content tags are: canon divergence, angst, hurt/very little comfort, smut, reader uses she/her pronouns, no physical description of reader, dub con, major breeding kink, praise, pet names, pregnancy, discussions of death, discussions of religion, dark themes... thank you for reading <3
The crunch of leaves under your feet is the only sound that pierces through the chilly evening air. The sun hangs low in the sky, the color of a pale egg yolk. And the autumn breeze nips at your cheeks. You angle yourself slightly against the breeze, and into your husband's shoulder as you walk arm in arm with him.
"You're quiet, husband. More brooding than usual. Which I never thought to be possible." You observe, smiling up at Cregan.
"Hm?" He blinks, processing your words for a moment "Oh, just lots on my mind today. Not brooding, just thinking." He ruffles your hair. "Remember when you thought all Northernmen were stupid oafs -incapable of intelligent thought?"
"Who says I don't still think that?" You tease, squeezing his arm tighter, taking two hands two fully wrap around his bicep. After a moment you ask "Where are we going?"
"To the godswood. Thought we could pray together" He answers.
And sure enough, you are approaching the edge of the woods, and passing through the stone gate. The crimson leaves of the heart tree stick out among the black shadows of the surrounding pines. This place had always intimidated to you, it felt like the breath of hundreds of ghosts surrounded you here. It was too old, too primal. It brought your husband comfort to visit the old gods, but standing in front of the weirwood tree, you only felt watched - offered up to a higher being like a sacrifice. Those eyes saw right though you and into the marrow of your bones.
You hesitantly follow your husband to the tree, and peer into the small reflecting pond. "Why are we here, my love?"
Cregan groans softly as he sits on the massive root of the heart tree, bulging from the ground, and pats the space next to him. "Come sit."
You obey, and shiver. The woods are shaded, dropping the temperature of the autumn air significantly.
"I wanted to bring you here to show you that you don't have to be afraid. If you let it, it's a place that can bring you a lot of solace. As it has done for me."
The wind blows through the brilliant red leaves and you swear it sounds like the spirits are whispering to you. However, you cannot make out what they are saying. Your shoulders involuntarily shudder, even under your fur attire.
"When I am gone, you can come here and you won't feel alone." He takes your hand, and warms the cold stiffness that as settled in your fingers.
"Don't say that!" You blurt. "You'll always be here and - "
He interrupts you. "I have to visit the Wall for a routine visit. A few weeks. A moon at most."
"No." You shake your head in disbelief. Your husband was so attentive, rushing to your side the moment you needed him. It was incomprehensible that he could be leaving you. He would not separate from you willingly. He just wouldn't. "Nonono. Husband, there must be some mistake."
"You will stay here. And I will return before you know it." He holds your jaw, to bring your gaze up to him. He needs to look into your eyes, and make sure you are comprehending his words. "This is my duty, you must understand."
"No." You repeat, your voice breaking. Your lip trembles, eyes pricking with tears. "You cannot abandon me." A painful lump is forming in your throat, the onslaught of tears threatening to spill any second. "Don't leave me alone." The world feels like it's collapsing in on you, the weight impossibly crushing on your shoulders.
Cregan kisses you, your trembling lip caught in between his. He pulls you closer against him, enclosing your smaller body with his. The kiss turns salty as your tears flow freely now, and the lump in your throat burns. But he swallows your cries, bringing you flush against him, claiming the inside of your mouth, your saliva comingling. Your sounds are muffled by his kiss, it seems he is trying to swallow your despair and take it for himself.
He pulls away to inspect your face, a string of saliva connecting your mouths. His voice, typically stern with anyone else but you, almost cracks with sorrow. "I hate to see you cry, pup." Callused fingers swipe tears off your cheeks. "You're my brave girl. You're going to be brave when I'm gone, yeah?"
Even through the layers of your woolen dress and the fur cloak around your shoulders, the earth is feels like ice against your stomach. You cheek presses into the mossy ground, and the weight of your husband's body covers yours.
Your mind feels disconnected from your body, almost like you are observing yourself lying on the cold ground. Muscles pliant from your earlier peak, inside of your thighs wet. Your husband's fingers are damp from your arousal as he rucks up your dress, exposing your flesh to the biting air. The clink of his belt, and there it is again, the sound of the wind whispering all around you. Those primordial voices. What in gods' name are they trying to tell you?
The overwhelming urge to flee from this ancient place crosses your hazy mind. "Husband-" you start to say, shifting up on your elbows and knees.
"Hush" His heavy hand falls to the back of your neck, scruffing you as a parent wolf does its pups, and bringing you back down to the soft moss. The words are stolen right out of your mouth, the action resetting your brain into submission.
"Be still and jus' let me in, my love." His knee spreads your thighs, and the velvet hardness of his cock brushes your arse. When he enters, the stretch aided by the slickness of your peak, Cregan sighs a long, rattling exhale. "When come here I always thank the gods for blessing me with you. My perfect wife." He rambles, as he begins to thrust a steady rhythm. "You will have our child and you won't be alone. Even after I'm gone."
"No! Don't say that!" You sob. Every ridge of his cock stretches your walls.
"Gonna put a child in you, my love. I promise." He yanks your hips up and off the ground, so your arse is higher than your head. The new angle drives him deeper. Your belly feels the weight of the heavy length of his cock stroking in and out. "You'll have a piece of me, when I'm away. A babe. Lots of babes, yeah."
"No" The only word you can form right now, muffled into the moss. Your face feels wet again, and you realize you're crying.
"Right hah-here. Before the old gods."
You look up the weirwood tree, its solemn eyes bleeding sap, and wonder if it will ever bring you comfort, or just remain a pair of ten thousand year old eyes. The things that it has seen. Suffering, joy, pain, sin. Why would those gods grant you a spare thought? The canopy of blood red leaves spins in your vision.
"I swear it" He adds through gritted teeth.
Cregan's hips stutter, the final sloppy thrusts, then his come is painting your insides. Impossibly deep, up into your ribs, you feel him fill you. He pants for a moment onto your shoulder as he regains his breath. You cannot move from the ground, your limbs feel too heavy to lift; your whole body is spent.
He slips out of you, but swiftly replaces his fingers at your entrance, holding the spend inside. With one hand, he gently pulls you up to a seated position, and with the other, pushes his seed back into you. No drop wasted. You wince as his thick fingers breach your used walls, overly sensitive and pulsing. "You did so well, pup. So brave." He mumbles, kissing the apple of your wet cheek.
His fingers, covered in glistening spend, pull your top lip up to expose a row of sharp teeth. Reverently, he rubs the spend across your pink gums, into your molars. "There. No more tears, love."
You nod slowly, your limbs beginning to ache from their contact with the cold, damp ground. Picking dried leaves from your hair and skirts, you look up again at the tree's face carved into bone white bark. Its gnarled eyes weep before you, but now the expression seems to have shifted. Was it anguish, or perhaps rapture, contorting on the ancient face? You glance in the reflecting pool's black water, and back at the weirwood tree, and see yourself in each.
Pairing: DILF!Neighbor!Steve x Reader
Word count: 10.6k
Warnings: cheating (steve is in a loveless marriage), voyeurism, peeping tom!steve, reader plays with this man wayyyyy to damn much, masturbation (m&f), age gap! (reader is like mid 20s, Steve is pushing 40), sweat kink, size kink, fingering, finger sucking, "we shouldn't", mention of a daddy kink, reader is pervy too, p in v, car sex, mentions of road head (m receiving), mating press.
Summary: Your neighbor Steve just wants to make sure you're safe, surely, that's why he's always watching you. And what kind of friendly neighbor would you be if you didn't at least give him something pretty to look at?
+fran: all I have to say is that I meant to only write a single scene out of all of this and somehow this monstrosity came to be. terminal case of yappitis.
dt: my cuteness aggression queens: @epiphanyrogers and @pinksplace, thank you for letting me pick your brains and giving me feedback on some of these lines.
Steve was a good man.
He's always been kind, none of his high school or college ex-girlfriends even had a bad word to say about him. He was a good friend, always willing to lend a hand and help.
He was a good husband, Peggy had no complaints. He was a neat guy, gorgeous in his own way, humble, and great in bed. Except the spark had died about 4 years into their now five year marriage.
Nothing specific just... A roommate situation.
In a last ditch effort to save the marriage instead of fully separating, they got drunk, trying to find the spark that brought them together senior year at Columbia again, and... Jamie came to be.
The now eight month old boy was the light of Steve's life. Named after his best friend, who he thought couldn't be anymore smug about it, Steve loved being a dad. He loved showing his kid how things in the world work for the first time, even if Peggy would dismiss it with a simple "he's not gonna remember this, darling".
The thing is, Steve was a good man.
Which was why it was so hard to come to terms with the fact that whenever his eyes weren't fixated on you, his mind would be imagining all kinds of things that included your perfect existence.
He was sure you came into his life to test him. Test his discipline, his will. Test the strength of the vows he exchanged with Peggy years ago, which now were not strong at all.
It started simple, harmless almost.
He'd see you when he was out for a run early mornings, usually doing yoga in the sunroom of your parents house, the one you moved into after college while you saved up to buy a condo in the city.
At first, he'd avoid his gaze, tell himself this is not how a married man behaves.
Then he'd find excuses.
They started to replace the sidewalk on a patch at the end of his run, so he'd have to stop halfway, and come back the same way, just in time to see you on the elliptical that faced the window, and the beads of sweat dripping down your chest between your breasts in that skimpy sports bra.
He was running more often, while Peggy had Jamie and was adamant on sleep training him. Steve couldn't bear to listen to her let him cry it out.
One scorching day he came back from a run, sweat darkening his grey tank top, checked the mailbox on his way in, grabbed a couple packages that we're sitting on the doorstep and bee-lined to the cupboard to grab himself a glass for ice water.
He really needed to like treadmills more, at least then he'd have his water bottle next to him.
As he gulped the last few sips of the cup, he went on about his day, waiting for his heart rate to come down a bit, waiting to stop sweating enough for a shower to be productive.
He went through the mail, threw the junk mail out, put the things needing attention in a neat pile on the kitchen isle to take care of later.
Then, came the packages.
Mindlessly opening them, a couple were things he'd got for a new little greenhouse project, different things to keep bugs away from the out of season flowers he was trying to grow, then an Amazon package had some new pacifiers for Jamie, and when he got to the last one, Steve choked on his own saliva.
The tiniest thongs, all sorts of colors, themes, just... there.
A pale pink lacy one, another light pink with mesh on the front and cherries embroidered in it, some black ones, white ones with pretty little blue flowers on them, and even a crotchless one.
The tissue paper crinkled as he went through the box more and more.
Was Peggy planning something? These aren't even her sty—
His thoughts got cut short by the doorbell, and he put the box back on the counter.
He wiped his palms on his hands and crossed the kitchen and living room, and when he opened the door, there you were.
In your little yoga wrap top, and leggings, looking like you just got demolished by the elliptical in the best way.
“Hi, Mr. Rogers,” you said, all breathy and sweet, pushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “I think a package of mine might’ve been delivered here? FedEx picture looked like your porch.”
Steve stared at you. Just for a second too long, he was dumbfounded. What were you— oh. Oh.
The Victoria's Secret box wasn't his wife's. It was yours. He just went through his neighbor's thong shipment like a fucking creep.
Your cheeks were a little flushed from the heat, there was a bead of sweat on your temple, and you looked so young, standing there in the bright morning light, all bright eyes and no idea how hard his heart was pounding.
"Mr. Rogers?" You pulled him out of his trance and he almost wished you didn't. The inside of his head was less tempting than whatever could happen with you this close to him, even with his wife in the nursery with his kid.
"Uh, yeah—I, uh—hang on.”
He turned around to get the box, deliver his guilt to you wrapped in pretty lace and pink tissue paper. You shamelessly dragged you eyes over him. The sheen coat of swet on his arms, the damp hair on the nape of his neck, the way his shirt was sweaty enough your pervy little brain wanted to suck on it until it was dry.
Meanwhile, he was cringing at the thought of delivering you the box. He couldn't even pretend he didn't go through it. If it was any other type of merch it would be fine, but it was lingerie, and it was you, and now he'd have to physically stop himself from picturing you in them.
Should he apologize? Say he opened it on accident? Say he thought it was Peggy’s? Say nothing?
“Here,” he said, avoiding your eyes. “Sorry—I didn’t check the name before opening.” You took it with both hands, your fingers brushing his.
You took one look at the box and shrugged. “That’s okay,” you said, meeting his eyes now. "Just regular underwear. Everyone wear 'em, right?" A playful chuckle left your lips and a light went off in the back of his mind.
So this was just your everyday? You were walking around smelling like roses and waffle cones, looking teh way you did, and under all of that, some sort of skimpy thong?
Steve’s brain short-circuited.
You turned, walked away down the driveway with a little sway in your hips, and Steve stood there like an idiot, still half-hard, with guilt bubbling like acid in his throat.
He let the door click closed behind you, his forehead touching the cool wood while he tried to pull himself together. He pushed away from the door with a dissatisfied goran, barely there, ready to shower the afternoon off.
When he turned around, Peggy stood there, at the bottom of the stairs, holding an obviously freshly up from a nap Jamie.
She had one of his old college tees on, worn soft from years of sleep and laundry. Jamie was gnawing on the corner of a stuffed giraffe, looking around with wide curious eyes.
“Who was at the door?” Her voice was light, worriless. Just making conversation after a well deserved Saturday nap.
“Uh… just a delivery mix-up. One of the neighbors.” Steve tried to keep his voice even, indifferent.
Jamie babbled something unintelligible, and Peggy kissed the top of his head before heading into the kitchen.
"You'd think a delivery company would check an address more closely." She chuckled.
Steve gave her a nervous chuckle back and followed her to the kitchen. Jamie cooed at him, wanting to speak so bad but not quite having the words for it yet.
A few days later, Steve thought to himself, get a grip.
This isn't how a married man behaved, he reminded his stupid brain, and his even stupider cock, this isn't how a married man behaves towards a girl half his age and not his wife.
So he went on a run earlier. Not too much, just about an hour.
The air wasn't as warm now, he has to run a little harder to get the same sweat going, but the fair noise of the critckets through his earbuds soothed him. Mixed with the deep indigo of the sky lightening by the hour, it was like the world slowed down for a moment.
And it came to a full stop when he was at the end of his run, almost to his house, passing yours, and the lights in your room were on, your curtains being forgotten wide open and inviting the wandering eyes of a guilty ridden new father next door.
Lit from the side by the soft, amber glow of a lamp—skin flushed, still dewy from a shower, he saw you drop your towel, and walk around your room looking for things. Just a little thong stretched across your hips, your body relaxed, soft, beautiful in a way that felt dangerously intimate.
That was enought to stop him dead in his tracks. You gathered your hair up into a loose, careless bun, strands falling free at your temples, at the nape of your neck. The kind of messiness that made him ache with the sudden, visceral urge to reach out—to tangle his fist in it, to pull, to put you exactly where he wanted you.
He wathed you pump lotion into your hands and rub it all over your chest, your breats, shoulders, and all the way down your legs, turning around to look at yourself in the mirror and put some on your ass too.
He wondered if that's what smelled like vanilla and roses and a dissoluting marriage.
He should have looked away. He knew that. The thought barely registered anymore, drowned out by the way your nipples were visibly tight, pebbled, the way his body reacted instantly, predictably, traitorously. His cock stirred in his shorts, heavy and insistent, and shame flooded him right alongside desire.
And then you looked.
Straight.
At.
Him.
There was no confusion in your expression. No panic, no scramble for the curtain, just recognition.
He was already blushing from the run, the heat of his blood pumping faster to move his muscles, but the way you grinned and waved your fingers instead of looking ashamed had him turning a whole new shade.
He held your gaze for a few seconds, enough to get his cock to stir in his pants, until the light on the house next door came on. His house.
He saw you quickly draw the curtains closed, and he sheepishly made his way in the door and up to his shower.
Steve had just finished changing Jamie’s diaper when Peggy appeared in the doorway, arms crossed gently, that familiar half-smile on her face.
“We’re going out tonight.”
He blinked. “What?”
“Dinner. Just us. I made a reservation at that place on Monroe. The one with the garden patio you like.”
He scooped Jamie into his arms and straightened. “Peg, I don’t think we—”
“We need this, Steve.” Her voice stayed calm. Measured. “It’s been a while since we did anything just the two of us. You said you wanted to try.”
His jaw flexed. Guilt already tightening in his throat.
“There’s no one to watch Jamie.”
“Already handled. I asked the girl next door. She’s got babysitting experience—says she used to nanny when she was in school. And she’s always been so sweet when I’ve run into her with him.”
Peggy stepped closer, brushing her hand over Jamie’s head, then turning to the pile of onesies to her left.
“She offered to babysit,” she said casually, while folding Jamie’s tiny laundry into perfect stacks. “She’s got experience, and she’s so sweet with him. Honestly, I think he lights up more for her than he does for your mom.”
The second he agreed without putting up much more of a fight, he knew he stepped into a trap of his own making.
“What time?” he asked, voice barely steady.
“Seven-thirty.” Peggy kissed his cheek. “She’ll come by a little after seven.” He forced a tight smile. Nodded. Said nothing as Peggy walked off to pack the diaper bag just in case.
He stared down at Jamie, who was blinking up at him with the easy, gummy innocence of a baby who didn’t know his father was a fucking mess.
The hours that followed crawled.
He was sure she knew of all of it. But what all of it was there to know? Nothing had, or would, happened. The only proof of his existing temptation was the throughts swimming in the groves of his brain, and he kept those under lock and key at the bottom of the article ocean.
Steve couldn't focus. He kept wiping the counters even though they were clean. Rearranging mail that didn’t need touching. Every sound from outside made his heart stutter.
At 7:04, the doorbell rang its usual tone, and he answered the door, Peggy still upstairs finishing getting ready, and Jamie on his play pad in the living room.
He was met with the sight of you in the plainest clothes he's ever seen, black leggings that hugged your lower body just right, a white tank top, and an oat-colored cashmere wrap sweater over top, holding a tote bag and a warm smile that made his stomach flip.
“Hi, Mr. Rogers,” you said brightly. “I brought some books and little toys. Hope that’s okay.”
“Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “That’s… yeah. Thanks for doing this.”
“Happy to help,” you chirped, stepping past him, your shoulder brushing his arm, pretending the sight of him in a dark dress shirt and his beard looking like he just trimmed it, and hair pushed back didn't make your knees weak.
Peggy appeared just behind him, purse in hand, perfume light and citrusy and familiar.
“Thank you again for doing this,” she said warmly. “He just needs his bottle around 8, he might fuss a little, but he’s been good all day.” She gestured to the living room, making sure she had the right belongings in her purse.
“He’s an angel,” you replied, reaching for Jamie, watching him extend his arms to you like it was second nature. “We're gonna have a good time, aren't we, sweet boy?” Jamie cooed and curled into your chest like he’d belonged there all along.
He wanted to stay. Wanted to sit too close on the couch. Watch you bat your lashes while pretending to focus on cartoons. He wanted to watch your hands move, wanted to feel the weight of your gaze, wanted to see if you’d say something—anything—about that morning. About the window. The wave.
But instead, he took Peggy’s hand. Walked out the front door.
And wondered if hell felt exactly like this.
The restaurant was beautiful. Romantic, even. Everything Peggy said it would be.
Flickering candles. String lights woven through ivy. That faint, expensive smell of rosemary and wine and fresh bread. Soft music and even softer chatter all around them.
Peggy was saying something about a new gallery opening. Or maybe it was her Pilates instructor. Steve wasn’t listening. He was trying.
Really, he was.
He nodded at all the right moments, let out soft mhm’s and chuckled where appropriate. But every time he blinked, it wasn’t her voice he heard. It was yours.
He took a sip of his wine and Peggy sighed, noticing the distance, the distraction behind his expression. “I brought the monitor,” she said, proud. “See? We can still relax. Nothing to worry about.”
She turned the small screen to him, low volume to not disturb anyone else as the waiter refilled their waters. And there was Jamie.
Sitting up in the crib, like he just woke up from what should've been an entire night's sleep, whimpering softly like he was about to start fussing. Little mouth twisted in that almost-cry, fists rubbing at his eyes.
You came into frame like something out of a dream—hair tied up, neckline of your soft cardigan slipping just slightly off your shoulder. Your hands moved with such careful affection. No tension. No rush.
“Hey, hey… sweetheart, what’s the matter?” you whispered gently. “Oh, bubba, you had a bad dream?” you cooed, scooping him up into your arms. “I’m right here. You’re okay. You’re okay, honey.”
Jamie’s cries softened the second his cheek hit your shoulder and you swayed back and forth, his tiny little fists quickly finding the cashmere fabric you wore and clutching it.
“You just missed some snuggles, huh? It’s okay. I get it. Me too sometimes.”
His eyes stayed glued to the screen, chest tight. Something heavy pressed behind his ribs as he watched you whisper something to Jamie.
Your hand curled around his foot, absently rubbing over the little sock, and Steve didn’t even realize his jaw was clenched until his teeth ached.
Because Peggy—Peggy, whom he loved, or used to, or wanted to love again—never touched Jamie like that. She never murmured soft things for no reason. Never stroked his cheek or held him just because.
She followed the schedule. Let him cry it out. Laughed when Steve said he wanted to rock him longer. She mothered, but she didn’t nurture.
“See? Nothing to worry about.”
The house was dark when they got home. Just the warm, amber glow of the hallway lamp spilling faint light across the hardwood floors.
Peggy slipped in ahead of him, kicking off her heels with a little sigh. “God, I forgot what it feels like to eat without a bib being thrown at me.”
Steve chuckled lightly as he put the keys in the key bowl by the door, both of them walking towards the living room where you were, watching the sizzle of the TV light washing both your face and Jamie's back in all kinds of colors.
You were curled up on the couch, socked feet planted in front of you so your legs could be flexed, Jamie fast asleep on your chest while one of your hands lightly grazed your nails over his back.
His cheek was pressed right above your heart, his little hand fisted in the fabric of your top, thumb resting in his mouth. You had a cheek flush with the top of his head, enjoying whatever movie you had put on.
“Sorry,” you whispered, a little sheepish when you saw both of them. “He's just so cute, I didn’t want to move him too soon. I kinda… love baby cuddles.”
Peggy smiled, already walking over. “Oh, no worries, honey. Thank you so much for staying late. You’ve been such a help.” She reached down, carefully gathering Jamie from your arms.
Jamie stirred a little, let out a sigh, and curled right back into her like a habit.
You stood, smoothing your top, brushing invisible wrinkles from your leggings. “He’s so sweet,” you said softly. “You’ve got such a good baby.”
"He's all Steve's personality." Peggy turned around and, already halfway up the stairs with Jamie cradled in her arms, called over her shoulder, “I’ll go lay him down. Be right back.”
Silence fell between you two, and it didn't take long for you to turn to Steve, who as now looking everywhere except you.
“You guys have a good night?” He blinked, swallowed hard.
“Yeah,” he said, voice hoarse. “Yeah, it was nice.”
“That restaurant’s supposed to be amazing.” You shifted on the balls of your feet, eyes raking over him, and finally stopping at his, holding his gaze like both of you knew what unspoken words wanted to be said. He just nodded, not trusting his mouth to say anything. “I’ll, um—I should go.”
“Right,” he said, but didn’t move. You gave him one last smile, then stepped past him, grabbing your bag from the side table. “Night, Mr. Rogers.”
And with a soft click of the front door, you were gone.
