
“I know, I know, dove. Took me so well. Built for my cock, s’not good to smoke, is it?”
“Doesn’t feel good, now,” she huffs, fractious and broken.
“Yeah? Maybe you’ll think again then, next time, hm?”
She can make out the distinct sound of a zipper, and then watches an arm pluck her dress off the gravel.
“Stand up, baby. Let me dress you.”
“Can I cum when we get home?” She murmurs meakly. Finally meets eyes that don’t shift into a character. A softened gaze.
“Maybe tomorrow, I wanna get home and cuddle. Put your arms up.”
“I don’t have a weapon on me, officer, I swear,” she chortles, burying into his neck as he shuffles her skirt over her backside, “You smell like heroism and catching bad guys.”
“You smell like sex and cigarettes,” he snorts. She thumbs over his dimples. They’re in a moment of sweet reticence, only emotions hanging in the silence, before the sound of wheels on gravel startles them.
“Get in the car, baby, I’ll meet you at home.”
Y/N is ushered to the door, tugging it open before sliding into the seat. Sighs in satiation at the way her backside burns.
“Hey, Harry. Didn’t know you were on tonight.”
“I’m not. It’s my day off,” she makes out.
Mitch is silent for a moment before she drives away.