Gone from his house, but not from his thoughts.
He didn't see you for the whole weekend.
You spent it in the city with your best friend, something about watching Hamilton, having rooftop cocktails, and dancing until your feet hurt.
He heard you come back the same night Peggy left for her monthly girls' dinner, which consisted of wine, fine dining, and their own version of a book club in someone's house after.
He watched the shadow of the leaves outside on his ceiling, almost staring a hole into the floral texture he let Peggy so carefully pick. It was 1:32am.
He knew it becuase he looked at that clock probably four times in the last thirty seconds, hoping it would say it was four hours later so he could wake up and get his day started.
He tried closing his eyes, letting his mind wander into more peaceful scenarios, a quiet day at home, drinking tea, snow outside and just watching some random show while the fireplace ran.
Except you also quickly intruded into those thoughts.
And before he realized, he was imagining forcing your back into the plush cushions of his couch as he buried his face between your legs, lapping up between your folds like he'd never get the chance to again.
His hand palmed himself through his grey sweats as he imagined your moans, getting more and more high pitched by the minute, as he drove you closer and closer to the ed—
Ring! Ring! Ring!
He heard the soft ringtone and vibration of his phone on the nightstand, groaning in disapproval, thinking it was Peggy calling to tell him she was on her way home and talk through her drive. It made her feel safer, but also right now it definitely made his frustrated he couldn't take care of himself.
He turned on his side, picking up the phone without paying much attention. "Hello?"
His voice was dripping with annoyance, a feeling he tried to keep at bay when talking to the woman he was supposed to be trying to have a happy marriage with.
“Hey, Mr. Rogers. Sorry—it’s late, I know.” Your voice came through the speaker and he actually closed and opened his eyes a couple times thinking he was dreaming.
"Is everything okay?" He cleared his throat when his voice failed him for a beat.
"I keep hearing this noice outside my window, can you see anything from yours? Maybe a branch or something?"
It was pathetic how he did whatever your sweet voice told him to. Like a sailor to a siren, luring him to his own demise.
He threw the covers off of himself, the shuffle being audible on your end of the line, and as soon as he stopped in front of his big bedroom windows that faced the side windows of your room, there you were.
Your bed faced the glass, soft glow coming from your barthoom light being on and the street lights coming in, and your frame was spread on the bed like you wanted to invite the Devil through the gates of Heaven yourself.
The gates of Heaven, in this metaphor, being your spread thighs, pussy only covered by the white cotton of your thong, getting more sheer by the second, the more you touched yourself, rubbing two fingers up and down, making the fabric dance over your slit.
Steve could hear your shaky little breaths through the phone, no point in trying to keep your voice level now. "What the fuck are you doing?"
He watched you shuffle a little, trying to angle your body in a way that you could steal glances at him if you contorted your neck enough. "I missed you the other night."
You let out a shaky breath when your hand finally dared to go under the fabric, touching the wet heat of your slit, dragging your fingers up and down.
Steve was speechless. What in the actual fuck was he to do?
"I'm married." He didn't know if he was trying to reason with you or himself. Either way, there was no talking sense into this situation.
You gave a dismissive huff, reacing down to pull the thong off and throw it somewhere across the room, spreading your thighs wider. "I don't think either of us cares about that right now."
Steve’s free hand braced on the windowsill. The other still held the phone to his ear like it might collapse otherwise. “You shouldn't be doing this,” he rasped. That just made you chuckle.
"Oh? You're gonna talk me through what I should be doing?" You bit your lip at the thought.
Steve groaned. "You should be hanging out with people your age, not—"
"Not my obscenely hot neighbor?"
"Married neighbor."
You sighed. "You keep saying that like you're trying to convince yourself you're not enjoying this… a pretty young thing just wanting you." You heard him breat heavily, like he was absorbing the truth in your words.
"C'mon, Steve. Let— fuck," you inserted your middle finger into yourself, a moan breaking your sentence in half. "Let your hand wander… just… touch yourself, don't make me do it alone."
As if he needed anymore guilt to eat him alive.
Steve’s hips shifted forward without thinking, his breath coming heavier. His cock pressed hard against the front of his sweatpants, throbbing with every shallow inhale.
You moved a little faster now, fingers slick, lips parted, and he could see the exact second your brows pulled together, your thighs tensed, and your chest heaved.
"Please, Steve…"
He shoved his sweats down just enough, cock springing free at full attention, getting redder with want, a hiss of relief leaving his lips as he wrapped his hand around himself, pumping slowly.
"God, I bet you'd feel so good —" You kept going, making him dizzy with your words, to the point where he forgot the circumstances for a moment. "I'd keep you warm, Steve, wouldn't be able to pry me off of you."
"Wouldn't want you to —" He spit in his hand, the filthy sound coming into your ears and shooting straight into your core. "Would keep you filled up, always, sweetheart."
You whined. "Want you to, oh God, Steve—ah!"
"You're close, aren't you?" He taunted, stroking himself faster. You nodded as if he could ssee you, and then realized he couldn't.
"Yeah, yeah, yes—"
Breathy and shaky and out of your mind was how you came around your fingers, imagining they were his, as he choked on his own spit across the way, watching you pump your pussy until he came on his hand, ragged breaths coming through the phone.
You wanted to giggle to yourself, but settled for a quick "Good night, Mr. Rogers." and left him, quite literally, standing with his dick in his hands.
Somehow, the next day brought more shame along the sunlight.
Steve didn't know what had possessed him to cross the line. A look here and there, he had convinced himself, was fine. People looked, you could admit someone was objectively attractive without being attracted to them.
Jerking off on the phone with your hot, younger neighbor while watching her finger herself thinking of you?
There was no mental gymnastics that could morally justify that.
He commanded himself to keep his head screwed on straight, better and tighter than before. So he started the day gardening.
And since God hates Steve Rogers, He made you be at your parent's pool, in a nice little bikini, getting eaten by the warm sunshine like Steve wanted to devour you.
You looked at him from a distance first. The hose is coiled around his forearm, the water spraying in slow arcs across the flower beds. You let your eyes shamelessly linger on his arms, the beads of sweat around his neck, his hair, his beard… You gave his groin all the attention it seemed to want from behind your sunglasses.
And then, like the living divine punishment you were, you decided to get up from the tanning chair and approach him, slinging your arms over the fence and looking around him aove your sunglasses.
“Morning, Mr. Rogers.”
“You shouldn’t be doing this,” he says quietly, not taking his eyes from the roses he was trying to keep alive in the summer heat.
Maybe you loved playing with him a little too much. “Doing what?”
“This.” He nods toward the street, toward the sidewalk, toward you. “Flirting. Teasing. Whatever game this is.” His voice was hushed, rightfully so.
You raise a brow. Innocent. “I’m not playing anything.” Then your voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "And I think we're way past flirting… don't you?"
“You are. You have been for weeks.”
You tilted your head, looking for him to meet your gaze. "You're gonna tell me you didn't like it? I thought it was pretty clear when guys did."
You were going to be his demise. He was sure of it. Just might as well get the shovel and start digging the six feet he'd need so Peggy could bury his ass.
“You should be going after guys your age,” he says suddenly. Quiet. Bitter. “Not married men twice your age with babies at home.”
You chuckled, turning your gaze to the street and back at him. "Boys my age are boring."
“You think I don’t lie awake every night wishing I could stop thinking about you?” He finally gave into admitting it, hoping the pathetic confession would make you want to at least help a man keep his dignity.
He was about to keep going with his rant, when he saw you look over your shoulder and wave. "Oh! Hi, Mrs. Rogers!" You gave her a beaming smile, like you weren't trying to tangle her husband in your vines.
Steve stiffened. Turned his head just in time to see Peggy walking across the yard with a tote bag in one hand and Jamie bouncing on her hip, dressed in a little onesie with stars on it.
“These flowers are so pretty,” you chirped, stepping back toward the fence line like you hadn’t just told Steve he was unraveling under your fingertips. “Did you plant these? They’re gorgeous.”
Peggy beamed. “I did, yes! But Steve keeps them alive. I just pick the colors.”
Jamie clapped softly, and you waved at him. “Hey, cutie.”
Peggy stepped closer, shifting Jamie to her other hip, and smiled wide at you. “Hey, we’re doing a little thing for the Fourth—just some food, neighbors, maybe sparklers in the driveway. You should come.”
Fuck me and all my life, was what Steve thought.
“Oh!” You put a hand to your chest. “Really?”
“Of course. Bring a friend if you want. We’ll have a kiddie pool and a grill and probably too much potato salad.”
“That sounds so fun,” you said sweetly. “Thank you. I’d love to come.” You nodded.
Peggy turned to Steve then, completely unaware of the tension vibrating off his skin.
“Babe, can you grab the sunscreen from the patio table? I left it when I brought Jamie’s snack out.”
Steve nodded mutely and stepped away without a word, fingers twitching at his sides. When he got inside he watched you two through the window, watched Peggy get Jamie closer to you and the little boy beam at you, and he wondered just how he was supposed to get out of this.
It was the hottest day of the year, like the sun and warmth Gods were shining upon all the little kids who wanted to play in the water all day.
And like the Devil himself wanted to drag Steve Rogers down by the balls.
Plastic chairs scattered across driveways. Coolers open. Kids shrieking over bubbles and popsicles. The scent of grill smoke hung in the air with fireworks anticipation, and patriotic bunting flapped lazily on every porch.
Little by little, everyone arrived. And with each clink of the backyard fence, Steve caught himself looking towards the sound to see if it was you.
Exactly twenty-three minutes into the party, it was.
You had a flowery sundress on, red roses in the print contrasting with the white background. The sleeves were short, barely there, white lace straps, really. And it had a white lace trim to the sweetheart neckline.
To anyone else, you waved at him like you'd wave to Mr. Pierce down the street, or Stark Sr on the house next to his.
To him, he knew you were looking at him like you wanted to unhinge your jaw and swallow him whole.
He manned the grill with such precision one would think he was trying to cook the burgers by staring them into broiling.
You said hi to Peggy. Hugged her. Kissed Jamie’s cheek and cooed at him like you were made for it.
And Steve knew, in the marrow of his bones, that if he didn’t get himself under control, someone was gonna notice how tense he was. How the veins in his forearms were flexing under the weight of a thousand unsaid things. How his eyes lingered too long on your collarbones, your thighs, the slight sway of your hips when you laughed at something Peter Parker said across the lawn.
Steve hated how easy it was for Peter to make you laugh. And he hated that he hated it.
He dropped another patty on the grill, the sizzle matching what his brain sounded like ringing between his ears, trying to be distracted by anything and everything that didn't smell like roses, didn't smile like an angel, and didn't sound like the Devil.
You came up behind him slow. Soft. So that no one noticed. Not Peggy chatting at the lemonade table, not Stark keeping score on the cornhole game, not Peter pretending he wasn’t watching.
“Mr. Rogers,” you murmured, the title curling at the edges like sin, “Can you make me a rare one with double cheese?”
You stepped in closer—too close for propriety, not close enough to look suspicious. Just enough to press the lightest drag of your fingers along his lower back, right above the waistband of those godforsaken powder blue shorts.
Your nails trailed up his spine like you had every right to be there. Like your touch was casual.
You leaned in like you were checking the condiments. Your voice was so low only he could hear it. "I like mine a little more raw."
“You don't know when to fucking stop, do you?” You didn’t pull back. Instead, you picked up a paper plate from the stack and traced your thumb over the rim.
“I figured I’d get the good cut, since you’re the one handling all the meat.” That got him. He inhaled visibly and before he could say something back, your demeanor changed, and he heard someone call out your name from the other side of the party.
A couple hours later, between watermelon margaritas and little mini quiche, Steve saw red.
Peter was too touchy, too eager, too young for you. You'd eat him alive. There's no way he could handle you in the way you deserved.
Everyone was still having fun, mingling at the party, and Steve, disastrouns bull-in-a-china-shop-Steve, bumped into Peter while he was carrying a bag of charcoal for more grilling, making the red liquid from Peter's glass splash all over your pretty dress.
Peggy wasted no time, getting you a cloth and a handy tide pen, pointing you to the washroom way down the hall inside, tucked around the living room and the stairs that led to their room upstairs.
Your footsteps were quick, not wanting to stain the fabric you knew would be a pain to clean, and as you waited for the sink water to warm up a little to make your cleaning easier, you admired your own reflection.
Seconds later, the doorknob rattled, and you turned around.
The door opened quickly, and closed just as fast. Slow enough that Steve's big frame was now occupying the small washroom facing the mirror, your backside now pressed to the marble counter as you braced your hands on it.
Steve stood there for a second, dressed in the blue shorts and white tank top, blue eyes burning through you like he could see through skin and bone straight to the part of you that was waiting for this.
If you were Superman, you'd be able to see the cogs turning inside his skull, almost like he was trying to talk himself down of whatever he came here to do.
There was still time to turn back.
Pretend he didn't know you were in here, wrong door, let out an apology and move on with his life. His jaw flexed like he’d bitten the inside of his cheek to keep quiet, and he ran a hand through his hair like he didn’t know what else to do with it.
“You shouldn’t be in here,” you murmured, even as your fingers smoothed over your neckline. “Someone could see.”
His eyes dropped to your hands. “Don’t,” he said roughly. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” Your lashes fluttered with mock innocence, tilting your face. “Fix my dress? The fabric is delicate, y'know.”
"I'm not talking about that and you know it." He paused, just to see if you'd admit it. Admit you were evil and horrible and living to ruin his life. When you didn't, he kept going."
'You think this is funny? Flirting with Parker, prancing around like that, like he has a chance, in front of—”
“I think you told me to hang out with people my age.”
The audible sound of air fuming out of his nostrils was enough to make heat travel down to your core. You could feel his restraint looser and looser by the second, you were almost there. Almost getting what you wanted.
"You’re staring," you said lightly, fingers drifting down the cleavage of your dress as if tempting him to tear at the lace trim. "I thought it was the young guys who were supposed to have trouble keeping their eyes up."
Steve blinked, as if coming out of a fog, finally realizing just how close he had gotten to you, almost flush with you, as your eyes looked up at him with innocence that was surely long gone from your mind.
Your breath mingled with his. He could feel it, light and teasing and so damn warm. You raised your hand to graze your fingertips on the side of his wrist, gauging how far he'd let you go.
Once you were met with no resistence, you grabbed his hand, your gaze never leaving his face while he didn't know if he should look at your clevage, your lips, or your eyes. You brought his hand under your dress, his thick fingers making contact with the wettening cotton, making you let out a shaky breath.
“You’re not doing anything wrong,” you murmur, searching his eyes for any sort of feeling but haze. I mean, it’s polite to check on your neighbors, right?”
His lack of response was even more inviting. Like he was some helpless fool walking into a trap, only to realize he wanted to be caught.
"Doesn't it feel good? Mmm?" You tilted your head the other way. "Feeling someone who actually wants you?"
“It must be so exhausting,” you whispered, “pretending like you don’t think about it. Like you don’t wonder.”
And that's when his control fully snapped.
His right hand came up to grab your face, squishing your cheeks together, while his left kept its place between your thighs, his trance broken now.
"Shut the fuck up." Steve spoke through gritted teeth but being more mad at himself for not pulling away than anything else.
"C'mon, Steve—" Your voice was arrogant even thought you looked downright silly with your cheeks like that, and he finally looked you in the eyes.
“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he says. “And you know damn well I’m the one paying for it.” He held you gaze for a second, and the rotten part of him took over.
His index and middle fingers, previously still, moved in tight, slow circles around your clothed clit, making you let out a low chuckle against his mouth. You watched the shift in his eyes—that flicker of something hot, dangerous, uncontrollable—and you knew you had him.
“This what Peter does to you?”
A sharp little whimper escapes your throat.
“No?” His voice is cruel now. Mocking. “Then why are you dripping like this, sweetheart?”
He presses just a little harder through the cotton, dragging two fingers along your slit, slow and mean, until your knees start to buckle.
“Careful,” he murmured. “Wouldn’t want the neighbors to see what a filthy little thing you are. Can’t even make it through a block party without begging for attention.”
You tried to snap back—something snarky, something bratty, but he took his hand away, and put it back on the inside of your panties, the feeling of the pads of his fingers through your folds enough to shut you up instantly.
“Go ahead,” he whispers, eyes blazing. “Say something smart now.”
He slipped two fingers past the fabric, found your bare, swollen folds, and you went limp with a soft, broken sound. He held your face in place, watching every single twitch and tremble like he was memorizing it.
“God, you’re so desperate,” he groaned. “You want everyone to see what I do to you? Is that it? Want me to fuck you through your pretty little sundress while Peggy serves talks about cocktails twenty feet away?”
You whimpered, shaking your head even as you grind down on his hand.
“No?” He laughed, dark and malicious. “Then why aren’t you stopping me?”
“That’s what I thought,” he whispered. “My good girl’s all mouth until someone makes her use it.”
You were trembling, trying to breathe. Not even bothering to hide how hard you were clenching around his fingers, how badly you wanted him to give in, pull his hand out and unzip his jeans and just ruin you right there against sink.
You shake your head, gasping.
“Fuckin’ knew it,” he muttered, more to himself than you. “Knew you were walking around this party leaking for me.”
You try to answer—try to say something—but his grip on your face wasn't giving up, and the slow pump of his fingers grazer the sweet spot inside of you was agonizing.
“Bet you were hoping I’d see you with him,” he sneers. “Bet you wanted to make me jealous.”
You nod, and that’s all it takes.
“So fuckin’ needy,” he breathed, lips just a smidge shy of being against yours. “So wet for your neighbor. For a marriedman. You know how sick that makes you, baby?”
You choke on a moan.
“Use your words.”
“I don’t care,” you whisper, brows furrowed, sweat forming on your hairline from the sheer effort of staying as quiet as possible. “I don’t fucking care, Steve—please—”
That breaks something in him, and he finally kisses you, tasting the strawberry flavor of your lipgloss, little specks all over his lips.
His tongue explored your mouth, not even making ceremony of the fact that he was comandeering you as a whole.
He pulled his fingers out, and presses harder, teasing circles over your clit with one hand while the other slips behind you to cup your ass, grinding you down on his fingers shamelessly.
“You wanna come right here, whil'e they're all out there?” he hisses. “While Peter waits for you inside, wondering where you went?”
You nod frantically, and he chuckles darkly—mean, condescending, filthy.
“Yeah, of course you do. My filthy little girl just can’t help it, can she?” He leaned in, breath hot against your ear.
“Come for me,” he growls. “Be a good girl and come just like this, too desperate to wait for my cock.”
Your mouth falls open in a silent cry as your whole body spasms, hips stuttering, thighs trembling, eyes rolling back as slick coated down his fingers and your own inner thighs.
Steve watched.
He watched like he was starving.
And then—slowly, deliberately—he brought his glistening fingers to his mouth and sucked them clean. One. By. One.
He straightened your dress with infuriating care. Smoothed the fabric over your hips like nothing happened, slipped out without raising suspicion and left you to look at your wrecked reflection in the mirror of his house.
The fireworks were long over.
Peggy had been asleep for hours, curled up with a sleep mask and earplugs while Steve wandered back outside to finish putting away the chairs and rinsing out the pool house. The air still smelled like charcoal and chlorine and jasmine—the last ghost of a summer night that didn’t know how to quit.
He was halfway through folding up the last tablecloth when he heard it: soft footsteps on concrete. A shuffle behind him that was barely there.
When he turned, there you were.
Barefoot with your hair tied up, lips shiny with reapplied gloss. Wearing the same little sundress from earlier, only now it’s loose and rumpled, slipping off one shoulder like you couldn’t quite decide if you were getting ready for bed or not.
“Forgot my sunglasses,” you say, but your eyes are fixed on him, not looking anywhere else.
Steve straightens slowly, wiping his hands on a dishtowel, trying not to show the way his pulse kicked up.
“They’re on the counter by the grill,” he says, gesturing toward the pool house. “Probably with the other stuff people left behind.”
You walked past him without another word, your shoulder brushing his arm.
The pool house was dark, except for the amber glow of the overhead string lights Steve hung last summer. You stepped inside like you own the place, lean over and easily find the sunglasses in their little makeshift "lost and found" bin, dress riding up just enough to show the backs of your thighs.
Steve lingered at the door, watching, wanting.
“Find ’em yet?”
You glanced back at him over your shoulder. “Not yet. But I’m sure they’re in here somewhere.” You were 100% lying and he knew it.
It’s quiet again. The kind of quiet that buzzes with everything unspoken.
Then you straighten, slowly, holding your sunglasses, and turn to face him—closer now than before. Too close. Steve can see the shine on your collarbone, the little mark he left on your inner thigh with his knuckles, the hint of lace peeking out beneath your hem.
“Thanks for keeping an eye on them,” you murmur. “You always watch so carefully.”
Something in his face flickers. He knows he should leave, knows he should walk further from the line he crossed earlier, but now that he has, he couldn't bring himself to care.
He couldn't not wonder if you tasted as sweet from the source as you did on his fingers. Couldn't stop imagining your moans if he had his cock in you, since you lost your mind over only his fingers earlier.
He's painfully aware he should bring the trash inside, and go sleep in bed next to his wife.
Instead, he let the door swing shut behind him. He stared at you. Your face, your mouth, your eyes.
“What are you doing?”
You tilt your head slightly. “You tell me.”
There’s a long pause. Steve breathes out slowly, like he’s holding back the last thread of the rope he's gonna hang his sins with.
He doesn't answer.
“It’s okay, Steve,” you whisper. “You don’t have to be good right now.” His hand caught your wrist and he leaned in.
His mouth crashed into yours, swallowing the smug smile that adorned your face, his hands grabbing at your body like he could anchor himself to your skin. You gasped softly into him when he pressed you flush against him, and you could feel his hard-on through his shorts.
He fisted the back of your hair and tilted your head until you gasped again. “You knew what you were doing,” he hissed. “Wearing that little sundress, letting him follow you around like a damn puppy—”
“I only ever wanted you to see,” you interrupted, voice shaking as he backed you against the little sofa in the corner. “You were the only one I was trying to make jealous. I didn’t even like him like that—I never wanted anyone else.”
It unravels something in him.
Steve narrowed his eyes and turned you around, pressing you down into the cushions. The gold of the lights inside mixed with the lights reflecting off the pool made it dirtier and more secret in his mind.
As if pulling your hips up and flipping your dress up to rip your thong down your leg wasn't dirty enough.
He slid two fingers between your folds, taking way too much time for someone who was sneaking around, and saw your cunt clench around nothing at the feeling
“Soaked,” he growled. “You were like this when I had you at the party, weren’t you?”
You whined, hips rolling back into his hand, and that’s all the answer he needed. His fingers breached your opening from behind, curling towards him and rubbing the pads of his fingers over the spot that had shivers running up and down your spine.
He draped himself over you, other hand curling around your jaw pressing hard, your eyes fluttered open, glazed over, pupils blown to hell.
“Say it,” he whispered right in your ear. “Say who you were wet for. Who you wanted.”
“Y-you—”
He pushed his fingers in deeper, curling just right, making you try, and fail, to hold back a whine.
“That’s right. You wanted me. Not Peter. You wanted a man to ruin you.”
He gets you right at the edge, where he can feel your body trying to pull him in closer, throb around him, and pulls his hand out.
You were so dazed you barely let out a little hum of a question before your ears picked up on the shuffle of a zipper, the drag of clothes down his legs, and finally, the squelch of him running the head of his cock up and down your soaking pussy.
You’re half draped over the pool house couch, dress bunched at your waist, panties pulled to the side while Steve fucks you with his hand like he hates you for it. Like he hates how badly he wants you.
"Steve—"
"You wanted it, huh, sweetheart?" He pushed, not even inside, just dull pressure. "Wanted to make me jealous?" The hand that was previously fingering you is stroking his cock, and the one on your face moved to tangle into your hair, making you arch your back more and tilt your head towards him.
"Then take it."
He pushed inside you in one slow, hard thrust.
You sobbed at the feel of him finally buried inside to the hilt, feeling him twitch at the sound that left your mouth.
“Tight little cunt,” he groaned into your shoulder. “Fuck—of course you feel like this” You moaned, high-pitched and desperate.
“Too loud,” he warned, hand coming to press hard against your mouth. “Wanna wake Peggy? Huh? Wanna get caught getting split open by your married neighbor?”
You choked on a sound behind his palm—half cry, half yes. He pounded into you harder, jaw clenched, breathing ragged right at the junction between your neck and your shoulder.
“Spent so long— fuck, imagining what you'd feel like,” he muttered suddenly, angry. “Fucking tease.” You pressed your hips back into him harder, his other hand tugging a nipple, then the other, absolutely trying to drive you insane.
How the fuck did Peggy let this man leave the bed? At all?
One of your hands reached back to tug at his hair, nails scraping his scalp, and his kept wondering, until it found your clit. And God, did he.
"Gonna come— fuck, inside—"
You nodded behind his hand, your own coming to pull it off of your mouth as you whispered as best as you could. "Please, Steve, cum— cum in me, fill— oh God— fill me up."
It doesn't take much longer of your dirty talk and his body for both of you to see starts blooming behind your eyelids, his sweaty body draping over yours as you both caught your breaths, his cick throbbing inside of you while he shot ropes of while along your walls.
It was never supposed to go past that. Not in his head anyway.
Steve couldn't erase the sound of your moans, the vibration of your whines, or the sight of you dripping with his cum from his mind even if he tried.
So it quickly morphed from a one time bad decision into a pattern. A need. A terrible, addictive rhythm.
He was always the first to step back after—voice rough with guilt, muttering something about how it couldn’t keep happening.
But then came the next excuse. Another late walk. Another locked door. Another night when Peggy was out with friends or upstairs asleep and he found himself drifting toward you like gravity had chosen sides.
And the worst part? You were kind, warm. You made him feel wanted. You were good with Jamie. You folded Peggy’s dish towels after book club and helped her clean up. You looked like innocence wrapped in summer dresses and vanilla lotion—but when you looked at him, Steve felt anything but pure.
Steve adjusted the cuffs of his button-down, the soft click of the watch clasp echoing faintly in the quiet of the house. Jamie was already asleep, and Peggy sat on the couch, flipping through her latest book club pick, legs curled under her and a glass of wine half-full on the end table.
He stood near the hallway mirror, pretending to check his reflection one last time, even though his mind was far from the dinner he claimed he had. The silence stretched, thick with something unspoken, until finally, he cleared his throat.
“I’m heading into the city tonight,” he said, straightening the collar unnecessarily. “Couple people from work—there’s a dinner. Could be good for networking.”
Peggy looked up, her expression unreadable. “On a weeknight?”
He nodded once. “Yeah. Short notice. You know how Stark gets when he wants to talk shop over steak and scotch.”
She let out a quiet laugh, amused but distracted. “Well, try not to get too drunk. You still have to take Jamie to swim class tomorrow.”
He gave a tight smile, grateful she didn’t ask more. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
Except "work dinner in the city" was actually driving you to Cipriani for a nice, candle lit dinner away from everyone else.
The radio buzzed softly, some easy classic rock playing low, and you shifted in your seat, getting already a little impatient on the drive over when he looked that handsome and so close to you.
“Steve?” Your voice was soft, syrupy. He hummed a little in acknowledgment, eyes on the road. You leaned in, hand resting lightly on his thigh. “You’re tense.”
“I’m driving,” he said matter-of-factly, confused with your sentence, but you didn’t miss the way his fingers tightened on the wheel.
“Mhm.” You let your hand slide up just a little higher, almost unbothered, thumb stroking the inseam of his pants. “Just wanna help you relax…”
“Sweetheart,” he warned. But his voice cracked halfway through your name.
You grinned. “C’mon, what’s the worst that could happen? I’ve got two hands and a very soft mouth.”
He shot you a look. Dangerous. Heated. “You trying to get us killed?”
“I trust you to keep your hands on the wheel,” you said sweetly, already toying with the button of his pants. “But I am gonna need you to pull over soon if you want me to take care of that properly.”
He groaned, head thumping back against the headrest briefly. “Jesus Christ.”
You giggled, fingertips brushing over the growing bulge beneath the zipper. “That’s not who you’re gonna be thanking in a minute.”
And just like that, the turn signal clicked. The SUV veered off the main road and into the shadowed entrance of a secluded overlook. Trees above, stars flickering like witnesses, and your name already forming rough in the back of his throat.
The velvet booths at Cipriani glowed under golden lighting, the hum of polite conversation and clinking glassware wrapping around the two of you like static.
You looked too pretty for your own good. That dress should’ve been illegal—silky, deep navy, spaghetti straps, something about the way it hugged your body made Steve’s pulse throb.
You leaned forward, arms folding delicately on the table. “You’re quiet.”
“I’m thinking,” he muttered, eyes on your collarbone. “About how I’m gonna keep my hands off you for another forty-five minutes.”
You grinned, biting the inside of your cheek. "You had me like, not even an hour ago—"
"That doesn't count." He interrupted you playfully, "And if I remember correctly, I was the one that had the most fun in that."
Ah, yes, road head usually only has one beneficiary. You shrugged. "I still like it."
Steve raised his brows, and the waiter arrived, taking your orders. You watched the way Steve’s voice dropped an octave when he said “thank you,” the way he held your gaze across the table like the two of you were in on a private joke no one else could hear.
After the waiter left, you chirped up again, “You’re still hard, aren’t you?”
Steve narrowed his eyes slightly. “Keep your voice down.”
You giggled behind your glass, sipping your wine. “I think you like this,” you murmured. “Lying to your wife. Sneaking around. Getting off with someone who actually wants to be seen with you in public.”
His nostrils flared. His jaw ticked. “Careful,” he said roughly. “You won’t make it to dessert.”
You smiled like you weren’t even slightly afraid of that. And beneath the table, your foot slowly slid up the inside of his calf.
It's exactly shit like this that made you be bent in half in his backseat somewhere along the backroads on the way back, panties somewhere unknown inside the car, legs over his arms until your feet touched the car ceiling, and his cock drilling into you like he wanted it to take.
“You’re gonna be the death of me.” His voice was low, dark. Rough with restraint. “You get off on making me lose my mind, don’t you?”
You only smiled, biting your lip—barely, wickedly—nodding and tilting your hips up in response.
Later that month, he told Peggy it was a work trip. Just a quick overnight conference two towns over, some panels, a couple meetings—nothing she needed to worry about. He kissed her on the cheek, slung his bag over his shoulder, and drove off with the windows down.
But the real destination was the little bed and breakfast tucked off the highway, where no one knew your names. And where you were already waiting for him wearing nothing but a smile.
That weekend was unhinged. No hiding. No pretending. No risk of being overheard except by the wind through the trees and the nosy old couple in the room next door. You got to be loud—really loud—and he let you.
Hands all over you like he’d been starving for weeks, grunting in your ear as you clawed at his shoulders and moaned his name without apology. You didn’t need to pretend you were just neighbors.
Didn’t need to worry about muffling the headboard or shoving panties into the glovebox or slipping out the back door. You were his, fully and openly, for forty-two stolen hours.
And God help him—he wasn’t sure he could go back to pretending after that.
Steve, however, should be careful what he wished for.
Two days after he came back, to be exact, Steve was working from home, in between meetings all day.
Peggy took the SUV to run errands and take some time for herself, a facial, a massage, and unexpectedly, getting pulled over.
The sun was starting to dip behind the trees as Peggy merged onto the main road out of the neighborhood, humming absently to the radio while the SUV rolled through the quiet, late-summer traffic.
She didn’t even notice the patrol car behind her until the lights flashed.
“Damn it,” she muttered, glancing in the rearview. She pulled over, flicking on her hazard lights and turning down the radio.
The officer approached on the driver’s side, polite and calm. “Evening, ma’am. Just a heads-up—your left brake light’s out. Thought you should know before dark.”
She let out a breath, already reaching for the glove compartment. “Oh—thanks for letting me know. Let me just grab the registration.”
The latch stuck a little. Steve always said he’d fix it. She jiggled it loose with a soft grunt, and it popped open—sending a few old napkins fluttering out, the registration half-tucked beneath a folded flyer from Jamie’s swim class.
And then she saw them.
A delicate tangle of blush-pink lace.
At first, she didn’t register what she was looking at. Her brain processed the color, the texture, the vaguely familiar shape. She blinked. Tilted her head.
Then her fingers reached for it before she could even think better of it.
Her stomach turned over—first in confusion, then in something sharper. Something hot and cold at the same time, crawling up the back of her neck like an insect made of betrayal.
She gave the papers to the officer, and as he made sure it was all up to date on her end, she sat there, completely still, the car quiet around her except for the gentle hum of the A/C.
She stared down at the scrap of lace in her hand, trying to rationalize it.
When she saw the reflection of the officer coming back, she quickly put the lace in her purse, smiled at the man, and drove off towards home.
By the time she got back, Steve was out on a run.
She waited patiently by the kitchen isle, the panties neatly folded on the cool marble, and as she looked at the minutes go by on the clock by the stovetop, she realized both her and Steve had been trying to ressucitate something that had been dead long ago.
She didn't feel hurt, sad, or mad.
Peggy was relieved.
And when she heard the front door open, heard the creak of his spine as he exhaled from the run, and saw him come in, sweaty, and ready to gulp down a gallon of water, she didn't even feel the fire in the pit of her stomach that she used to years ago.
“Hey,” he said, breath still a little ragged, getting a glass and then water from the fridge. “Did you get the—”
He stopped as his eyes moved to the counter. To the panties. Then slowly, up to her.
She didn’t smile. Didn’t raise her voice. She just cocked her head slightly, one brow lifting, “You forgot to clean out your glove box.”
Series Summary: Amidst growing sexual tension in your shared home - often alone due to your mother’s business trips, you and Steve Rogers, a police officer and your stepfather, finally engage in a forbidden relationship… that is soon joined by his best friend, Bucky Barnes.
Series Warnings: MDNI, stepcest, daddy kink, dom/sub dynamics, oral (m receiving), p in v, choking, rough sex, ice play, creampie, age gap (reader is of age), power imbalance, degradation, physical punishement (spanking), a little of emotional manipulation, punishement play, possessive control, mention of infidelity (Steve cheats on his wife with reader), uniform kink (that's a thing, okay? that's my thing), no use of Y/N
Pairing: Stepdad! Steve Rogers x Reader (Bucky doesn't show up yet in this part)
A/N: This has been beta read by the amazing @blobfishlol
Wordcount: 11k
Part 1 - Ice Grip
Steve pushed open the front door of the house, the weight of the day clinging to him like a second skin.
The late afternoon sun filtered through the blinds, casting long shadows across the living room floor.
His police uniform - crisp blue shirt now rumpled at the collar, pants dusted with the grime of the city streets - felt heavier than usual after hours on patrol with Bucky. His best friend and partner had cracked jokes all day to lighten the mood, but now, as Steve kicked off his boots in the entryway, the silence of the empty house wrapped around him like a familiar blanket.
His wife - your mother - was away again, off on one of her endless business trips. She traveled so frequently these days, jetting between conferences and client meetings, leaving the two-story suburban home feeling vast and echoing.
Steve didn't mind the solitude most of the time; it gave him space to unwind, to shake off the adrenaline of chasing leads and breaking up disturbances in the bustling streets of this alternate New York.
But lately, that solitude wasn't quite so solitary.
You were still there, in your final year of a master's program, crashing at the house to dodge the crippling rent prices downtown. It made sense - practical, even. Your room was upstairs, books and notes scattered across the desk from late-night study sessions.
Steve had gotten used to the rhythm: mornings with coffee shared in the kitchen, evenings where you'd both navigate the space like careful dancers, aware of each other's presence but not quite colliding.
Except things had shifted a few months back.
It was subtle at first, a glance held too long, a brush of shoulders in the hallway that sent an unexpected spark through the air.
It all traced back to that one afternoon - you'd walked in on him fresh from a shower, towel slung low on his hips, his broad chest bare and glistening under the bathroom light. Steve Rogers, with his build honed by relentless gym sessions and the demands of police work, had stood there frozen for a beat too long. His blue eyes met yours, and in that moment, something unspoken ignited.
The way your gaze lingered on the defined ridges of his abs, the trail of dark hair dipping below the towel... it had planted a seed.
Now, as he shrugged off his duty belt and hung it on the hook by the door, the house creaked softly, announcing your presence somewhere within. Steve ran a hand through his short blond hair, still slightly damp from the summer humidity outside.
Bucky had teased him earlier during their lunch break - “You seem distracted, pal. Wife's away, and you've got that stepkid energy brewing?” - but Steve had brushed it off with a laugh.
Still, the tension simmered beneath his skin, a low hum that made his pulse quicken whenever he thought about you alone in the house with him.
He padded into the kitchen, the floorboards cool under his socks, and pulled a beer from the fridge. The cap twisted off with a hiss, and he took a long pull, letting the cold liquid soothe the day's frustrations. Steve leaned against the counter, his massive frame filling the space, and stared out the window at the backyard.
The tension between you two had grown thicker over these months, like storm clouds gathering on the horizon. Stolen glances across the dinner table when your mother was home, the way your laughter lingered in his ears long after you'd gone upstairs. He told himself it was nothing - just the awkwardness of shared space, the natural friction of family dynamics.
But deep down, he knew it was more. And tonight, with the house empty save for the two of you, that knowledge hung in the air like smoke.
The summer heat had turned the house into a sweltering cocoon, the air thick and heavy even as the sun dipped lower in the sky.
Upstairs in your room, you'd been hunched over your desk for what felt like an eternity, textbooks splayed open like accusing fingers, notes scribbled in frantic margins. Your eyes burned from the strain, words blurring into a haze of academic drudgery as you pushed through another chapter on urban policy or whatever thesis nightmare awaited.
Sweat beaded along your collarbone, trickling down between your breasts, and you shifted uncomfortably in your chair. No air conditioning could fully combat this oppressive warmth, so you'd stripped down to the bare essentials: a pair of soft cotton shorts that hugged your hips and thighs, riding up just enough to feel teasingly free, and a thin tank top that clung to your skin like a second layer of perspiration.
You'd made the deliberate choice to forgo a bra today - why add to the discomfort when the house was empty, or so you'd thought? The fabric of the tank top rasped lightly against your nipples with every breath, a subtle friction that had distracted you more than once during your study marathon.
Finally, you couldn't take it anymore. Your throat felt parched, cotton-dry from hours of silent concentration, and the promise of a cold lemonade from the fridge pulled you from your seat. You stretched, arms arching overhead, feeling the tank top lift slightly to expose a sliver of your midriff.
Barefoot, you padded down the hallway, the wooden stairs creaking under your weight as you descended.
The house smelled faintly of the lavender cleaner your mother used before her trips, mixed now with the faint, earthy scent of the outdoors wafting in from the open windows.
As you rounded the corner into the kitchen, you froze mid-step.
There he was - Steve - leaning against the counter, his large hand wrapped around a beer bottle, the condensation dripping onto the tiled floor.
He hadn't changed yet; the police uniform still encased his powerful frame, the blue shirt stretched taut across his broad shoulders and chest, the fabric slightly damp from the day's humidity. The badge on his chest gleamed under the overhead light, and his pants hugged the thick muscles of his thighs. His blond hair was tousled, a day's stubble shadowing his strong jaw, and those piercing blue eyes lifted to meet yours the moment you entered.
A rush of heat flooded your cheeks - and lower - as you took him in.
God, the uniform.
It transformed him, amplifying every inch of his authoritative presence, making him look like he could command a room or pin you against the wall with just a glance.
Memories of that shirtless afternoon flashed unbidden: the way water had trailed down his sculpted torso, the raw power in his stance. Now, clothed in this symbol of control, he seemed even more intoxicating, the contrast heightening the forbidden pull you'd been fighting for months.
You bit your lower lip instinctively, teeth pressing into the soft flesh as your gaze dipped to the way his shirt clung to the ridges of his abs, then lower still, before snapping back up.
Steve's eyes darkened a fraction, his posture shifting subtly as he set the beer down with a soft clink.
The kitchen suddenly felt smaller, the air charged with that familiar tension, thicker now in the humid quiet.
He didn't speak at first, just watched you, his expression unreadable but intense, like he was cataloging every detail: the way your tank top outlined the curve of your breasts without restraint, the flush creeping up your neck, the slight parting of your lips.
“Hey,” he said finally, his voice low and rough from the day, carrying that easy authority that sent a shiver down your spine. “Didn't hear you come down. Studying hard up there?”
You nodded, forcing words past the sudden dryness in your mouth, stepping closer to the fridge despite the magnetic pull keeping you rooted. The cool air from the open door would be a relief, but right now, all you could focus on was him - standing there, uniform and all, making your pulse thunder in your ears.
You reached for the fridge door, the cold rush of air spilling out like a brief mercy against the sticky heat clinging to your skin.
Bending at the waist, you stretched to grasp the glass pitcher of lemonade from the lower shelf, the condensation-slick handle slipping slightly in your fingers before you secured it.
The cotton shorts rode up higher with the motion, the fabric pulling taut across the curve of your ass, outlining every contour in a way that left little to the imagination - the soft swell of your cheeks, the faint dimples at the base of your spine peeking above the waistband. The tank top shifted too, the hem lifting to bare a strip of your lower back, damp with a sheen of sweat that caught the kitchen light.
Behind you, Steve's gaze locked onto the sight, unbidden and magnetic. He couldn't tear his eyes away, the simple act of you retrieving a drink transforming into something charged, forbidden.
The way the shorts molded to your body, hugging the firm roundness of your rear, stirred a low heat in his gut, his fingers tightening around the beer bottle until the glass chilled his palm.
It wasn't just the view; it was the knowledge of who you were - his stepdaughter, living under his roof, yet radiating this pull that had been building like a storm he couldn't outrun.
He shifted his weight, the leather of his shoes creaking softly, trying to anchor himself in the routine of the moment, but his mind betrayed him, flashing to those stolen glances over the past weeks.
As if sensing the weight of his stare - like a physical touch tracing down your spine - you straightened up slowly, pitcher in hand, and turned to face him. The air between you hummed with unspoken awareness, your skin prickling under the intensity of his blue eyes.
You poured the lemonade into a glass, the ice cubes clinking against the sides, and glanced up at him through your lashes.
“Want a glass?” you asked, your voice casual but laced with a subtle huskiness from the dryness in your throat - or perhaps from the way his presence filled the room. 'You know, in addition to that beer.'
Steve shook his head, the motion quick and controlled, but his throat worked visibly as he swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing under the shadow of stubble.
His eyes dipped involuntarily to your chest, where the thin cotton of the tank top had grown slightly translucent from the humidity, the faint peaks of your nipples pressing against the fabric - erect from the chill of the fridge or the electric undercurrent in the air, he couldn't tell, but the sight hit him like a punch.
It wasn't frustration driving him, not in the way he'd convinced himself. Sex with your mother was solid when it happened - warm, familiar, the kind of intimacy built on years of shared life.
But lately, her business trips stretched longer, pulling her away for days that blurred into weeks, and even on the rare evenings she was home, exhaustion etched lines into her face, her touches turning perfunctory, moods too frayed for anything more. The bed felt vast and empty beside him, nights stretching into restless hours where sleep evaded him.
And then there was you.
The way you'd started looking at him - those lingering stares, eyes smoldering with a heat that ignited something primal in his chest. It had crept into his thoughts during patrols, Bucky's chatter fading as his mind wandered to the curve of your hip or the sway of your walk.
Worse, it haunted his nights now, weaving into dreams that left him waking hard and aching: visions of your body arching under his hands, soft gasps filling the quiet house, the taboo thrill of crossing that line.
He forced his gaze back to your face, jaw clenching as he took a slow pull from his beer, the bitter fizz grounding him.
“Nah, I'm good,” he murmured, voice gravelly, deeper than intended. “Long day. You holding up with all that studying?”
The question hung there, innocent on the surface, but the kitchen pulsed with the undercurrent - the way your body responded to his nearness, nipples tightening further under his scrutiny, a flush warming your cheeks as you sipped the tart lemonade, the cool liquid doing little to quench the growing thirst low in your belly.
You nodded in agreement, murmuring a soft “Mmh-mmh” that came out breathier than you intended, the sound vibrating through the humid air.
The heat pressed down like a heavy blanket, relentless and suffocating, turning the kitchen into a haze of warmth that made every movement feel languid. The ice cubes in your glass had surrendered almost immediately, melting into a pale yellow pool that did little to slake the fire building inside you - not just from the summer swelter, but from the man standing mere feet away, his presence a magnetic force pulling at your edges.
You turned back toward the counter, reaching up to the cabinet behind you for a small ceramic bowl, the motion arching your back slightly and causing the tank top to cling even closer to your skin. The fabric, already damp from the humidity, whispered against your body as you set the bowl down with a quiet clink.
Opening the fridge again, you activated the ice maker, the machine humming to life as it dispensed fresh cubes into the bowl - clear, jagged pieces that promised fleeting relief. Each one plopped in with a satisfying crackle, steam rising faintly from the cold against the warm air.
Steve's gaze never wavered; you could feel it like a caress, trailing over your form, igniting sparks along your nerves that burned hotter than the sun-baked afternoon outside.
It wasn't just observation anymore - it was hunger, raw and unfiltered, making your pulse quicken in your throat, your skin flushing under the scrutiny.
You plucked a single ice cube from the bowl, the chill biting into your fingertips as water began to bead on its surface. Slowly, deliberately, you brought it to your neck, rubbing it in gentle circles along the column of your throat.
The cold shocked against your overheated flesh, a delicious contrast that drew a soft, involuntary moan from your lips - a low, throaty sound of pure bliss as the melting ice trailed rivulets down your collarbone.
Out of the corner of your eye, you caught the shift in Steve's expression: his blue eyes darkening, pupils dilating like storm clouds gathering on the horizon.
The air thickened further, charged with the electricity of mutual awareness, and a secret thrill curled in your belly.
You nearly smiled, the corner of your mouth twitching upward - you'd known it, deep down, that the tension simmering between you wasn't a figment of your imagination. It was real, palpable, a forbidden current that had been coiling tighter with every shared glance, every accidental brush in the hallway.
Emboldened, you kept the ice moving, gliding it lower now, over the dip at the base of your throat and across the swell of your chest.
The cube melted rapidly against your feverish skin, sending cool streams of water cascading down, soaking into the thin cotton of your tank top. The fabric darkened in patches, turning sheer and clinging transparently to the curves beneath, outlining the full shape of your breasts, the hardened peaks of your nipples standing out starkly against the wet material.
Each drop traced a path, teasing the sensitive skin, heightening the ache that had been building low in your core.
Steve's breath hitched audibly, his grip on the beer bottle whitening his knuckles as he fought to maintain composure.
He couldn't look away - his eyes fixed on your chest, tracing the way the water beaded and slid, the translucent top revealing far more than it concealed. The uniform shirt stretched across his broad shoulders, the fabric pulling taut with the tension in his muscles, and you wondered if he could hear the rapid beat of your heart echoing in the quiet space.
The kitchen felt smaller now, the distance between you shrinking with every second, the unspoken desire hanging heavy like the humid air.
You tilted your head slightly, your voice emerging soft and laced with concern as you met his gaze. "Are you okay?" you asked, the words hanging in the thick air. "You look tense..."
Steve swallowed hard, the motion of his throat working visibly under the sharp line of his jaw, his Adam's apple bobbing as if he were forcing down a storm of unspoken words. His eyes flickered briefly to yours before dropping away, the weight of the moment pressing on him.
"Just... the heat," he muttered, his voice rougher than usual, gravelly with the strain of restraint.
You nodded slowly, feigning understanding, though the undercurrent of desire thrummed through your veins like a live wire.
The pretense had worn thin - the careful dances around each other, the stolen glances that lingered too long. Fed up with tiptoeing around him, you decided to shatter the fragile barrier.
Straightforward, your tone dipped into something bolder, more inviting. "I have an idea to help you relax, if you want."
His eyebrow arched in question, a subtle lift that betrayed his curiosity despite the flicker of alarm in his blue eyes.
The kitchen light cast shadows across his face, highlighting the tension in his features, the way his lips parted just a fraction as if to protest but held back.
Without waiting for more, you reached for the bowl of ice cubes, the cold glass slick against your palm from the condensation. You stepped closer, closing the scant distance between you, your bare arm brushing against the rough fabric of his uniform shirt. The contact sent a jolt through you, electric and immediate, your skin prickling where it met his warmth.
You set the bowl down on the counter directly behind him, the cubes clinking softly as they settled, mere inches from his hips.
Your bodies nearly touched now - your chest rising and falling with quickened breaths, so close you could feel the heat radiating off him, mingling with the humid air.
Steve's mind raced; he knew this was wrong. A line he couldn't uncross.
You were his stepdaughter, the girl he'd promised to protect, not devour with the hunger that had been gnawing at him for months.
His hands twitched at his sides, instincts screaming to push you back, to end this before it spiraled. But his body betrayed him, rooted in place, every muscle coiled tight as a spring.
Your hands moved with deliberate slowness, fingers grazing the leather of his pants belt, tracing the buckle's cool metal before working it free. The soft click echoed in the quiet kitchen, louder than it should have been.
Steve watched, transfixed, his breath shallow and uneven, pupils blown wide as they followed your every motion.
The authority of his uniform, once a symbol of control, now felt like a cage he couldn't escape.
Emboldened by his inaction, you popped the button of his pants open, the fabric parting with a whisper.
Then, inch by inch, you tugged the zipper down, the metallic rasp filling the space between you. The sound was intimate, charged, pulling the air taut.
You sank to your knees before him, the cool tile biting into your skin through the thin shorts, but you barely noticed - the heat pooling low in your belly overshadowed it all.
"What are you-" he started, his voice a hoarse rumble, cut off as confusion and desire warred in his expression.
"Shhh," you hushed him, your tone firm yet soothing, eyes locking onto his from below. "Let me do this."
Your fingers delved into the open fly, slipping past the waistband of his boxers to free his cock.
It sprang forth, already thickening with arousal, the shaft heavy and veined in your hand as it hardened further under your touch. The skin was warm, velvety smooth over the rigid length, a bead of precum glistening at the tip. You wrapped your fingers around him gently, stroking from base to head in a slow, teasing rhythm, feeling him pulse and grow fully erect in your grip.
Steve exhaled sharply, setting his beer bottle down on the counter with a thud that vibrated through the surface. His large hands gripped the edge behind him, knuckles blanching white as he steadied himself, the wood creaking under the pressure.
His eyes burned down at you, intense and unblinking, fixed on the sight of your hand sliding along his cock - watching the way your fingers encircled him, the subtle twist at the crown that made his hips jerk involuntarily.
The forbidden thrill of your position, your youth, your relation to him only fueled the fire, his chest heaving as he fought the urge to thrust into your touch.
Your hand maintained its lazy rhythm along his shaft for a moment longer, savoring the way his cock throbbed in your grasp, the veins pulsing under your fingertips as it reached its full, impressive length.
The kitchen air felt heavier now, saturated with the scent of his arousal mingling with the faint citrus tang of lemonade forgotten on the counter.
Steve's breaths came in ragged bursts, his broad chest straining against the buttons of his uniform shirt, but you weren't done teasing the boundaries of his restraint.
You reached back for the bowl, the condensation dripping onto the countertop as your fingers selected a single ice cube, its edges already softening in the humid warmth. It was small but solid, chilled enough to send a shiver up your arm as you lifted it to your lips.
Without breaking eye contact - those stormy blue depths locked on yours, wide with a mix of shock and raw need - you parted your mouth and slipped the cube inside. The cold bit against your tongue immediately, a sharp contrast to the heat building in your core, melting slightly as it touched the warmth of your saliva.
Leaning forward on your knees, the tile pressing harder into your skin, you guided the swollen head of his cock past your lips.
The ice pressed against the sensitive tip first, the frigid shock making Steve's entire body jolt.
He bucked involuntarily, his hips snapping forward just enough to push deeper into the wet heat of your mouth before he caught himself, muscles locking in place.
A deep groan tore from his throat, raw and unrestrained, echoing off the kitchen cabinets like a confession he couldn't hold back any longer. The combination - the icy chill numbing the crown while your tongue swirled warm and insistent around it - sent sparks racing through him, his cock twitching against the roof of your mouth.
Emboldened by that slip in his ironclad control, the way his fingers dug harder into the counter's edge, you worked the ice with deliberate care. Your lips sealed around just the head, sucking lightly as your tongue lapped at the underside, tracing the ridge where the cold met the heat of your breath.
The cube dissolved slowly at first, then faster, trickling cold water down his length in rivulets that mixed with the precum leaking steadily from the slit.
You hummed softly around him, the vibration adding another layer of torment, feeling him swell even more against your tongue as the last bits of ice vanished.
“Fuck-” Steve muttered through gritted teeth, the word escaping like a curse and a prayer, his voice hoarse and broken.
He couldn't tear his eyes away, watching the obscene sight of your mouth on him, the water glistening on his skin, your tank top still clinging transparently to your curves from earlier.
Not giving him a second to recover, you plucked another ice cube from the bowl, the clink of it against the glass the only sound besides his labored breathing.
You kept your lips on the tip, sucking gently now - soft, kitten-like laps that teased without mercy, your tongue flicking over the slit to taste the salt of him.
With your free hand, you trailed the new ice along the exposed shaft, starting at the base where it met his boxers. The cold dragged over the heated skin, making the veins stand out in stark relief as you rubbed it up and down, circling the thick girth with slow, deliberate strokes.
Steve's head fell back for a split second, a low string of curses spilling from his lips - “Shit, oh God, fuck” - interwoven with moans that grew deeper, more desperate. His thighs trembled under your touch, the uniform pants bunched around them adding to the disheveled eroticism of the scene.
The ice melted against his cock, leaving trails of chill that made him hiss through his teeth, the contrast heightening every sensation as your mouth continued its gentle assault on the head, drawing out beads of precum that you swallowed eagerly.
His grip on the counter tightened until the wood groaned in protest, his body a taut bowstring on the verge of snapping, every fiber of him surrendering to the forbidden pleasure you'd unleashed.
The remnants of the second ice cube dripped down your chin as you pulled back just enough to catch your breath, the cool trails mixing with the warmth of your saliva on his skin.
Steve's cock stood rigid before you, glistening from the melted water and your attention, the head flushed a deep red and slick with need.
His eyes, those piercing blues darkened to near black with lust, bored into you, unblinking, as if he could devour you whole with that stare alone. It pinned you in place, a silent command that made your pulse thunder in your ears and your core clench with aching emptiness.
You couldn't resist the urge to push him further, to erode that final sliver of his composure.
Dipping your fingers back into the bowl, you fished out another cube, larger this time, its sharp edges biting into your palm as you brought it to your lips. The cold seeped into your mouth once more, numbing the tip of your tongue as you sucked it lightly, letting it coat your inner cheeks with frost.
Without a word, you leaned in again, enveloping the head of his dick in the chilled cavern of your mouth. This time, you took him deeper, your lips stretching around the girth as you slid down an inch or two, the ice pressing directly against the underside of his shaft.
Steve's reaction was immediate - a sharp inhale that bordered on a gasp, his hips twitching forward despite his efforts to stay still. The heat of him warred with the ice's bite, creating a whirlwind of sensations that had him gritting his teeth, a low rumble building in his chest.
You sucked harder now, hollowing your cheeks to increase the pressure, your tongue pressing the melting cube along his length as you bobbed shallowly. Water trickled down your shin, pooled at the base where his balls tightened against his body, heavy and drawn up in anticipation.
The temptation to slip a hand between your thighs gnawed at you, your pussy throbbing with slick heat that soaked through your shorts, begging for friction. You imagined circling your clit, dipping fingers inside to match the rhythm of your mouth on him, letting him watch as you chased your own release.
But his gaze - intense, possessive, stripping you bare - held you captive. It demanded your full focus, your undivided surrender, and you obeyed, keeping both hands on his thighs instead, nails digging into the fabric of his pants to steady yourself.
No distractions, no show; this was about breaking him, drawing out his dominance until he claimed what he craved.
You could feel it building in him, the telltale signs that he teetered on the edge.
His cock pulsed against your tongue, thicker now, the veins rigid under the thin skin as precum flowed freely, mixing with the icy melt to create a slippery glide. His breaths came in harsh pants, chest heaving, sweat beading on his forehead despite the air conditioning's hum.
Every lap of your tongue, every gentle suck that took him just a fraction deeper, pushed him closer, but you eased off when his muscles tensed too much, denying him the final plunge into oblivion.
You wanted him to shatter on his own terms, to let go of that death grip on the counter - fingers white-knuckled, the wood scarred from the pressure.
You craved the moment his control fractured completely, when he'd surge forward, tangle those strong hands in your hair, and yank you down onto his length. Force you to swallow more of him, his hips pistoning as he fucked your mouth with the same relentless drive he'd use on your pussy, claiming you utterly.
The thought sent a fresh wave of arousal flooding through you, your nipples peaking painfully against your tank top, but you held back, eyes locked on his, silently urging him to take what was his.
With a deliberate slowness, you released him from the wet heat of your mouth, the suction breaking with a soft, obscene pop that echoed in the quiet kitchen. Strings of saliva and melted ice clung between your lips and the swollen head of his cock, glistening under the fluorescent light as you wrapped your fingers around his shaft once more.
Your hand glided up and down in languid strokes, the slickness from your mouth and the lingering chill making each pass smooth and teasing, your thumb circling the ridge just below the tip to draw out a bead of precum that smeared across your skin.
Steve's breath hitched, his massive frame trembling slightly as he fought to hold position, knuckles blanching against the countertop. You looked up at him through your lashes, your voice emerging in a husky whisper laced with feigned innocence. “I don't think it's working, daddy. You're still so tense…”
The word daddy hung in the air like a spark to dry tinder.
You watched his jaw clench hard, the muscle ticking visibly under the stubble-shadowed skin, his eyes narrowing to slits of raw hunger.
A low growl rumbled from deep in his throat, suppressed but undeniable, as if the endearment had struck a nerve he'd long buried under layers of restraint. His cock jerked in your grip, thickening further against your palm, the heat radiating through your fingers like a promise of the storm building inside him.
You leaned in closer, your breath ghosting over his length, and murmured the next words with a pout curving your lips. “Must not be a good enough girl for you…”
Before he could respond, you extended your tongue, the tip - still faintly chilled from the ice - darting out to lap at the sensitive underside of his glans.
The pink flesh flicked against the flushed purple head, tracing the slit where more precum welled up, salty and warm on your taste buds.
It was a deliberate taunt, that obscene contrast of soft, wet pressure against his rigid need, your eyes never leaving his face as you savored the way his control frayed at the edges.
His free hand flexed at his side, fingers curling into a fist as if debating whether to reach for you or pull away.
The air between you thickened, charged with the scent of his arousal mingling with the faint citrus of lemonade on the counter, the hum of the fridge the only neutral sound in the escalating intimacy.
Your core ached with the denial of your own touch, wetness seeping further into the fabric of your shorts, but you reveled in this power - the ability to unravel the man who'd always been your unshakeable pillar.
Steve's chest rose and fell in ragged bursts, his uniform shirt straining across the broad expanse of muscle as he shifted his weight.
“That's not... fuck,” he rasped, voice gravelly and strained, the curse slipping out like a confession.
His gaze dropped to your mouth, fixated on the way your tongue swirled once more around the crown, collecting the essence that leaked steadily now.
The tension in his body coiled tighter, every vein along his length pulsing under your slow, deliberate pumps, but he held back, that iron will cracking inch by inch under your provocations.
You could sense the precipice he balanced on, the moment when restraint would give way to possession. Your hand tightened just a fraction, stroking from base to tip with a twist at the end that made his hips buck involuntarily.
The kitchen felt smaller, hotter, the boundaries of stepfather and stepdaughter dissolving in the haze of forbidden desire, leaving only the raw, primal pull drawing you both inexorably closer.
Finally, the dam of Steve's restraint shattered, his control fracturing under the relentless assault of your teasing.
In a surge of raw, pent-up need, his large hand shot forward, fingers tangling firmly in the hair at the nape of your neck.
The grip was unyielding yet careful, pulling your head back just enough to elicit a soft, needy moan from your throat - not born of pain, but of the electric thrill that raced down your spine.
He hauled you up from your knees with effortless strength, your body rising fluidly until you stood before him, the counter pressing against your lower back as his frame loomed dominantly close.
Your faces hovered mere millimeters apart, the heat of his body enveloping you like a furnace. Steve's breath washed over your lips in hot, uneven gusts, mingling with yours in the scant space between, carrying the faint salt of his arousal and the underlying musk of his uniform-worn day.
From this intimate distance, he could see every nuance of your expression - the way your eyes sparkled with unrepentant mischief, your lips curved in that sly, knowing smile that screamed of deliberate provocation.
He knew; oh, he knew exactly what you'd been doing, unraveling him thread by thread with every flick of your tongue and whisper of forbidden words.
His blue eyes, darkened to stormy depths, bored into yours, a flicker of accusation mingling with the blaze of desire.
“Good girls don't do that, darling,” he growled low, the words vibrating through his chest and into yours, roughened by the gravel of suppressed hunger. “Good girls shut up while they suck their daddy's cock obediently.”
The command hit you like a wave, your throat working as you swallowed hard, the motion audible in the charged silence. A soft, involuntary moan escaped your lips, your body responding instinctively to the authority in his voice, the taboo weight of his claim sending fresh heat pooling between your thighs. Your pussy clenched around nothing, the damp fabric of your shorts now clinging uncomfortably to your slick folds, but you didn't dare move, transfixed by the intensity radiating from him.
Steve's grip tightened fractionally in your hair, tilting your head back to expose the vulnerable line of your throat, his other hand coming up to brace against the counter beside you, caging you in without mercy.
“So now daddy's going to have to punish you,” he murmured, the promise laced with a dark intent that made your pulse thunder in your ears.
You weren't sure if it was the raw dominance in his tone, the way his words wrapped around the illicit dynamic like chains, or the electric anticipation of what retribution might entail that sent your knees quivering beneath you. They buckled slightly, forcing you to lean into his solid form for support, your breasts brushing against the starched fabric of his uniform shirt.
The contact ignited sparks across your skin, nipples hardening further against the thin tank top, visible peaks begging for attention.
Steve's gaze dropped briefly to the sight, his cock - still exposed and throbbing from your earlier ministrations - brushing against your thigh, hot and insistent, a reminder of the unfinished torment you'd inflicted.
The kitchen air felt thicker now, heavy with the scent of your combined arousal, the melted remnants of ice forgotten on the counter as the summer heat pressed in from the windows.
His free hand trailed up your arm, calloused fingers leaving goosebumps in their wake, before cupping your jaw, thumb brushing over your lower lip where traces of his precum still lingered.
You parted your mouth instinctively under the touch, tongue darting out to taste the salt anew, your breath coming in shallow pants that fogged the space between you.
Steve's expression hardened, that jaw-clenching resolve returning but twisted now into purposeful intent. He leaned in closer, his lips grazing the shell of your ear as he whispered,
“You've been playing with fire, sweetheart. Time to feel the burn.”
The words sent a shiver racing through you, your core aching with a mix of fear and fervent want, knees weakening further as you imagined the ways he'd make you pay - delicious, unrelenting ways that would erase every boundary left between stepfather and stepdaughter.
Steve's fingers tightened in your hair, the pull sending a sharp, delicious sting through your scalp that arched your neck further, exposing the fluttering pulse at your throat. His other hand, rough and commanding, cupped one of your breasts through the damp, clinging fabric of your tank top, his palm enveloping the soft mound completely.
He squeezed with deliberate pressure, thumb circling the hardened nipple in slow, firm strokes that made your body jolt, the sensation shooting straight to your core like liquid fire.
Your lips parted on a gasp, a high, whimpering mewl spilling out unbidden, raw and needy in the heavy air.
“Steve…” The name escaped you in a breathy plea, half protest, half invitation, your voice trembling with the overload of his touch.
He leaned in, teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your jaw in a sharp nibble that drew another soft cry from you, his stubble scraping deliciously against your flesh.
“Uh-uh, sweetheart,” he rumbled against your ear, the vibration of his voice low and corrective, laced with that authoritative edge that made your thighs clench. “That's not how you call me right now.”
His hand released your breast with a lingering squeeze, the sudden absence leaving your nipple aching for more, before his fingers trailed downward in a teasing path over your ribs, skimming the curve of your waist.
They hooked into the elastic waistband of your cotton shorts, tugging experimentally. For a moment, he paused, calloused digits fumbling as if searching for a button or zipper that wasn't there, his brow furrowing in brief confusion amid the haze of lust.
Then realization dawned, and with a low, appreciative growl that vibrated through his chest, he yanked the fabric down in one swift motion.
The shorts slid over your hips easily, pooling at your ankles in a whisper of cotton, leaving you bare from the waist down.
The cool kitchen air kissed your exposed skin, a stark contrast to the slick heat gathering between your legs, your pussy already swollen and glistening from the earlier teasing.
Steve's gaze dropped, drinking in the sight of your naked lower half, his cock twitching against your thigh at the revelation - smooth thighs parted just enough to hint at the wet folds beneath, the faint sheen of arousal catching the dim light.
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, the word rough and reverent, his free hand now gripping your hip to steady you as your knees threatened to give way again.
He stepped closer, the hard length of him pressing insistently against your bare mound, the heat of his skin searing through the thin barrier of his open pants. You could feel the ridge of his glans nudging your clit, sending sparks of pleasure jolting up your spine, your hips bucking involuntarily toward the friction.
His mouth found your neck, lips sucking a mark into the tender flesh just below your ear, while his hand in your hair guided your head to the side, giving him better access.
The dual assault - his teeth nipping, his body pinning you - had you moaning openly now, your hands clutching at his uniform shirt for purchase, fingers twisting in the starched fabric over his broad shoulders.
The scent of him enveloped you: sweat-damp cotton, leather from his belt, and the underlying tang of his leaking precum, all mingling with your own musky need.
Steve's fingers dug into your hip, pulling you flush against him, his cock sliding along your slick slit in a teasing glide that made you whine.
“Look at you,” he growled, lifting his head to capture your gaze, his eyes dark with possession.
“So wet for daddy already. Been waiting for this, haven't you?” The question hung between you, demanding confession, as his thumb brushed over the sensitive skin just above your pubic bone, inching lower but not quite touching where you ached most.
Your breath hitched, body trembling under his hold, the elastic of your shorts still tangled around your feet like a subtle restraint.
You nodded faintly, words failing you in the storm of sensation, but the mischievous spark in your eyes told him everything - he'd broken, and now the punishment was yours to savor, every inch of it laced with the forbidden thrill of his claim.
Steve's voice dropped to a gravelly command, the words slicing through the charged silence like a whip.
“Bend over the table,” he ordered, his grip in your hair loosening just enough to release you, but his eyes - dark, unyielding - held you captive, daring you to disobey.
You complied without hesitation, your body thrumming with anticipation as you turned toward the sturdy wooden kitchen table, its surface cool and unyielding under your palms.
Leaning forward, you pressed your chest against the edge, the thin tank top riding up slightly to expose the small of your back. Your hips arched instinctively, presenting your ass to him in a blatant invitation, cheeks parting just enough to reveal the slick, swollen folds of your pussy, glistening with the evidence of your arousal.
The air felt thicker now, heavy with the scent of your need, and you could hear your own ragged breaths echoing off the tiled floor, the shorts still tangled around your ankles like forgotten shackles.
Steve stepped back for a moment, his gaze raking over you with predatory intensity, drinking in the sight of your exposed vulnerability.
Your ass curved upward, taut and inviting, the skin flushed from the earlier heat of his touch. Between your thighs, your pussy lips parted slightly, dewy and pink, the inner slickness catching the faint overhead light in a way that made his mouth water.
He'd fantasized about this for weeks - nights spent tossing in bed beside your mother, his mind replaying stolen glances at your lithe form around the house, imagining the taste of you on his tongue, the way you'd clench around him.
But tonight, you'd pushed him too far, your teasing with the ice, the bold touches, the whispered provocations - it was all the excuse he needed to claim what he'd craved.
Still fully dressed in his rumpled uniform, the fabric straining against his broad frame, only his cock freed from the confines of his pants, standing rigid and veined, the tip already beaded with precum.
The contrast thrilled him: you bare and trembling, him clothed and in control.
He closed the distance in two strides, the heat of his body radiating against your back before he even touched you. One large hand settled on your hip, fingers splaying possessively over the curve of your ass, thumb tracing the dimple there as he positioned himself behind you.
With his free hand, he wrapped his fingers around the thick base of his shaft, guiding the engorged length forward. The velvety head nudged against your dripping entrance, sliding through the wet seam of your folds in a slow, deliberate drag that coated him in your juices.
Up and down he rubbed, the friction teasing your clit with each pass, sending jolts of pleasure that made your knees buckle slightly, your nails scraping against the tabletop for stability.
The sensation was maddening - his cock hot and heavy, parting your lips without penetrating, promising everything and delivering torment.
“Please…” The word slipped from your lips in a hoarse murmur, your voice breaking on the edge of desperation, hips canting back in a silent beg for more.
Steve's chuckle was low and dark, vibrating through his chest as he pressed the tip firmer against your clit, circling it with shallow thrusts that had you gasping.
“Please who?” he demanded, his tone laced with authority, the hand on your hip tightening to hold you still, denying you the leverage to grind against him.
“Please, daddy,” you whispered, the taboo title rolling off your tongue like a surrender, heat flooding your cheeks even as your pussy clenched emptily, aching for him.
He groaned at the sound, the word fueling the fire in his veins, but he wasn't done drawing it out. Leaning over you, his chest brushing your back through his shirt, he brought his lips to your ear, breath hot and ragged.
“Words, baby,” he murmured, his cock slipping lower to notch at your entrance, the broad head stretching you just enough to hint at the fullness to come.
“You have to tell daddy what you want so he can give you what you need.” His free hand slid up your spine, gathering the hem of your tank top and pushing it higher, exposing more of your skin to his touch, fingers dancing along the ridges of your ribs.
The plea built in your throat, raw and unfiltered, as his teasing strokes grew more insistent, your arousal dripping down your thighs now, slicking his length.
“Need your cock,” you gasped, voice trembling with urgency, pushing back against him despite his hold. “Need you to fuck me... please, daddy, fuck your little girl.”
Steve's control frayed at your words, a guttural sound escaping him as he finally relented, the head of his cock breaching you in one smooth, inexorable push. Inch by inch, he sank into your tight heat, the stretch burning sweetly as your walls fluttered around him, welcoming the invasion.
He bottomed out with a hiss, hips flush against your ass, buried to the hilt in the velvet grip of your pussy.
For a moment, he stilled, savoring the way you clenched around him, the obscene squelch of your combined wetness filling the air.
Then, with a firm grip on your hips, he began to move - slow, deep thrusts that rocked the table beneath you, each one claiming you more thoroughly, the taboo thrill of it all making every sensation sharper, more intoxicating.
Suddenly, Steve halted his rhythmic thrusts, the abrupt stillness leaving his cock buried deep inside you, throbbing against your clenching walls. The denial hit you like a wave, your body aching for the friction that had been building you toward release, and a plaintive whimper escaped your lips, raw and needy.
You tried to rock your hips back, desperate to chase the sensation, but his large hands clamped down on your hips with unyielding strength, fingers digging into your flesh to hold you immobile, pinning you against the table's edge.
“Shh, baby,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble laced with restraint, breath hot against the nape of your neck as he leaned over you.
“You're gonna make daddy cum too soon. And I still have to punish you.” The words sent a shiver racing down your spine, the promise of discipline mingling with the lingering fullness of him stretching you, your pussy fluttering around his shaft in protest.
One of his hands lifted from your hip, sliding down to cup the firm globe of your ass, his palm warm and calloused against your skin.
Without warning, he delivered a sharp spank, the crack echoing through the kitchen like a thunderclap. The sting bloomed across your cheek, heat radiating outward, and your inner muscles contracted involuntarily around his cock, squeezing him in a vise-like grip that drew a husky groan from his throat.
The pain twisted into pleasure, your arousal spiking as the slap reverberated through your core, making your clit throb with neglected need.
His other hand ventured lower, slipping between your spread thighs with deliberate intent.
Fingers parted your slick folds just enough to expose the swollen nub of your clit, hypersensitive and pulsing from the earlier teasing. He pressed the flat of his fingers against it, then brought them down in a firm, targeted slap - not too hard to bruise, but enough to send a jolt of electric sensation straight to your core.
You moaned sharply, the sound tearing from your chest as your pussy clenched again, tighter this time, milking his length with rhythmic spasms that made stars burst behind your eyelids. The mix of sting and spark had your thighs quivering, fresh wetness coating his balls where they pressed against you.
“Listen to me closely, little slut,” Steve growled, his tone shifting to one of commanding authority, the edge of his voice roughened by the effort of holding back.
He punctuated the words with another light tap to your clit, drawing a gasp from you as your body arched instinctively.
“I'm going to ask you some questions. If you lie to me, I'll spank this ass so hard you won't be able to sit tomorrow.” To emphasize, he rubbed his palm over the reddening handprint on your cheek, the soothing touch contrasting the threat, before squeezing possessively.
“But if you answer correctly, I'll reward you… give that naughty girl's pussy pleasure that’ll make you squeal so loud the neighbors will hear every filthy sound.” He paused, his cock twitching inside you, a subtle reminder of his own barely leashed hunger.
“Understood?”
You nodded weakly.
Steve's voice dropped even lower, a husky timbre laced with accusation and dark amusement as he leaned closer, his chest brushing against your back.
“Did you really think I didn't hear your squeals at night? That I don't know what you were doing?” The question hung in the air, heavy with implication, his breath fanning over your ear while his cock remained lodged deep inside your dripping pussy, every inch of him pulsing with restrained power.
A soft moan slipped from your throat, unbidden, your body trembling under the weight of his words and the fullness stretching you.
The admission of his awareness sent a flush of embarrassment and thrill racing through you, your walls fluttering around his shaft in response, slick arousal coating him further.
He began to move again, but agonizingly slow - a deliberate, torturous drag of his thick cock withdrawing almost to the tip before sliding back in with measured precision, the veined length gliding against your sensitive inner walls.
Each languid thrust stretched you anew, the friction teasing your nerves without granting the rapid pace you craved, building the ache in your core to an unbearable simmer. His hips rolled in a controlled rhythm, balls slapping lightly against your clit with every deep plunge, the wet sounds of your joined bodies filling the kitchen.
“What did you use?” he pressed, his tone demanding as one hand gripped your hip tighter, holding you steady for his unhurried invasions.
“Your fingers? That little vibrator you hide in your nightstand?'”
The words painted vivid pictures in your mind, his knowledge of your secret toy making your cheeks burn even as your pussy clenched greedily around him, desperate for more.
You nodded frantically, words failing you in the haze of sensation, but before you could form a response, his free hand came down in a resounding spank on your ass cheek. The sharp sting exploded across your skin, the impact jolting your body forward slightly, only for his grip to pull you back onto his cock. Heat bloomed where his palm connected, the pain sharpening your arousal, making your clit throb and your thighs slick with need.
“I told you to use words, baby,” he growled, the warning edged with possession as he rubbed the reddened spot roughly, his fingers kneading the tender flesh before delivering a lighter pat that still made you gasp.
“Both! Both, daddy,” you blurted out, the confession tumbling from your lips in a breathless rush, your voice high and pleading as another slow thrust filled you completely, the head of his cock nudging against that spot deep inside that made your vision blur.
Steve's eyes darkened further at your confession, a predatory gleam flashing in their blue depths as he processed your words, the slow grind of his hips never faltering.
His cock dragged out inch by inch, the thick ridge catching on your inner walls before he pushed back in with a deliberate roll, filling you to the hilt and pressing his pelvis against your ass. The sensation built that coiling heat low in your belly, every nerve alight from the teasing pace.
“Did you imagine it was me?” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through his chest into your back, one hand sliding from your hip to trace the curve of your spine, fingers splaying possessively over your skin.
This time, you remembered his rule amid the thickening fog of pleasure clouding your mind, the haze making your thoughts scatter like leaves in the wind.
“Yes, daddy,” you gasped, the words spilling out in a needy whisper as his shaft throbbed inside you, stretching your soaked pussy with each subtle shift.
“I pretended it was you. Pretended it was your fingers.”
A soft, rewarding smack landed on your clit, his fingers flicking lightly against the swollen nub exposed between your spread thighs.
The sharp tingle shot straight to your core, making your walls clamp down around his cock in a desperate squeeze, the edge of your orgasm creeping closer, a tight knot ready to unravel with just a little more pressure.
Your breath hitched, body arching instinctively toward the touch, slickness dripping down your inner thighs.
“Not my cock?” he probed, his tone laced with mock disappointment, though the way his length twitched inside you betrayed his arousal at the admission.
He pulled back slightly, the head of his dick teasing your entrance before slamming home in one controlled thrust that made your toes curl.
You shook your head frantically, strands of hair sticking to your sweat-dampened neck.
“I... I knew it wasn't as big as you,” you admitted, voice breaking on a whimper as embarrassment warred with the building ecstasy, your pussy fluttering wildly around him.
The second slap to your clit came firmer, a wet smack that reverberated through your body, sending jolts of electric pleasure-pain radiating outward. You mewled sharply, the sound high and animalistic, your hips bucking back against him involuntarily as stars burst behind your eyelids, the orgasm teetering on the brink, so close you could taste it.
Steve's breath grew ragged against your ear, his massive frame pinning you down as he sensed the telltale flutters of your impending release, your inner muscles gripping his thick shaft with increasing urgency. He thrust deeper, the veined length of his cock sliding through your drenched folds in a torturously slow rhythm, each withdrawal pulling a slick sheen along his skin before he buried himself again, grinding against your cervix with possessive intent.
“You're going to cum,” he growled, his voice thick with dominance, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hip to hold you steady.
“I can feel it... Your tight little cunt is clenching even harder around my cock.”
The words sent a fresh wave of heat crashing through you, your eyelids fluttering shut instinctively as the pleasure coiled tighter, threatening to shatter you.
But before you could surrender to the darkness, his palm cracked against your ass cheek in a sharp spank, the sting blooming across your skin like fire, jolting your body forward and making your walls spasm around him.
“Look at me when I talk to you,” he commanded, the authority in his tone unyielding, laced with that raw hunger that made your pulse race.
You twisted your head as much as your position allowed, neck straining while bent over the table, your gaze locking onto his face.
Your lips parted on a soft exhale, the sight of him unraveling you further - Steve, still clad in his crisp police uniform, the fabric stretched taut over his broad shoulders and chest, badge glinting under the kitchen light.
One large hand anchored on your hip, fingers bruising in their grip, while the other hovered near your throbbing clit, occasionally brushing the sensitive pearl to heighten your torment.
He fucked you with agonizing slowness, hips rolling in measured strokes, his cock disappearing into your soaked entrance as if he owned every inch of you, savoring the way your body yielded to him without haste, like time itself bent to his will.
The visual alone pushed you closer to the edge, your breath coming in shallow pants, breasts heaving against the cool surface beneath you.
“I'm going to let you cum,” he continued, his blue eyes boring into yours, dark with lust and control.
“But you're not hiding your face. You'll look right at me while I stuff this pussy full, and when it's over, you'll thank me properly. Understand?”
“Yes, daddy,” you whispered, the affirmation trembling from your lips, your voice laced with desperate submission as his thumb circled your clit once more, the pressure building an unbearable ache.
He rewarded your obedience with a deeper plunge, his cock stretching you wide, the head nudging that sweet spot inside that made your vision blur. The spanks had left your ass warm and tingling, each one echoing in your core, syncing with the relentless drag of his dick against your sensitive walls.
Sweat beaded on his forehead, a few strands of his blond hair falling loose from the neat style, but his focus never wavered - locked on your face, watching every twitch, every gasp, as he drove you toward oblivion at his pace.
Steve's fingers clamped down on your swollen clit with precise pressure, pinching the sensitive nub just as he slammed his hips forward in a powerful thrust, his thick cock burying itself to the hilt inside your quivering core.
The dual assault shattered your restraint, waves of ecstasy crashing over you in an unstoppable torrent.
A sharp cry tore from your throat, your pussy convulsing wildly around his invading length, rhythmic spasms milking him as if desperate to pull him deeper, your juices flooding out to coat his shaft and drip down your thighs.
You forced your eyes to stay locked on his, obeying the command even as tears of overwhelming pleasure blurred your vision, the world narrowing to the intensity of his piercing blue gaze. Every flutter of your lashes felt like defiance, but you held steady, watching the satisfaction etch across his features.
He smiled then, a predatory curve of his lips that sent fresh shivers racing down your spine.
“Good girl,” he murmured, the words wrapping around you like a velvet touch, soothing yet igniting the fire anew.
The praise sank into your skin, amplifying the lingering heat pooling low in your belly, your body still humming from the aftershocks, sensitive walls fluttering erratically around his unmoving cock.
With effortless strength, Steve hauled you upright against him, your back pressing flush to the rough fabric of his police shirt stretched over his solid chest.
The shift altered everything - the angle of his dick inside you tilted sharper, the head now grinding against that hidden bundle of nerves with every subtle twitch, intensifying the sensations tenfold as you struggled to catch your breath, your first climax's echoes still rippling through your limbs, leaving you weak and pliant in his grasp.
He guided one of your knees up onto the table's edge, the wood cool against your heated skin, spreading your legs wider and exposing you completely.
The new position allowed him to sink even deeper, his cock stretching your slick channel to its limits, the fullness bordering on overwhelming as your body adjusted to the deeper penetration.
One of his large hands slid under your tank top, cupping and squeezing your breast firmly, his thumb rolling over the hardened nipple with teasing flicks that drew a gasp from your lips.
His other hand wrapped around your throat, fingers applying just enough pressure to make your pulse thunder under his palm, a reminder of his control as he held you there, trapped between his body and the edge of release once more.
Steve's voice rumbled low and commanding against your ear, his breath hot as he growled,
“This is my pussy now," the words laced with unyielding possession while his teeth grazed the tender skin of your neck, nipping sharply before trailing bites along your shoulder.
All the while, his hips drove forward relentlessly, his rigid cock pistoning deep into your soaked folds with forceful strokes that stretched you wide and sent jolts of raw pleasure spiking through your core, your inner walls clenching greedily around his invading thickness.
“Yes, daddy,” you gasped out, your voice trembling with surrender,
“Yours. Always yours.” The admission spilled from your lips like a vow, fueling the fire coiling tighter in your belly as his body dominated yours completely.
A soft chuckle vibrated from his chest, the sound dark and approving, and his fingers tightened around your throat, the pressure firm enough to make your breath hitch and a needy moan escape your parted lips. The hold anchored you, heightening every sensation as blood rushed in your ears.
His other hand abandoned your first breast, sliding across to claim the other, kneading the soft mound roughly before his thumb and forefinger pinched and twisted the pebbled nipple, the sharp tug mirroring the torment on its twin and drawing a whimper from deep within you, your body arching instinctively into his touch.
“Please, daddy…” The plea tumbled out unbidden, laced with desperation as the building ache between your legs demanded more, your hips rocking back against him in silent begging.
“What do you want, baby?” he murmured, his tone teasing yet edged with control, his cock still plunging steadily into your dripping heat, each thrust grinding against your sensitive depths and pushing you closer to the edge.
“Kiss me,” you breathed, the words thick with longing, “Wanna taste your mouth and your tongue.”
He laughed again, the sound rich and predatory, echoing in the charged air between you.
With a firm grip on your jaw, he turned your head toward him, his eyes locking onto yours with smoldering intensity. His tongue darted out, tracing the seam of your open lips in a slow, deliberate lick that left them tingling and wet, savoring the faint sweetness lingering there.
“You're all sweet, baby,” he rasped, his voice husky with approval, “I knew you'd taste so damn good.”
Then his mouth crashed onto yours, the kiss fierce and claiming, his lips dominating yours with bruising pressure that stole your breath and ignited every nerve.
You moaned into the heat of it, the sound muffled against him, and he seized the opportunity, thrusting his tongue past your lips to tangle with yours in a deep, swirling dance. It explored boldly, stroking and teasing your own with slick, insistent pressure, the intimate friction mirroring the way his cock claimed your pussy below, leaving you dizzy and utterly lost in his control.
Steve's hand returned to your throat, his fingers curling with deliberate pressure that made your pulse thunder beneath his palm, a thrilling reminder of his absolute command over you.
His teeth captured the sensitive lobe of your ear, nipping and tugging with just enough force to send shivers racing down your spine, your body quivering in response as a deep, throaty moan escaped your lips.
You reached up instinctively, your fingers wrapping around his wrist - not to pull him away, but to anchor yourself to him, clinging to the solid strength of his arm as waves of ecstasy threatened to overwhelm you completely.
“I'm gonna paint your pussy with my cum, sweetheart,” he growled into your ear, his voice rough and laced with primal hunger, the words vibrating through you like a promise of filthy fulfillment while his cock continued its merciless rhythm, slamming deep into your clenching heat with each powerful thrust.
You moaned louder, the sound raw and desperate, your body arching back against his chest.
“Please, daddy,” you whimpered, the plea dripping with need, your inner walls fluttering around his thick shaft as it stretched and filled you over and over.
“You want that?” he demanded, his breath hot against your skin, hips snapping forward harder, grinding his length against your most sensitive spots. “You want my cum flooding your tight little cunt?”
“Yes! Yes, please,” you cried out, your voice breaking with urgency, nails digging into his wrist as pleasure coiled tighter in your core. “Want it! Need it so bad!”
Steve's response was a series of brutal, targeted thrusts, his cock driving into you with precision that hit every nerve, pushing you over the brink. Your orgasm crashed through you like a storm, your pussy spasming wildly around him, milking his invading hardness as ecstasy ripped a scream from your throat, your vision blurring with the intensity of it all.
He followed moments later, burying himself to the hilt with a guttural groan, his cock pulsing as hot spurts of cum erupted deep inside you, coating your walls and filling you to overflowing while his body pinned you flush against his, his free arm banding around your waist to hold you captive in the throes of shared release.
As the aftershocks faded, leaving you both panting and spent, Steve's grip on your throat eased into something gentler, his lips brushing yours in a soft, lingering kiss that contrasted the ferocity of moments before - tender yet still possessive, his tongue tracing your lower lip in a final claim.
“Didn’t you forget something, baby girl?” he murmured against your mouth, his voice low and affectionate, eyes searching yours with a mix of satisfaction and expectation.
pairings: peter ballard x fem!reader
warnings: 18+ MDNI!!, depictions of violence, sexual content, abuse (not detailed or from pairings!), angst, jealousy, slow-burn, emotional manipulation, steamy
chapter summary: the hallway becomes a pressure point, everything unsaid finally has nowhere left to go. what’s been carefully contained starts to slip, and the rules that once felt solid begin to bend in quiet, terrifying ways. somewhere between proximity and choice, something changes and the system finally notices.
a/n: hellooooo my beautiful readerssss!!! oh my goodness i cannot believe this is the final chapter for edges of us!! thank you to everyone, especially those who have been here since the first chapter and for your patience! this is the longest chapter in this fic (4.4k), which is why it took me almost two entire days to write... but again, thank you for your support and lovely comments, i cannot wait to hear your guys' thoughts! happy reading my dears<333
part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8 & part 9
taglist: @lauramooij05, @ginarely-blog, @its-always-that-deep, @nichtsss25,
@bontensbabygirl
The hallway is narrower than you remember.
Or maybe it just feels that way now–compressed by everything you’ve been carrying, by the way the air seems to press in as soon as Peter steps into it behind you. The lab noise dulls the moment the door swings shut, replaced by a quieter hum that feels too intimate, too aware.
This is where it started.
You don’t point that out. You don’t need to. The memory lives in the walls near the storage shelves.
Peter stands a few feet away from you, rigid in a way you’ve never seen before, not his usual control, not his practiced stillness, but something tighter. Strained. Like he’s holding himself together by force alone.
You don’t give him time to recover.
“I’m done,” you say, the words sharp, clipped, carried by weeks of restraint finally snapping. “I’m done pretending this didn’t happen. I’m done with you acting like we were a mistake you corrected.”
“That’s not–” He stops himself, jaw tightening. His breath stutters. “That’s not what this is.”
You laugh, harsh and disbelieving. “Then what is it, Peter? Because from where I’m standing, you went cold the second Blair showed up. So just tell me.”
He frowns, confused. “Tell you what?”
“The truth,” you snap. “Tell me you’re interested in her now. Tell me you moved on. Tell me you needed something… simpler.” Your chest burns as you add, “Save the story. Don’t lie to me.”
His reaction is immediate.
“What?” His voice cracks on the word, sharp with genuine alarm. “No. No–God, no. I would never–how could you think that?”
You fold your arms tighter, defensive. “Then explain it. Because all I see is you choosing distance, choosing her authority, choosing whatever this is over me.”
He shakes his head rapidly, panic flickering across his face. “I didn’t choose her. I didn’t choose any of this.”
“Then why does it feel like you chose against me?” you demand.
The frequency hits him hard.
You see it this time–the way his shoulders tense, the way his hand jerks up to his temple before he can stop it. His breathing goes uneven, shallow, like he’s trying not to drown on dry land.
“Peter,” you say, a warning threaded through the concern. “What’s happening to you?”
“I’m fine,” he lies automatically, then winces, whether from the device or the lie itself, you don’t know. “I just need you to stop pushing for a second.”
“I’ve been stopping for weeks,” you fire back. “You don’t get that luxury anymore.”
That does it.
Something in him gives, not completely, but enough that the fracture shows.
“They recalibrated me,” he says, words rushed, almost tripping over themselves. “After Blair noticed irregular response patterns.”
You stare at him.
“…Are you serious right now?”
“I know how it sounds,” he says quickly, hands flexing at his sides like he doesn’t know where to put them. “I know it sounds like deflection or paranoia or–”
“It sounds like bullshit,” you interrupt. “It sounds like a story you’re telling because you don’t want to admit you pulled away.”
He flinches like you struck him.
“I didn’t pull away because I wanted to,” he says, voice rising despite himself. “I pulled away because I was told my proximity to you was causing interference.”
Your heart stutters.
“Interference with what?” you ask.
He hesitates–a fatal mistake.
Your disbelief surges. “Unbelievable. So now I’m a problem to be managed?”
“No,” he says desperately. “You’re not a problem. You’re–”
He stops.
You laugh again, hollow this time. “You’re doing it again. Dancing around the truth like it’s radioactive.”
“It is,” he whispers.
That lands wrong. Too heavy. Too real.
You shake your head. “You expect me to believe that the lab rewired you because you got close to me? That makes no sense.”
“Yes,” he says immediately. Too fast. Too earnest.
Your chest tightens. “Then say it. Say what they think I am.”
His throat bobs. He swallows hard.
“…A variable.”
The word drops between you like broken glass.
You stare at him, thoughts scrambling. Variable of what? The work? The kids? Your observations? Your presence?
“That doesn’t mean anything,” you say, even as something cold curls in your stomach. “You’re making it sound bigger than it is.”
“It is bigger,” he insists, voice shaking now. “They measure everything. Inputs. Outputs. Cause and effect. And when I was near you, the system behaved differently.”
“What does that even mean? You distanced yourself,” you say bitterly. “For the sake of the system?”
“No,” he says, voice breaking for real now. “For the sake of you.”
You freeze.
“I thought if I made it look like nothing,” he continues, words spilling faster, more frantic, “if I made it clean, procedural, they’d stop watching. That they wouldn’t tighten anything else. That they wouldn’t decide you needed to be… adjusted for.”
Your breath catches painfully.
“Stop,” you say. “Just–stop. This is insane.”
“I know,” he says. “I know. And I hate that I’m saying it this way. I didn’t want you to find out at all.”
“Then why are you telling me now?” you demand.
He looks at you like the answer terrifies him.
“Because you won’t let it go,” he says softly. “And because I can’t keep lying to you by omission.”
Silence stretches.
You feel like the floor has shifted beneath you, reality tilting at an angle your brain refuses to correct.
“Peter,” you say carefully, “if this is some elaborate way of protecting yourself from accountability–”
“I’ll show you,” he blurts.
You blink. “Show me what?”
His hands shake as they move to the hem of his shirt.
Your heart slams violently against your ribs. “What are you doing?”
“I need you to see it,” he says, voice barely holding together. “Because if I don’t, you’ll think I’m lying. And I–” His voice cracks again. “I can’t handle you thinking that.”
He lifts the fabric.
Time fractures.
The tattoo is stark against his pale skin. Dark. Deliberate.
001.
Your brain rejects it instantly.
No.
That’s not–
That’s not possible–
You stare, breath locked in your chest.
The number isn’t just a number.
It’s a designation.
Your thoughts avalanche all at once–the children, their names, the way numbers followed them like shadows. How each one corresponded. How none of them ever chose it.
“Oh my God,” you whisper, knees going weak. “No. No, no, no–”
Peter lets the shirt fall back into place, eyes glued to your face like he’s bracing for revulsion.
“I didn’t choose it,” he says quickly. “I didn’t even know what it meant at first.”
Your mind races, pulling threads together whether you want it to or not.
The first.
The prototype.
“You’re–” Your voice breaks. “You’re one of them.”
“I am,” he says, nodding once. “I always have been.”
Your chest aches with it, sharp and sudden. You think of the kids. The restraints. The way numbers replaced names. The way no one ever asked them what they wanted.
You look back at him–really look.
At the control.
The restraint.
The way closeness always seemed to hurt him.
And then your mind does something cruel.
It starts connecting things.
Not gently. Not neatly. It hits you in fragments, flashes you don’t want.
The fact that he never followed you to the parking lot, not once–not even late, not even when the lab was empty and the night felt too big.
The way he always stopped at the office door. Always.
How he never invited you over. Never lingered in yours. Never crossed that invisible line that would have been so easy to explain away as concern or courtesy.
You’d told yourself he was careful.
Professional.
Now the thought curdles.
Your breath comes shallow. “No,” you whisper, shaking your head. “No, this–this doesn’t make sense.”
He doesn’t interrupt you. Doesn’t correct you. That silence is worse than any answer.
“You’re telling me,” you continue, voice unsteady, “that you’re–what–like them?” The word children sticks painfully in your throat. “That you’re one of Brenner’s subjects?”
“I’m human,” he says quickly, too quickly. “I am. I think, I feel, I–”
“Stop,” you say, a hand lifting between you like you need physical space from the thought. “Just–stop for a second.”
Your gaze drops again, traitorous, pulled back to where the number had been.
001.
Your stomach flips violently.
You don’t touch him right away.
You can’t.
Your eyes are locked on the number like it might rearrange itself if you stare long enough. Like maybe it’ll blur, smear into something meaningless. A coincidence. Ink. A bad joke.
It doesn’t.
It’s there. Clean. Intentional. Old.
“Say it’s fake,” you whisper whilst closing your eyes.
Peter’s breath stutters. “It’s not.”
Your chest tightens painfully. “Say it anyway.”
Silence.
That silence is what breaks you.
You step closer before you realize you’ve moved. The space between you collapses in two quiet strides, and suddenly you’re standing right in front of him, close enough to feel the heat of his body, the tension humming just beneath his skin.
He doesn’t retreat.
That’s new.
Your hand lifts, trembling. You hesitate inches from his wrist, like touching him might shock you. Like you’ll feel something unnatural under your fingers–metal, vibration, static.
You don’t.
Your fingers brush his skin.
Warm.
Human.
You swallow hard and trace the edge of the ink with the pad of your thumb. It’s faintly raised, the way old scars sometimes are. Your touch is feather-light, but Peter inhales sharply like it hurts anyway.
“Oh my God,” you breathe.
The number feels real in a way words never could.
You press your thumb down harder, like you’re testing gravity.
“Did they–” Your voice breaks. You clear your throat, try again. “Did they name you that?”
“No,” he says quickly. “They numbered us first.”
Us.
Your hand stills.
Us.
Your vision blurs suddenly, tears you didn’t authorize welling up hot and fast. You blink them back, furious.
“You were a kid,” you whisper.
He nods once.
Your fingers curl around his wrist now, grip tightening without permission. “How old?”
“Too young to remember not being here.”
The hallway tilts.
You think of the children down the hall–the way they had no name, just numbers, the way their files are thicker than their histories. You think of how carefully Peter has always spoken to them. How gently. Like he knew exactly where the fear lived.
“You remember everything,” you say, realization hitting hard. “Don’t you?”
“Yes.”
Your breath shudders. “Even–”
“Yes.”
That one syllable is devastating.
You let go of his wrist abruptly, like you’ve been burned. You pace two steps away, then turn back, hands flying up to cradle your head.
“No,” you say again, louder now. “No, no, no. This isn’t–this isn’t what I thought this was.”
“I know.”
“I thought you were just–” You laugh, hysterical and sharp. “Careful. Private. Damaged in a way that made sense.”
He flinches. “I am damaged.”
“That’s not what I mean and you know it,” you snap, tears finally spilling over. “I thought this was human damage. I thought this was choice.”
“It is,” he says desperately. “I choose. Every day.”
You whirl on him. “Then why didn’t you ever walk me to my car?”
He freezes.
“Why didn’t you ever stay?” you demand. “Why did you always stop at the door like there was an invisible wall?”
His voice drops to barely audible. “Because Brenner decides the thresholds.”
Your knees feel weak.
“Thresholds,” you echo hollowly.
“If I crossed certain ones,” he continues, words shaking now, “they’d know. The device would register it. Attachment increases output. Output gets flagged.”
“So you just–what?” you choke. “You stayed where they could see you?”
“Yes. I had no other choice but to stay in the lab.”
The realization is merciless.
He wasn’t avoiding intimacy.
He was containing it.
The realization barely has time to settle before something in him fractures further.
“There’s–” he starts, then stops. Tries again. His breath stutters like his body can’t decide what to do with it. “There’s something else.”
You look up sharply. “What?”
His mouth opens. Closes. His hands curl at his sides like fists he doesn’t remember making.
“Peter isn’t–” His voice cracks on the name. He swallows hard, throat bobbing. “That isn’t my name.”
The words land wrong. Not heavy at first, just off. Like a sentence that doesn’t belong to you.
“What?” you say. It comes out too sharp. Defensive. “What do you mean, that’s not your name?”
He looks terrified now. Not of the lab. Not of consequences.
Of you.
“It’s an alias,” he says quickly, like if he explains fast enough you won’t run. “One Brenner assigned. For clearance. For function. For–” He breaks off, breath hitching. “For distance.”
Your pulse starts to roar in your ears.
“No,” you say, shaking your head. “No. Don’t–don’t do that. Don’t lie on top of this.”
“I’m not lying,” he insists, panic bleeding through the control. “I swear I’m not. I just–I didn’t know how to tell you.”
“Then tell me now,” you snap. “Because if this is some story to make this make sense, just say that. I’m giving you another chance to tell me the truth. Say you’re interested in Blair. Say you were bored. Say anything except–” Your voice falters. “--except this.”
He flinches like you struck him.
“I would never,” he says hoarsely. “God, no. Not her. Not anyone. I already told you I would never. There was only–” He stops himself, jaw trembling. “There was only you.”
Your chest tightens painfully. “Then who did I fall for?” you demand. “Because I thought I knew you. I thought I knew your name.”
Silence stretches between you, thick and unbearable.
Then, barely above a whisper, like saying it too loud might make it real:
“Henry.”
Your breath leaves you in a rush.
“What?”
“Henry Creel,” he says, voice breaking completely now. “That was my name. Before.”
Before what.
Before the lab.
Before the number.
Before the device.
Your head spins violently. “Henry,” you repeat, like the word itself is unstable. “So Peter is just–what? A role? A mask?”
“No,” he says desperately. “It’s me. It’s still me. I just–” His hands lift helplessly. “They said names create attachment. That Henry was… unmanageable. Confidential.”
You laugh, sharp and disbelieving, the sound ripping out of you. “So you erased him?”
“They did,” he says. “I just learned how to answer to something else.”
Your thoughts scatter, frantic now. Do I even know you? Did I ever? Every memory tilts, warps–every soft moment suddenly carrying a second shadow.
And then your eyes betray you again.
Back to the number.
001.
Something inside you shatters.
You pull back, pacing, spiraling now. “So what am I supposed to call you?” you demand, voice cracking. “Peter? Henry? Or just–just another variable you weren’t allowed to want?”
“No,” he says, breaking apart. “Never that. You were the only thing that ever felt like mine.”
You stop short.
Turn.
The hallway feels too small to hold the truth sitting between you.
“I don’t know who you are,” you say, devastated. “And I don’t know how I fell for someone I didn’t even know the real name of.”
His face crumples. “I was afraid of that,” he whispers. “I was afraid if I told you, you’d realize I wasn’t real enough to keep.”
You step back.
He doesn’t follow.
Of course he doesn’t.
Because thresholds matter.
Because names matter.
Because suddenly, painfully, everything makes sense–and that’s the part you’re not ready to forgive yet.
“That’s not possible,” you say, more to yourself than to him. “You’re not–you’re older than them. You’re different. You have autonomy. You have clearance. You–”
“I was taught,” he says quietly. “Conditioned. Given structure instead of isolation.”
Your head snaps up. “So you can do things?” you demand. “Like them?”
He hesitates.
That hesitation detonates something in you.
“Oh my God,” you breathe. “You can.”
His voice is low. Careful. “Not the same way.”
“That’s not comforting,” you snap, panic spiking. “What does that mean, Peter? What can you do? What does the device actually–”
“It regulates,” he says. “Suppresses amplification. Corrects emotional spikes. Keeps certain responses within acceptable thresholds.”
You stare at him, horrified.
“Acceptable to who?”
He doesn’t answer.
The silence is confirmation enough.
Your thoughts spiral faster now, relentless. Every clipped goodbye. Every time he pulled back first. Every moment where you’d leaned in and felt him freeze–not with disinterest, but with restraint so intense it felt painful.
You’d thought it was fear.
You hadn’t realized it was training.
Your hand flies back to his wrist without thinking, fingers wrapping around it like an anchor. You don’t look at the number this time. You look at him.
“You let me think you didn’t want more,” you whisper. “You let me think I imagined it.”
“I needed you to,” he says, voice breaking. “Because if you knew, you’d start asking questions. And questions are dangerous.”
You laugh, shaky and disbelieving. “You’re telling me this now and you think that isn’t dangerous?”
“I think you deserve the truth,” he says. “Even if it makes you hate me.”
You shake your head hard. “I don’t hate you. I just–” Your voice cracks. “I don’t know who you are.”
He flinches at that.
“That’s what I was afraid of,” he admits softly.
You look at him again–really look–and this time the familiarity hurts. The steadiness you trusted now feels like something engineered. The control you admired feels imposed.
“And Blair,” you say suddenly. “She knows.”
“Yes.”
“And Brenner.”
“Yes.”
Your hands curl into fists. “So every time I thought something was happening between us–every time I felt seen–you were being monitored.”
“I wasn’t supposed to feel it,” he says. “That was the problem.”
Your chest caves in completely.
“You should’ve told me,” you say, voice wrecked.
“I was afraid you’d look at me like this,” he admits, tears gathering in his eyes, voice cracking on the next word. “Like I’m not–like I’m something you need to escape. Or maybe thought I needed you to escape.”
You shake your head violently. “I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be looking at.”
“I know,” he says. “God, I know.”
You drop your forehead against his arm, breath shuddering out of you. The contact is instinctive, desperate. For a second, neither of you moves.
Then his free hand lifts, stops halfway, fingers twitching like he’s waiting for permission he’s never been given.
He hesitates like he’s about to cross another invisible line.
“There’s something else,” he says quietly.
Your stomach sinks. “Of course there is.”
“This one’s–” He swallows. “This one’s easier to show.”
He turns slightly, just enough to angle his shoulder away from you. You watch his hand lift to the back of his neck, fingers brushing the hairline, pushing it aside.
“There,” he says.
You lean in before you can stop yourself.
It’s small. Smaller than you expected. Nestled just beneath the skin at the base of his skull–a faint outline, pill-shaped, smooth. Almost subtle enough to miss if you didn’t know to look.
Your breath catches. “Is that… inside you?”
“Yes.”
Your voice comes out thin. “Does it hurt?”
“Not usually,” he says. Then, after a beat, more honest: “It aches. Constantly. Like pressure that never fully goes away.”
He presses his finger against it–not hard, just enough to trace the shape.
“I can feel it,” he continues. “Every time.”
Your chest tightens. “What does it do?”
“It regulates,” he says, the word practiced. Clinical. Then it fractures. “Suppresses emotional amplification. Dampens certain neurological responses. If something spikes too fast–fear, anger, attachment–it emits corrective frequencies.”
“Corrective,” you repeat hollowly.
His jaw tightens. “Headaches. Disorientation. Sometimes vertigo. If it’s pushed too far, I lose time.”
You stare at the place where his skin meets the device. “You mean it punishes you.”
“Yes.”
Silence stretches.
Then the questions spill out of you, fast and shaking.
“Then what about before?” you demand. “The looks? The pauses? The way we’d just–” Your throat tightens. “The way we’d see each other?”
He turns back to you slowly. “Those were minor spikes. Within tolerance.”
“And the first time we kissed?” you press. “Right here. In this hallway. By the storage shelves– and what about the stairwell?”
His breath stutters at the memory.
“It registered,” he admits. “But barely. I was… careful. I grounded myself. I guess the device wasn’t regulated all that well at the time.”
Your voice cracks. “So you felt it… everytime?”
“Yes.”
“And it didn’t stop you?”
“No.”
Your heart pounds. “Then what happens when it’s too much?”
He goes still.
“I don’t know,” he says quietly. “It’s never been like this.”
That lands harder than anything else.
You swallow. “Then what about Blair?”
The name snaps something sharp into the air.
“The day I heard you in her office,” you continue, hurt bleeding through your anger. “Laughing. Comfortable. Like none of this mattered.”
His shoulders sag.
“Turns out she was testing the device,” he says.
You freeze. “Testing it how?”
“Boundary stress,” he explains. “Controlled proximity. Emotional provocation. Brenner noticed anomalies after we started sharing coffee breaks. Smiling at the same time. Standing too close for too long. I guess he thought something was wrong with the device and put Blair to work.”
Your stomach churns.
“So he brought her in,” Peter continues. “She was meant to recalibrate me. Reinforce suppression. Make sure the device still responded the way it should.”
Your voice is barely there. “And did it?”
“Yes,” he says. Then, softer: “At first.”
You laugh shakily. “So I wasn’t imagining it. Any of it.”
“No,” he says immediately. “You never were.”
The hallway hums around you, too aware, too quiet.
“So every time you pulled back,” you whisper, “every time you went cold–it wasn’t because you didn’t want me.”
“No,” he says, voice breaking. “It was because wanting you made the system louder.”
You stare at him, at the device, at the number, at the man who learned how to survive by shrinking himself.
And suddenly, devastatingly, it all makes sense.
You don’t say anything.
You just lean in harder.
He breaks.
His hand cups the back of your head, careful but shaking, like he’s terrified of hurting you. His breathing is uneven now, control finally cracking under the weight of it all.
“I didn’t want you to be afraid,” he whispers into your hair. “I didn’t want to be a story you regret knowing.”
You pull back just enough to look at him.
“I am afraid,” you say honestly. “But not of you.”
That’s when he finally cries.
Not loudly. Not dramatically.
Just tears spilling over as he bows his head, forehead pressing against yours, relief and grief tangling so tightly you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
The number presses cold against your thumb.
And you don’t let go.
Your thumb stays pressed to the ink, grounding yourself in the cold reality of it — of him — while his breath shudders against your shoulder. The hallway is silent except for the soft hitch of his breathing, the distant hum of the lab bleeding back in.
Then–
A mechanical whir.
Subtle. Controlled.
The camera at the far end of the corridor shifts.
Its lens adjusts with a quiet click, angling downward–narrowing its focus until the rest of the hallway blurs and only the two of you remain in frame.
Peter stiffens immediately.
You feel it, the instinctive freeze, the muscle memory snapping back into place. His hand falters at the back of your head like he’s about to pull away.
You don’t let him.
“It’s okay,” you murmur, even though you don’t know if it is. “I’m here.”
The device at the base of his neck pulses once.
Not sharply.
Not violently.
Just… present
Behind the camera, Blair pauses the feed and freezes mid-note.
“That shouldn’t be possible,” she says.
Her voice is steady. Her hands are not.
She reaches for the monitor controls, fingers moving faster now, pulling up the live telemetry feed layered beside the video. Lines of data scroll. Pulse rate. Neural output. Frequency modulation.
All within range.
No–
well within range.
Blair leans closer to the screen, disbelief sharpening her breath. “I recalibrated the suppression thresholds this morning,” she says. “Extreme parameters. He should be experiencing severe neural backlash right now.”
She taps the display. Hard.
“Headache. Disorientation. Motor disruption at minimum.” Her jaw tightens. “Pain.”
Brenner doesn’t look at her. His eyes stay on the feed.
“And yet?” he prompts calmly.
Blair swallows.
“And yet he isn’t,” she says. “His output is elevated, yes–but it’s stabilizing. Self-correcting.”
She scrolls again. Faster.
“That’s not how the device works,” she mutters. “It doesn’t adapt. It enforces.”
On-screen, Peter bows his head against yours. His shoulders shake.
The device embedded at the base of his neck glows faintly–then dims.
Blair stiffens.
“No,” she says. “No, no, no–”
“What?” Brenner asks.
“It’s not suppressing the response,” she says, voice pitching despite herself. “It’s rerouting it.”
She turns to him now, eyes sharp with something close to fear.
“He should be in excruciating pain,” she says. “He’s not just tolerating the signal–he’s integrating it.”
Brenner finally shifts.
“That’s never happened,” he says.
Blair shakes her head slowly. “It shouldn’t happen.”
Silence stretches.
Then, carefully: “If we remove her,” Brenner says, “the system would correct.”
Blair’s answer is immediate.
“No.”
He looks at her.
She gestures sharply at the data. “You’re assuming she’s the cause. She isn’t. She’s the condition.”
Brenner studies the screen again. The way Peter doesn’t pull away. The way the signal steadies instead of spiking.
“If she’s removed now,” Blair continues, voice low, precise, “we don’t know what state he’ll revert to. The device has adjusted around her presence.”
Her fingers curl against the console.
“Which means if you take her out of the equation,” she says quietly, “you may destabilize something we no longer fully control.”
Brenner’s expression darkens, not with anger.
With interest.
“What do you suggest?” he asks.
Blair watches the feed, eyes unblinking.
“We observe,” she says. “We document. We do not intervene.”
A beat.
“And if this bond escalates?”
Blair exhales slowly.
“Then,” she says, “we may finally learn what he’s capable of without pain to stop him.”
On-screen, the device records a new pattern.
It pauses.
Then flags it.
Blair doesn’t correct it.
In the hallway, Peter exhales slowly, shakily.
“The signal,” he whispers. “It doesn’t stop when I’m with you.”
You tighten your grip on his wrist.
“Good,” you say softly. “Then let them see.”
The camera records the contact.
The device registers the pattern.
The system flags it as an anomaly.
And for once–
No one corrects it.
---
a/n: thank you guys again for all of your support, and a special thank you to those in my taglist!! it's been a pleasure reading your thoughts and reactions, you're so very much loved by me<3 i am also happy to announce my requests are open again! my next henry creel/peter ballard fic will be coming soon!! till next time, my loves🕰️🤍
Summary: Months pass and she remains at the Creel house helping Henry, both of them responsible, according to Henry himself, for preventing the world from perishing in chaos and war.
WARNING: 18+ mdni! Dubious consent, mental manipulation, a bit of exposure and humiliation, oral sex, vaginal sex with penetration, sexual manipulation, corruption, religious guilt, her mind has already been consumed by his to that extent.
Word count: 2.900 k
N/a: Okay, I had no idea everyone would like the training so much, hahaha. Here's part two for everyone who asked, can be read without the previous one, enjoy ♡. ps: part 2 of The Choices We Make and The host will be out soon too ♡
The pale, cold moonlight flooded Creel House, making the night seem brighter and more welcoming. The silvery glow illuminated the bed, casting a ghostly light over Henry's body, and over hers.
Damp sounds permeated the entire room, making her face flush with embarrassment at every movement she made on his body.
"That's it, my dear..." Henry murmured, holding her hips firmly and guiding her into a slow, steady ride on his cock.
"Am I... am I doing this right, Henry?" She gasped, feeling her thighs tremble, but without ceasing to move against him as she gasped for breath with pleasure.
"You're doing it perfectly..." Henry rolled his eyes and gave an encouraging smile, looking slightly breathless. "Going so well, my dear."
"Henry..." She whimpered tearfully, trying to maintain the movements, but little by little she was losing the strength to continue.
"It's okay, love..." Henry moved his hands to her waist. "You're getting so good at riding practice..." He gasped, squeezing her waist and making her moan. "Just look at you, my dear... getting such shapely and strong legs for me..."
Without warning, he grabbed her thighs and threw her onto the sheets, making a soft cry escape her lips. Smiling maliciously, Henry thrust firmly against her tight, moist folds, making her scream and dig her nails into his shoulders.
She had developed a special fondness for this training, even though she wasn't that good yet and always ended up losing strength near the end, forcing Henry to climb on top of her and fuck her until she cried out his name.
"Henry..." She gasped in despair near the end, by this point barely hearing the voices of guilt that months ago had screamed at the top of their lungs in her mind, but which now, with Henry's cock invading her so deeply, seemed like mere background noise.
"That's right..." Henry murmured against her ear, biting and sucking on her earlobe as he fucked her with abandon, feeling his own legs tremble with lust. "Give it to me, my love..."
Obediently, she came against his cock, milking it and pulling Henry into overwhelming pleasure with her, making him spill deep inside her warm, welcoming interior, while he clung to her as tightly as a parasitic vine clung to its host.
"You were so good to me today, my love," Henry murmured moments later, caressing her face, which was still warm and breathless with pleasure.
"Now I want you to kneel and thank for being safe from those shadows and monsters." He purred with hidden ulterior motives as he stroked her chin with his thumb.
As always, she obediently got out of bed, her legs still feeling shaky, and knelt on the floor at the foot of the bed to give thanks. Slowly, Henry's semen, mixed with her own fluids, began to trickle from her pussy and drip onto the wooden floor, leaving the white drops evident against the brown tone of the aged wood of the Creel house.
Her face flushed with shame and her trembling legs almost gave way, but still she didn't move, she wouldn't move until Henry said it was enough. More pearly drops dripped from her onto the floor, causing Henry to smile in admiration, relishing the sight of his own semen running down her beautiful thighs.
"Very well, darling, that's enough." He smiled and beckoned her back to bed with a quick gesture of his hand, making her jump rapidly onto the rumpled, warm sheets, already seeking to snuggle against Henry's soft, warm body.
"Henry, can I ask you something?" She murmured against his chest after taking a deep breath and gathering her courage, while feeling her cheeks growing hot.
"Of course you can..." He sighed, caressing her bare shoulder with his fingertips and kissing her hair. "You can ask anything you want."
"Okay then..." She took a deep breath before beginning. "It's not that I don't trust or believe in you..." She assured him of that before anything else. "But I've been here for so long..." She sighed, looking up at him through her eyelashes. "And I still don't understand how what we do, what I do, keeps the world and my family safe."
"Oh, my sweet girl..." Henry smiled, drawing soft circles on her back that made her skin tingle. "Always underestimating your own worth." He shook his head at her.
"Do you know who keeps the world safe from those horrible creatures?" He murmured with a lopsided smile as he gently held her chin. "Who stops them from invading everything you love so much?"
"You, Henry." She answered without hesitation the instant he asked the question, looking him in the eyes and clinging even tighter to him.
"Exactly, my dear." He smiled as he ran his thumb up and down her smooth jaw. "And who keeps me happy and willing to continue maintaining order in the world?"
Her face suddenly turned red, and she looked away from Henry, burying her face in his chest with a shy smile.
"It's you, my love..." He sighed against her fragrant hair. "You keep me happy." He kissed her temple. "Keep me satisfied." He sighed, nibbling at the nape of her neck. "By being such a good girl and letting me have everything I want, whenever I want it." Henry smoothed the still-moist folds of her vulva with the tips of his index and middle fingers, feeling his own pleasure mingling with hers.
Slowly he raised his hand and brought it to her lips, which, without hesitation, she sucked and licked the mixture of the two from the tips of Henry's fingers while staring at him, blushing, causing him to grunt and pull her into a wet, slow kiss that made them both tremble.
"I trained you so well, didn't I?" Henry gasped against her lips as he broke the kiss, feeling crazy from the unique taste they were sharing.
"Yes, Henry." She nodded, still breathless, but already leaning forward in search of more kisses, which he gladly gave, because it wasn't in his nature to deny pleasure to his sweet girl, and she, even if inadvertently, loved every second of it.
The following morning she felt tired and weak, but she could still feel the shivers of pleasure as she remembered Henry's touches. If only he would marry her, all this wouldn't seem so bad, but it seemed very selfish of her to ask Henry for something so big when he was the one doing her a favor, not the other way around.
"Will you be long today, Henry?" she asked a few minutes later, sitting on the wooden kitchen counter with him positioned between her legs, gently caressing her thighs in a smooth up-and-down motion.
"I don't really know, my dear." He sighed sadly, looking at her from under his eyelashes, appearing tired behind his glasses. "There's a creature causing trouble, and I need to resolve it, keep everyone safe, just as I promised you..."
"You're so good, Henry." She sighed, gazing back at him with enchantment, caressing his face with her fingertips. "So kind to take care of everyone."
Henry's eyes seemed so dark at that moment, as dark as when he was training her, and for a moment she thought he would have her there, on the counter, before leaving, something she wouldn't have objected to if he wanted. But that wasn't what happened that morning; he simply ran his hand through her hair and kissed her so deeply that she would have fallen if she hadn't been sitting down.
She had come to hate the days when Henry had to leave for long hours; after all, without him, the Creel house became lonely and empty. But she made an effort to leave everything perfectly presentable to welcome him back.
That afternoon she had decided to make a special dinner for the two of them; she was so absorbed in choosing the ingredients that she barely heard the front door open. She only noticed the intruder who had dared to invade her house when the girl was already on the other side of the kitchen counter, staring at her.
"You need to come with me!" The strange-looking, messy-haired redhead whispered in a mixture of fear and anticipation as she pulled her by the hand, causing her brow to furrow in confusion.
"Who are you?" she asked, feeling her stomach churn with fear as she tried to pull her hand away from the strange girl. "How did you get into my house?"
"Look, I know you're confused." The redhead hissed through gritted teeth, turning toward her with wide eyes. "But maybe... and that's a big maybe." She rambled on, rolling her eyes. "If you and I get out of here and find El, we can still fix all this mess."
"I don't even know who you are!" She pulled her hand away from the younger girl's reach, trying not to be rude, but not wanting to get too close to the stranger who had invaded her home.
"Listen..." She murmured, taking a deep breath and trying to sound confident as she spoke to the redhead. "You seem to be having some trouble." She smiled sadly, taking a step forward now, trying to appear supportive. "I can't help you, but my... Henry will be here soon and he'll know what to do..."
She had barely finished speaking when the girl's blue eyes widened in terror and she lunged at her again, trying to grab her, but this time without success, as she took a step back, immediately getting out of reach.
"No! Not him!" she pleaded in panic, leaning forward and clenching her fists. "Henry can't know I'm here!"
As soon as those words echoed through the room, it was as if a bright red alarm had been triggered in her mind, and cautiously she took two slow steps back without taking her eyes off the girl, fearing she would lose sight of her if she did.
"Why can't Henry know?" She murmured softly, now a few feet away from the girl, far enough that she had to strain to hear and take a few moments to answer.
"Because it's all his fault!" the girl roared furiously, rolling her eyes and leaning back. "He's keeping us here while he destroys the world down there, day after day!"
"You are one of the dark creatures..." She murmured, frightened, taking slow steps backward, trying to leave the kitchen for a room where she could lock herself in, while groping on the counter for something to defend herself with.
"What?" The supposed girl glared at her furiously, taking a step forward and making her back away even further. "I'm nothing that, Henry is!"
In a desperate attempt to escape with her life, she grabbed the thick iron pot where she was going to make dinner and threw it at the girl, who let out a sharp scream trying to dodge, which was enough time for her to run as fast as her legs could carry her towards the attic.
"Come back here!" the girl shouted, chasing her down the stairs. "I need you! You're the key!"
"Henry!" She began screaming his name in despair as she continued running. "Henry, help me!" Her voice sounded terrified in a way she had never heard before.
In her desperation, she looked back for the strange girl without stopping running, but saw nothing over her shoulder. However, too busy looking back, she didn't see what was in front of her, and a scream of pure despair escaped her lips as she collided with a stiff body in the middle of the path.
At that same instant, she writhed in despair and screamed Henry's name, while feeling two strong hands grabbing her, but as soon as she turned to properly face whoever was attacking her, she didn't find the redhead girl, but rather Henry staring at her worriedly while holding her.
It was as if pure relief washed over her, and without hesitation, she threw herself into his arms in a tearful embrace, while deeply breathing in the soothing scent of his cologne.
"Dear, what..." She didn't even let Henry finish speaking before unloading the whole thing on him.
"There was a girl here!" She stared at him, terrified. "She wanted to take me somewhere else with her and was making up lies about you, Henry!" She whimpered, clinging even tighter to his brown coat. "I didn't know what to do, so I ran and called you..." She murmured the other words quickly, and for a moment she felt so cowardly that her skin burned with shame.
"Hey, my dear, what's this?" Henry murmured against her ear, gently stroking her back. "You did everything right. Just like I instructed you before..." He kissed the top of her head.
"Did you see how great you were at running today, darling?" He smiled, looking into her eyes and gently stroking the side of her face with the back of his hand. "If you weren't so dedicated every night, you wouldn't be able to run so well now..." Henry murmured in her ear, making her smile.
"Thank you, Henry." She sighed, leaning into his touch, feeling her cheeks burn as she clung to the warm safety of his arms.
"Who was that girl?" she finally asked a few moments later when she was calmer.
"That's not a girl." Henry sighed, tracing soft circles on her hips with his thumbs. "She pretends to be one to deceive people. She's one of the worst kinds of demon." His deep, husky voice made her shudder as she thought of the creature that had pursued her earlier.
"They already know about you, darling." He murmured, looking intently into her eyes, almost a breath away. "They know you're the one who keeps me strong enough to take them down." Henry smiled, brushing his lips against hers. "And that's why they want to take you away from me. To weaken me so I can't stop them from taking over the world."
She felt a prickling sensation on her skin at the sound of those words. The girl... no, the demon, was there to deceive her. She wanted to pit her against Henry and take her with her to cause destruction, just to affect him.
"No one will ever be able to fool me, Henry," she murmured against his neck without releasing him from the embrace. "Not about you!" she assured him, burying her face in his shoulder and rubbing her nose against it. "Because I will always trust your word."
"Oh, my obedient girl..." Henry smiled fiercely, holding her hips possessively, making her sigh. "Always so good and loyal..." He sighed, biting her shoulder. "You deserve a reward."
"What kind, Henry?" She smiled curiously, clinging to his shoulders as she felt his gentle bite.
"I'm going to give you your favorite training today, my dear." He murmured against her neck, sending shivers down her spine. "Physical stamina."
That night, Henry fell between her thighs and took her between his lips until she was tearful and breathless, making him revel in every disjointed sound that escaped her lips as he caressed every inch of her with his greedy tongue, making her pussy gush against his mouth.
"You can rest easy, my dear," Henry murmured hoarsely, still between her legs as he left a wet kiss, moistened by pussy fluids, against her belly, looking at her through his eyelashes with pupils so dilated they seemed black.
"I will destroy that damned demon and what remains of his followers before any of them can bother you again." He seemed fierce there, showering her with wet, ferocious kisses while uttering threats like a hunter, but still, she couldn't feel fear. She felt only gratitude, she felt only protected by him.
"Thank you, Henry..." She gasped tremulously, rolling her eyes and parting her lips in an "o" when she finally felt him penetrating his cock deep into her pussy, already sensitive from the previous caresses.
"Thank you for what, my dear?" Henry growled softly in her ear, grabbing her thighs and pulling her close as he thrust firmly into her wet, warm interior with a maniacal look in his eyes.
"For... protecting me..." She whimpered, closing her eyes and clinging to his back. "For..." She couldn't contain herself and moaned his name in a way that seemed so profane it made her body burn with shame. "For protecting my... family." She mewed the words, feeling dizzy and on the edge of the precipice. "For... protecting the world..."
Amidst her words, Henry came deeply inside her, as she pressed the walls of her pussy against his cock on her way to climax, in an almost suffocating way, drawing him into pleasure as if she were made for it.
Her sweet moans and pleas were like fuel to him; the pleasure that gushed from her thighs energized him. She was everything Henry needed to continue ruling the world, and he would destroy anyone who tried to take her from his domain.
"Thank you, my dear..." He rubbed his nose against her neck and murmured breathlessly after realizing she had collapsed into a deep sleep under the sheets after her orgasm. "For being such a good catalyst for me..."
N/a²: Leave your comments ;)
Tag list: @imnoonejustapiramide, @starryvalkyrieking
SUMMARY - Henry doesn’t need to touch you to break you.
WARNINGS - 18+; MDNI. Smut with a whisper of a plot: hard dom!Henry, sub!Reader. Brat taming, edging, overstimulation, crying, countdown to a reader orgasm. Henry using his powers on you. Brief choking, nipple play, and vaginal penetration, but also not really. You'll see. No use of y/n. Mention of a safeword that the reader doesn’t need.
WORD COUNT - 2.3K
A/N - I’m unwell but only in the best ways.
You could barely remember how it had all begun.
You had disobeyed him, that much was clear to you, but as you hovered against a wall, held in place by something invisible and unyielding, the reason for your disobedience was slipping from your mind.
Another sob broke from your lips like a confession, your eyes glistening with tears as you forced them to stay open: to stay focused on Henry, standing a few feet from you.
He had told you to keep your pretty eyes on him, and god knew that the last thing you could risk was disobeying him again.
It was already so much to take. The shadows—not visible to the eye—running on your body like they were exploring every inch of you.
Exploring every way to break you.
"Henry," a whimper slipped from your lips. You were tired. Exhausted. Completely and utterly spent, and as you felt a shadow slip between your spread thighs it was impossible for you to hold back your tears any longer. "Henry, please."
You had lost count of how many times you had orgasmed from him touching you without laying a single finger on you. From him playing with your body, seeing how far he would need to push you until you broke.
"Henry," you attempted again, yet it was useless. The shadow slipped inside your drenched cunt with zero resistance, your head drooping as it dawned on you.
Despite your exhaustion and desperation, it was nothing but a new wave of pleasure that began to build up at the pit of your tummy.
Ecstasy that rippled through your broken body as a pair of shadows moved to your breasts, tugging and twisting on your nipples.
Desperation for more as a fourth shadow wrapped around your jaw and yanked your head back up. Screaming at your eyes to stay open, your teary gaze found that of Henry's.
"There she is," he murmured, his gaze dark. His body language was calm and unhurried: so at odds with your trembling frame that it did nothing but send the deepest of shivers to run down your used body. "You know, I can feel you like this," he then chuckled with a slow tilt of his head. "And I don’t mean under my touch. I don't mean your curves or how sopping that pussy is.
"I mean I can feel how desperately your brain is trying to keep up with what’s happening to you. I can feel how hard your heart is working on not shutting down from the pleasure, so overwhelming it’s threatening to override all else.
"I can feel your walls clenching around nothing, as your brain tries to convince itself there’s something between your legs. Something concrete: some reason for your pleasure, so overwhelming it’s making you drool for me." His chuckle was deep as he walked to you, his finger moving to your chin to scoop up a drop of spit rolling down your skin. "Such a messy girl."
His skin against yours was so warm, so soft, so real that the second the touch was gone, another sob had slipped past your lips. "Henry, please—"
"Please what?"
"I'm sorry," you managed, your breath coming in shallow pulls as the shadow fucked in and out of you with a pace ruthless. Inhuman. "I shouldn't have—I shouldn't have pushed you. I'm so sorry."
"I’m so sorry," he repeated, his voice mocking. "Sweetheart, it’s not your apologies that I want. What I want is you. Your mind, bending until it breaks. Until there’s not a bone in your body that knows resistance. Not a cell in you with a mind of its own. I will play with your body until there’s not a single doubt of who it belongs to. Who you belong to."
"You," you whimpered.
"Say that again."
"I belong to you, Henry."
"Yes, you do," his voice was a low rumble. "So, show me."
"Show you—?"
"Cum for me."
"Henry—"
“Pretty as you sound when you say my name, we both know that is not what I asked of you.” He was standing so close to you that could feel his breath on your skin. Smell his cologne. Nearly taste his lips on yours.
And yet, you were robbed of it all as he took a step back from you with a low chuckle. “You haven’t earned my lips on yours, darling.”
Your sob was a broken sound.
You could do it, couldn’t you? One more orgasm. One more, and he might forgive you.
One more, and he would be proud of you.
You drew in a shaky breath, your lungs burning from all the times you had come screaming his name.
One more.
And with your teary eyes locked on his, you let out a breath and you focused. On the feeling of the shadows running on your body. On the way they caressed and fondled, tucked and teased. Their touches would have felt gentle, nearly careful, if it wasn't for the way you were pushed to your absolute limit.
But even then, gazing into the darkened blue eyes of Henry's, you could find the pleasure in their brushes. Pleasure in the way that the shadow sliding in and out of you slowed down its pace: now fucking into you like he always did.
It felt like Henry, too. The thickness, the length, the way he filled you up like it was meant to be. Like your bodies were made for each other: to complete one another.
He wasn't tormenting you anymore.
He was making love to you.
"Henry," his name slipped from your lips soft as a prayer as waves of pleasure began to replace the feelings of painful overstimulation. "God—"
"That's it, darling." His voice was warm and gentle. The look in his eyes bordering adoration. "It feels good, doesn't it?"
You nodded your head again and again as pleasure rippled through you. The shadow in you was brushing against your cervix as it fucked you deep and meaningful, each thrust there to bring you closer and closer to your orgasm.
One more.
"You look so beautiful, sweetheart."
"Please," you breathed out, a knit between your brows as he walked to you with slow steps. His hands were held behind his back, his head slightly tilted as his gaze flicked to run down your body.
"I can tell that you're close," he chuckled. "Your mind is such a beautiful place right now. All you know is this, isn't it? This moment. Your pleasure. My name."
"Henry—"
"That's what I thought." He wet his lips, his eyes sparkling with dark amusement. "Get yourself on the edge, honey. I know it hurts, I know, but you can do it."
His voice was so gentle.
His lips, so soft and plump, moving to brush against yours were everything you had ever wanted, and it was all it took for you to—
No.
No, no, no.
The most desperate cry bubbled from your lips as you shook your head again and again, begging to understand.
It was all gone: every shadow, his lips on yours. Your orgasm.
The look in his eyes was darker once more, the smile at the corners of his lips nothing short of vicious as he stated, voice low and clear: "You really thought."
You really had.
"How could you—"
"How could I?" His laughter was a mocking sound—your eyes filling with tears as the shadows returned.
Their touches were gentle. So tender on your used, borderline abused, skin. So burning.
"Henry, I can't do this anymore."
He raised a brow at that, his eyes squinting as he studied you. "Oh, but I think you can."
You know the word, he had reminded you before you had begun.
You did know, so why did you not use it?
"Because as much as you try to deny it, this is all you've ever wanted," Henry's voice was a rumble. "Being used. Owned. Reminded of your place. And it hurts, it hurts so bad, but it feels good too, doesn't it?"
The shadow teased at your opening, the tip of it dipping in just to slide back out once more. Your nipples were being tugged and lapped on, and as a hand—no, yet another shadow—wrapped around your throat and applied pressure, you felt only ever more of your arousal dripping down your thighs.
"Sweetheart, I asked you a question."
Had he?
"Yes," you shook your head. "It feels—it feels so good, Henry."
It did: the shadow between your legs pushing into your soaked pussy once more, caressing as it slid in and out of you.
Your hips attempted to grind against it just to be reminded that there was nothing there. It was all in your head, wasn't it? And yet it did not matter. Your mind could not tell the difference, and neither could your body.
Your legs were shaking, your breathing unsteady. Tears streamed down your cheeks, and your forehead glistened with pearls of sweat, and yet you could feel it.
The pleasure, beginning to wind up at the pit of your belly once more as the shadow in you picked up its pace. Fucking into you deep and ruthless, it brushed against your cervix and stretched you up so good that you saw stars in the place where Henry had stood only moments ago.
"That's it. Good girl."
The praise traveled through you, every cell in your body holding onto the pride in his voice. This time it was genuine. This time it was real, wasn't it?
"It's real, darling."
It's real.
"Please—" The words were broken and so full of careful hope all at once. "Henry, please."
"Please Henry, please?" He chuckled. "Please what, darling? Do you even know what you’re begging so prettily for, or did I really manage to scramble your brain that good?"
"I need to cum. Please, Henry." Each breath left your lips so pained, all while so shaky from your arousal. "Please let me cum."
"Should I?" He mused. "Have you earned another orgasm? I've made you cum so many times today, darling. So many times you've cum screaming your throat hoarse, and yet, you want more. Do you think you deserve it after you went and disobeyed me?"
"Please," was all you knew to say as the shadows slowed down their pace ever so slightly, keeping you on your edge.
He considered for a beat that must not have been longer than ten seconds yet felt like a full minute, before he said, amused: "I’m feeling generous. Cum for me when I count down, and I’ll stop. I’ll let you down and I'll let you rest."
Your lips parted, a knit forming between your brows as a wave of relief danced through you.
"I’ll count down from ten. But listen to me carefully. If you cum a single second too soon, I’ll keep going. If you don’t cum when I reach one, I will do whatever it takes to break you."
Your sobs were broken sounds as you shook your head. "Henry, I can't take any more."
"I know, darling. I know," he chuckled with a tilted head. "All you have to do is cum and it’s over. Cum and I’ll take such good care of you. You can do this, can’t you, sweetheart?"
One more time.
The moment you nodded your head, the shadows picked up their pace, now nothing short of ruthless, all while so good.
So right.
"Ten."
Your hips bucked against thin air, your fingers clenching into fists at your sides in their desperation to find something—anything—to hold onto.
"Seven."
Anything to ground you, all while having your feet touch upon the ground was the last thing you wanted.
All you needed was this, wasn't it?
"Yes, it is," Henry assured, voice a warm hum. "This is what you were made for. To be broken."
"Henry. Please—"
"Five," he murmured, eyes dark as they studied every breath, every moan, every whimper passing your lips. "Good girl, sweetheart. You're holding on so well—"
The pressure inside you was building and building, and from the praises—so sparefully given to you—the band nearly snapped.
"Four."
"God, please—"
"Three."
Your sobs were full of desperation as you held back and held on. Your walls were clenching around nothing all while you were filled to the brim. Your nipples were hard from the tugs and caresses of the shadows, and as a tentacle of shadows slipped around your throat, you nearly slipped.
"Ah, ah, ah," Henry brought his finger to his lips, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Not yet. What comes after three, darling?"
"Two," you sobbed. "Two."
"Smart girl. So close, aren't you? You should see what I'm seeing. How needy you look. How pretty when you come this undone."
His words traveled through your body, leaving goosebumps in their wake. "Henry—"
"Are you ready, darling?"
"Please—"
"One."
And the band snapped. Your orgasm ripped through you, brutal and blinding. Your thighs shook, your nails clawed at the wall at your back, and you gasped, and mewled, and sobbed for him.
"There you go," he cooed. "That's a good girl."
The shadow inside you slowed down its pace as it made your orgasm last and last until it was bordering pain.
You were a sopping, sobbing, throbbing mess, and to hear your own voice babbling away without any control of what you were saying—promising to be his, begging, pleading, praying—made your cheeks burn.
Yet it was good.
Even with the pain it was so good.
So right as the shadows faded away, and Henry landed you into his arms, slow and steady. Careful, as if you were something fragile.
His lips were gentle as they found your forehead, his hand warm as it cradled your cheek, covered in tears fresh and dried up.
His voice was something to hold onto as he spoke. "You did so good, sweetheart. You made me so proud."
He was the only man who could do this to you: break you, only to make you whole once more.
And for the first time in hours you dared to close your eyes.
pairings: peter ballard x fem!reader
warnings: 18+ MDNI!!, depictions of violence, sexual content, abuse (not detailed or from pairings!), angst, jealously, slow-burn, emotional manipulation, steamy
chapter summary: working at Hawkins Lab means silence, routine, and rules. It also means Peter Ballard: quiet conversations, lingering touches, and a closeness that was never meant to be noticed.
a/n: hi guysss!!! i've missed you all so much!! I also missed writing, and this is my first-ever Peter Ballard fic with chapters! i've only written oneshots, but was inspired to write my first ever fic!! as always, let me know what you think of the first chapter-- chapters will be released ASAP, but should be max 2 days. thank you guys, and happy reading!<3
part 2
The first thing you hear when you step into Brenner’s office is the clock.
It ticks too loudly for a room this big. You’ve learned to tune it out most days, but tonight it feels like it’s counting something down.
Peter’s already there.
He’s standing by the tall window with his back half-turned, hands folded behind him like he’s waiting to be inspected. White button-up, tucked too neatly. White slacks, crease razor-sharp. Black shoes, spotless. He looks the same as he did this morning, and yesterday, and every day before that—untouched by time in a place that eats people alive.
“You’re early,” he says without looking at you.
You drop your bag on your chair. “You say that like it’s a crime.”
He glances over his shoulder, lips twitching. “It might be. Brenner doesn’t like enthusiasm.”
“I’m not enthusiastic,” you say, booting your chair back into place. “I just didn’t want to be in my apartment.”
That gets his attention. He turns fully now, eyes flicking over you; not assessing, not evaluating. Just checking.
“Oh,” he says. Then, quieter, “That makes sense.”
You don’t ask how.
You settle into your desk, flipping on the lamp. The room softens instantly, shadows stretching across the walls. Peter moves closer, setting a file down between you.
“Session notes,” he says. “Brenner wants them typed tonight.”
You frown. “That’s cruel.”
“He called it ‘efficient,’” he teases.
You snort before you can stop yourself. Peter blinks, then actually smiles. It’s small, quick, like he didn’t mean to let it happen.
“There it is,” you say. “I was wondering if you left it at home.”
He huffs quietly. “Don’t get used to it.”
Your fingers brush when you take the file. You let them linger this time. His hand stays.
You hook your pinky around his.
Peter freezes.
The clock keeps ticking.
He looks at your hands, then at the door, then back at you. “We’re… okay?” he asks, like he’s double-checking directions.
You nod. “We’re okay.”
He exhales, shoulders easing like he’s been holding tension since breakfast. His pinky tightens around yours. Just once. Like punctuation.
You get to work.
The tape player clicks and whirs as you rewind. Voices crackle through the speakers; pleading, crying, breaking. You flinch despite yourself.
Peter notices immediately.
“Hey,” he says softly, leaning closer. “You can skip that part. I already summarized it.”
You glance up. “You don’t have to protect me.”
“I know,” he says. Then, after a beat, “I still want to.”
That lands heavier than it should.
At ten-thirty, you’re both fading.
You shove your chair back and stretch, arms over your head. “If I don’t get caffeine in the next five minutes, I’m going to commit a felony.”
Peter watches you with faint amusement. “That’s very specific.”
“I’ve had a long day.”
He taps the file closed. “Break?”
You smile. “Thought you’d never ask.”
The hallway outside the office is dim, the fluorescent lights buzzing unevenly. Your footsteps echo as you walk side by side, shoulders brushing. You don’t bother pretending it’s accidental anymore.
In the break room, you claim the counter while Peter fumbles with the coffee machine.
“You’re bad at this,” you observe.
“I know,” he admits. “It doesn’t like me.”
“It’s a machine.”
“They can still be temperamental.”
You lean in, fixing the settings with practiced ease. “You’re projecting.”
He smiles again. Wider this time.
You take your mugs to the small table by the wall. Peter sits across from you, knees almost touching yours. Almost.
He keeps glancing at the door.
“You’re doing it again,” you say.
“Doing what?”
“Watching for things that aren’t going to happen.”
He considers that. “I don’t like being wrong.”
You reach out, resting your fingers over his knee. “You won’t be. Not here.”
His breath stutters. “You say that very confidently.”
“I am very confident.”
He lets his knee shift closer, pressing into your touch. “You’re… grounding,” he says, like he’s surprised by the word.
You shrug lightly. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
He laughs under his breath. “High praise.”
The hallway camera flickers.
It’s barely a thing—just a blink of static—but you see it, and so does Peter. His head tilts a fraction, attention sharpening, instinct kicking in.
You don’t say anything. You just reach for his hand.
He looks down at your fingers threaded through his, then back at you. There’s a question in his eyes. There always is. You answer it by tugging him gently toward the alcove near the storage shelves, where the light doesn’t quite reach and the air smells faintly of dust and paper.
“This is one of the blind spots,” you murmur.
“I know,” he says quietly. “I mapped them.”
You smile despite yourself. “Of course you did.”
The space is small. Smaller than you remember. Peter stands close enough that you can feel the heat coming off him, steady and grounding. His hands hover for a second, unsure, before settling carefully at your waist, like he’s afraid of holding too tightly.
“You okay?” he asks.
You nod, lifting your hands to smooth them over his chest, feeling his heartbeat under the crisp fabric of his shirt. It’s faster than usual.
“You?” you ask.
He swallows. “I am now.”
The words sit between you, fragile.
Peter leans in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. His forehead brushes yours first, a soft, accidental touch that makes your breath hitch. You can smell his soap, clean and faint, and something warmer underneath.
When his soft lips finally meet yours, it’s gentle, almost tentative. Not rushed. Not demanding. Just a careful press, like he’s checking to see if this is still allowed.
You kiss him back, slow and sure.
His breath shudders against your mouth. One of his hands tightens slightly at your waist, thumb brushing back and forth in a small, unconscious motion. The other comes up to rest at your side, grounding himself.
The kiss deepens. Not in urgency, but in confidence. Peter tilts his head just a little, enough to fit against you better. It’s practiced now. Familiar. Something you’ve done before and will do again.
You step back first.
Not because you want to, but because the hallway hums again, fluorescent lights buzzing, the building reminding you that it’s still there.
Watching.
Waiting.
Peter’s hands slip from your waist slowly, reluctantly, like he has to think through each movement. He straightens his shirt without realizing he’s doing it.
“We should,” he says. His voice is quieter now. Grounded. “Before someone notices we’re gone.”
“Yeah,” you agree. “That’d be bad for both of us.”
He hesitates, then smiles faintly. “Mostly you.”
You scoff under your breath. “Wow. Thanks.”
You walk back down the hall together, not touching this time but close enough that your shoulders brush. It feels different after, like the space between you remembers what just happened.
Back in the office, you grab your bag, flipping off the desk lamp. Peter shuts the filing cabinet with careful precision. Neither of you rushes.
At the exit, the night air hits you both at once. Cold, sharp, real. The parking lot is mostly empty, the building looming behind you like it always does.
You pause at the bottom of the steps.
“Same time tomorrow?” Peter asks.
There’s something hopeful in it. Careful. Like he’s still learning how to want things out loud.
You smile, easy and genuine. “Yeah. See you tomorrow.”
He nods, hands slipping into his pockets. “Tomorrow.”
SUMMARY - Henry doesn’t need to touch you to break you.
WARNINGS - 18+; MDNI. Smut with a whisper of a plot: hard dom!Henry, sub!Reader. Brat taming, edging, overstimulation, crying, countdown to a reader orgasm. Henry using his powers on you. Brief choking, nipple play, and vaginal penetration, but also not really. You'll see. No use of y/n. Mention of a safeword that the reader doesn’t need.
WORD COUNT - 2.3K
A/N - I’m unwell but only in the best ways.
You could barely remember how it had all begun.
You had disobeyed him, that much was clear to you, but as you hovered against a wall, held in place by something invisible and unyielding, the reason for your disobedience was slipping from your mind.
Another sob broke from your lips like a confession, your eyes glistening with tears as you forced them to stay open: to stay focused on Henry, standing a few feet from you.
He had told you to keep your pretty eyes on him, and god knew that the last thing you could risk was disobeying him again.
It was already so much to take. The shadows—not visible to the eye—running on your body like they were exploring every inch of you.
Exploring every way to break you.
"Henry," a whimper slipped from your lips. You were tired. Exhausted. Completely and utterly spent, and as you felt a shadow slip between your spread thighs it was impossible for you to hold back your tears any longer. "Henry, please."
You had lost count of how many times you had orgasmed from him touching you without laying a single finger on you. From him playing with your body, seeing how far he would need to push you until you broke.
"Henry," you attempted again, yet it was useless. The shadow slipped inside your drenched cunt with zero resistance, your head drooping as it dawned on you.
Despite your exhaustion and desperation, it was nothing but a new wave of pleasure that began to build up at the pit of your tummy.
Ecstasy that rippled through your broken body as a pair of shadows moved to your breasts, tugging and twisting on your nipples.
Desperation for more as a fourth shadow wrapped around your jaw and yanked your head back up. Screaming at your eyes to stay open, your teary gaze found that of Henry's.
"There she is," he murmured, his gaze dark. His body language was calm and unhurried: so at odds with your trembling frame that it did nothing but send the deepest of shivers to run down your used body. "You know, I can feel you like this," he then chuckled with a slow tilt of his head. "And I don’t mean under my touch. I don't mean your curves or how sopping that pussy is.
"I mean I can feel how desperately your brain is trying to keep up with what’s happening to you. I can feel how hard your heart is working on not shutting down from the pleasure, so overwhelming it’s threatening to override all else.
"I can feel your walls clenching around nothing, as your brain tries to convince itself there’s something between your legs. Something concrete: some reason for your pleasure, so overwhelming it’s making you drool for me." His chuckle was deep as he walked to you, his finger moving to your chin to scoop up a drop of spit rolling down your skin. "Such a messy girl."
His skin against yours was so warm, so soft, so real that the second the touch was gone, another sob had slipped past your lips. "Henry, please—"
"Please what?"
"I'm sorry," you managed, your breath coming in shallow pulls as the shadow fucked in and out of you with a pace ruthless. Inhuman. "I shouldn't have—I shouldn't have pushed you. I'm so sorry."
"I’m so sorry," he repeated, his voice mocking. "Sweetheart, it’s not your apologies that I want. What I want is you. Your mind, bending until it breaks. Until there’s not a bone in your body that knows resistance. Not a cell in you with a mind of its own. I will play with your body until there’s not a single doubt of who it belongs to. Who you belong to."
"You," you whimpered.
"Say that again."
"I belong to you, Henry."
"Yes, you do," his voice was a low rumble. "So, show me."
"Show you—?"
"Cum for me."
"Henry—"
“Pretty as you sound when you say my name, we both know that is not what I asked of you.” He was standing so close to you that could feel his breath on your skin. Smell his cologne. Nearly taste his lips on yours.
And yet, you were robbed of it all as he took a step back from you with a low chuckle. “You haven’t earned my lips on yours, darling.”
Your sob was a broken sound.
You could do it, couldn’t you? One more orgasm. One more, and he might forgive you.
One more, and he would be proud of you.
You drew in a shaky breath, your lungs burning from all the times you had come screaming his name.
One more.
And with your teary eyes locked on his, you let out a breath and you focused. On the feeling of the shadows running on your body. On the way they caressed and fondled, tucked and teased. Their touches would have felt gentle, nearly careful, if it wasn't for the way you were pushed to your absolute limit.
But even then, gazing into the darkened blue eyes of Henry's, you could find the pleasure in their brushes. Pleasure in the way that the shadow sliding in and out of you slowed down its pace: now fucking into you like he always did.
It felt like Henry, too. The thickness, the length, the way he filled you up like it was meant to be. Like your bodies were made for each other: to complete one another.
He wasn't tormenting you anymore.
He was making love to you.
"Henry," his name slipped from your lips soft as a prayer as waves of pleasure began to replace the feelings of painful overstimulation. "God—"
"That's it, darling." His voice was warm and gentle. The look in his eyes bordering adoration. "It feels good, doesn't it?"
You nodded your head again and again as pleasure rippled through you. The shadow in you was brushing against your cervix as it fucked you deep and meaningful, each thrust there to bring you closer and closer to your orgasm.
One more.
"You look so beautiful, sweetheart."
"Please," you breathed out, a knit between your brows as he walked to you with slow steps. His hands were held behind his back, his head slightly tilted as his gaze flicked to run down your body.
"I can tell that you're close," he chuckled. "Your mind is such a beautiful place right now. All you know is this, isn't it? This moment. Your pleasure. My name."
"Henry—"
"That's what I thought." He wet his lips, his eyes sparkling with dark amusement. "Get yourself on the edge, honey. I know it hurts, I know, but you can do it."
His voice was so gentle.
His lips, so soft and plump, moving to brush against yours were everything you had ever wanted, and it was all it took for you to—
No.
No, no, no.
The most desperate cry bubbled from your lips as you shook your head again and again, begging to understand.
It was all gone: every shadow, his lips on yours. Your orgasm.
The look in his eyes was darker once more, the smile at the corners of his lips nothing short of vicious as he stated, voice low and clear: "You really thought."
You really had.
"How could you—"
"How could I?" His laughter was a mocking sound—your eyes filling with tears as the shadows returned.
Their touches were gentle. So tender on your used, borderline abused, skin. So burning.
"Henry, I can't do this anymore."
He raised a brow at that, his eyes squinting as he studied you. "Oh, but I think you can."
You know the word, he had reminded you before you had begun.
You did know, so why did you not use it?
"Because as much as you try to deny it, this is all you've ever wanted," Henry's voice was a rumble. "Being used. Owned. Reminded of your place. And it hurts, it hurts so bad, but it feels good too, doesn't it?"
The shadow teased at your opening, the tip of it dipping in just to slide back out once more. Your nipples were being tugged and lapped on, and as a hand—no, yet another shadow—wrapped around your throat and applied pressure, you felt only ever more of your arousal dripping down your thighs.
"Sweetheart, I asked you a question."
Had he?
"Yes," you shook your head. "It feels—it feels so good, Henry."
It did: the shadow between your legs pushing into your soaked pussy once more, caressing as it slid in and out of you.
Your hips attempted to grind against it just to be reminded that there was nothing there. It was all in your head, wasn't it? And yet it did not matter. Your mind could not tell the difference, and neither could your body.
Your legs were shaking, your breathing unsteady. Tears streamed down your cheeks, and your forehead glistened with pearls of sweat, and yet you could feel it.
The pleasure, beginning to wind up at the pit of your belly once more as the shadow in you picked up its pace. Fucking into you deep and ruthless, it brushed against your cervix and stretched you up so good that you saw stars in the place where Henry had stood only moments ago.
"That's it. Good girl."
The praise traveled through you, every cell in your body holding onto the pride in his voice. This time it was genuine. This time it was real, wasn't it?
"It's real, darling."
It's real.
"Please—" The words were broken and so full of careful hope all at once. "Henry, please."
"Please Henry, please?" He chuckled. "Please what, darling? Do you even know what you’re begging so prettily for, or did I really manage to scramble your brain that good?"
"I need to cum. Please, Henry." Each breath left your lips so pained, all while so shaky from your arousal. "Please let me cum."
"Should I?" He mused. "Have you earned another orgasm? I've made you cum so many times today, darling. So many times you've cum screaming your throat hoarse, and yet, you want more. Do you think you deserve it after you went and disobeyed me?"
"Please," was all you knew to say as the shadows slowed down their pace ever so slightly, keeping you on your edge.
He considered for a beat that must not have been longer than ten seconds yet felt like a full minute, before he said, amused: "I’m feeling generous. Cum for me when I count down, and I’ll stop. I’ll let you down and I'll let you rest."
Your lips parted, a knit forming between your brows as a wave of relief danced through you.
"I’ll count down from ten. But listen to me carefully. If you cum a single second too soon, I’ll keep going. If you don’t cum when I reach one, I will do whatever it takes to break you."
Your sobs were broken sounds as you shook your head. "Henry, I can't take any more."
"I know, darling. I know," he chuckled with a tilted head. "All you have to do is cum and it’s over. Cum and I’ll take such good care of you. You can do this, can’t you, sweetheart?"
One more time.
The moment you nodded your head, the shadows picked up their pace, now nothing short of ruthless, all while so good.
So right.
"Ten."
Your hips bucked against thin air, your fingers clenching into fists at your sides in their desperation to find something—anything—to hold onto.
"Seven."
Anything to ground you, all while having your feet touch upon the ground was the last thing you wanted.
All you needed was this, wasn't it?
"Yes, it is," Henry assured, voice a warm hum. "This is what you were made for. To be broken."
"Henry. Please—"
"Five," he murmured, eyes dark as they studied every breath, every moan, every whimper passing your lips. "Good girl, sweetheart. You're holding on so well—"
The pressure inside you was building and building, and from the praises—so sparefully given to you—the band nearly snapped.
"Four."
"God, please—"
"Three."
Your sobs were full of desperation as you held back and held on. Your walls were clenching around nothing all while you were filled to the brim. Your nipples were hard from the tugs and caresses of the shadows, and as a tentacle of shadows slipped around your throat, you nearly slipped.
"Ah, ah, ah," Henry brought his finger to his lips, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Not yet. What comes after three, darling?"
"Two," you sobbed. "Two."
"Smart girl. So close, aren't you? You should see what I'm seeing. How needy you look. How pretty when you come this undone."
His words traveled through your body, leaving goosebumps in their wake. "Henry—"
"Are you ready, darling?"
"Please—"
"One."
And the band snapped. Your orgasm ripped through you, brutal and blinding. Your thighs shook, your nails clawed at the wall at your back, and you gasped, and mewled, and sobbed for him.
"There you go," he cooed. "That's a good girl."
The shadow inside you slowed down its pace as it made your orgasm last and last until it was bordering pain.
You were a sopping, sobbing, throbbing mess, and to hear your own voice babbling away without any control of what you were saying—promising to be his, begging, pleading, praying—made your cheeks burn.
Yet it was good.
Even with the pain it was so good.
So right as the shadows faded away, and Henry landed you into his arms, slow and steady. Careful, as if you were something fragile.
His lips were gentle as they found your forehead, his hand warm as it cradled your cheek, covered in tears fresh and dried up.
His voice was something to hold onto as he spoke. "You did so good, sweetheart. You made me so proud."
He was the only man who could do this to you: break you, only to make you whole once more.
And for the first time in hours you dared to close your eyes.
SYNOPSIS. days stretched like a lifetime in henry’s world. as a result, you have almost forgotten how affections were meant to be felt and given. on the other hand, henry has completely lost its very meaning. it may just be the perfect time to start learning. (3.3k words.)
WARNINGS. unproofread. no beta readers.
CATEGORY. angst. angst. angst. fluff. romance.
REQUESTED BY. anonymous. you can find the specifications of their request here.
THERE YOU WERE.
Stuck in the same old routine. The same monotonous house with piercing pastels and a neverending sunshine that poured through the glass windows.
The silverware in your hands scratched against the ceramic plate, emitting an annoying screech that made you quirk your head slightly to the side. Although, one could argue that the eerie silence in the room was louder and constant that it made its impact on you at a more significant rate.
Breakfast with Henry didn’t feel like this before.
Before felt like forever. You remember the smile on your face, the look in your eyes, and the warmth of his gaze as he watched you explore the options on the table. You swore you could have seen the light shining down on him, making his presence feel like the most divine thing you could have ever felt.
But the saturation of every pastel in the four walls slightly dimmed. The sunshine still shone, but now you couldn’t even look at him.
Perhaps it was anger? It couldn’t be.
You chose to stay, and you knew your decision was clear. You felt happy here.
Felt.
It was funny.
Now you couldn’t even feel a thing. Just that something was missing.
You knew it was wrong. You didn’t want to be ungrateful, but there’s something about a house that’s warm. A house that actually housed a family, not just standing on a plot of land.
Henry noticed your absence on the table. It alarmed him.
He bid his time. Processing. Concluding. Deciding.
Speaking.
“Would you like something different for breakfast today?”
Your actions suddenly halted and your eyes found him. For a second, you were almost ready to apologize.
“No,” you answered. “This is fine.”
Your response was too plain. Too safe.
Henry looked at you and quietly accepted the challenge of striking up a difficult conversation.
“You know,” he looked at his plate as his smile vanished, “You do this thing with your jaw when you’re annoyed at something that won’t fight back.”
You couldn’t answer. It was bait. If you said something wrong, you’d be admitting it. If you kept denying, he’d push it.
He spared you a response.
“All possibilities I’m thinking of only manifest in one thing, and it’s breakfast.”
You shook your head. “No. Breakfast is great.”
A breath escaped your lips as you turned back to your plate and continued eating.
For the first time, Henry didn’t know what to do.
He was a careful man. He watched, noticed, and planned. He was meticulous. He was sure you were slowly pulling away from his grasp. What could be wrong? Has he done something? Did you see something you shouldn’t have?
Have you realized it yet? Did you think he was too irredeemable?
For the first time, the smart and cunning man was clueless. He had too many questions. And the thought of possible answers costing you made him the most anxious.
It dug a pit deep in his stomach as days passed and you were completely absent. You were there by flesh and bones, but your mind was always elsewhere.
Your actions began to seem performative. Like you were only doing things just to show him you were preoccupied.
You talked to him like you always did but without the same depth as before. Statements would come, but the conversations would go as soon as they started.
Empty.
Too empty.
What was wrong?
Henry found himself thinking one night. The false moon that hung over the clouds observed the house quietly. The man frowned at the wall as he stood next to the fireplace in his office, leaning against it with a hand on his back, holding the glasses he often wore to imply his intelligence. His usually done hair was in a tousled mess, vest undone, and sleeves rolled up.
He thought about an occurrence today. You were sat in the living room staring at nothing. When he tried to speak to you, you merely shrugged. You wouldn’t look at him no matter how much he tried to make you. His topics weren’t as engaging anymore. The questions were perhaps too stale.
What was wrong with him?
No.
What was wrong with you?
Was it this house? Was it this world? Was it because you couldn’t go out that much to see anything at all?
Who was he kidding? There were so many factors.
He argued. You knew those things when you found out about the truth—or half-truth if he was being honest. You wanted to stay. You wanted to feel happier. This was happier. You made peace with the fact you would never see your family again.
This house had everything.
What did it lack?
What does a house require more to have in order to make one feel happier?
He needed to do something.
Anything just to make you stay.
You can’t leave. Especially not now.
He had to admit it.
Henry was scared. He was already losing you despite being within his reach.
* * *
Meanwhile in your room, your body laid flat on the soft sheets, eyes trained on the cover of the paperback you’ve been binging on the nightstand as you ran your fingers through your hair softly. You pretended it was someone else’s.
The woman on the cover of the book had it better. How come?
You just recently discovered what was wrong.
You haven’t had a touch of affection. Not like Henry’s simple gazes or services like cooking for you. You sought something else. Something you could actually feel.
You doubted Henry.
His feelings. His sentiments. His services. His gazes.
There was a time when he pulled you back, carefully whispered to you that if he were to decide, he would want you to stay. You urged him to tell you why. You wanted him to give you a reason to grant his selfish wish.
It took him a while.
Yet he spilled his confession eventually; admitting the ache you inflict in him. He liked you. Loved you. He made you feel like the only special person in the world. Perhaps you were. In his. You took comfort in those words, assured yourself that you have found the one you truly wanted. It was a lovely memory to look back on, but it was the only reason you now clung to this world. The hanging thread that tied you to him.
Like all high, it plummeted at a disastrous speed.
Henry failed in his actions.
And it slowly affected the way he was with words as well.
You missed being loved.
Perhaps not just by him.
You missed your family. Your friends were probably wondering where you were. But it hurt more to think that maybe they have already forgotten about you. Which was possibly truer than Henry’s claims of desire for you.
If Henry loved you, why didn’t he show it?
He would have told you more than what he said one time.
He would have reminded you everyday.
He would have already touched you by now.
So why? What was wrong? Was he lying? Was he truly that lonely to lie to someone just so they would stay? Did he just use you?
You closed your eyes shut to make the thoughts disappear, but you were surprised tears escaped from doing so.
It hurt.
It hurt too much.
It was weighing on you, squeezing your chest.
You were so lonely.
So lonely in a massive house with so many bedrooms looking like it was designed for a family. The kitchen had everything but people to share the food with. It was so cold. So empty.
It was making you insane, consuming you and taking your humanity that you swore you could be descending to madness. This loneliness was making you think unpleasant things. Who even remembers you? Were they still even searching for you?
The decision to stay here was wrong. It was all wrong.
Who were you kidding? Henry didn’t like you. Much more love you.
Do you actually even matter?
You understood why he would lie. The loneliness must have felt too much, he had become desperate and unreasonable. So you became the person he locked in his house just so it wouldn’t feel too empty. Like he just picked out a partner that would warm the sheets so he wouldn’t question his life.
He used you.
You shook your head.
Your thoughts kept villainizing him. It was unreasonable of you.
Your fingers brushed against your eyes, wiping the few tears that showed. You inhaled, ignoring the runny sound in your sinus from the crying you just did. You were sure to do it quietly so he wouldn’t hear.
It was too tiring to explain to Henry.
So you never tried and chose to suffer in silence.
You were alone anyway. What was the point?
You got out of your bed and stood next to the desk across your room. You wished you had a family picture to look at while you were drowning in your sadness.
But that would have been pathetic.
Books stacked up your shelf next to the desk. They were the ones Henry patiently brought to you when he would leave before. They were more about romance than they were about anything.
He fed you with delusions about love when he handed these to you.
But that may have been your own fault for thinking too much about them.
Henry Creel couldn’t care less about you.
That thought made you sit down on the floor in front of the lit hearth. It was only just an assumption. It made sense though.
Knock. Knock.
You didn’t want to open the door. It wasn’t because you didn’t want him to come in, but you were tired. You were just. so. tired. from absolutely nothing and that nothing had beat you up too bad; it won.
The door creaked and a footstep was heard. You looked down at the carpet shamefully so he wouldn’t see the wetness of your lashes. Your head refused to turn his way.
You heard him say your name in that ridiculously low and raspy voice like he lacked sleep and was too tired. You hated yourself for secretly liking it. You disliked how it planted a swarm of butterflies in your stomach like a crushing schoolgirl.
“There’s something you’re not telling me.”
You got defensive.
That statement had its effects on your back tensing up, your breath hitching, and your head feeling like it was squeezing your brain.
“Whatever it is that’s making you think that way, you’re reading too much into it,” you argued.
“It doesn’t negate my concern.” Henry noticed your posture as you sat. He could tell he hit a nerve, and it was a tell-tale sign that his theories were correct. There was something wrong.
He was worried about so many things and they were all tied to you. He had to tread carefully now.
“Have you always been like this?”
He was surprised at the question.
“Alone?” he asked. He didn’t need an answer from you to know. “Not since you stayed with me.”
You didn’t reply after that. Henry tried again, “You’re thinking too hard.”
“Is it that obvious?” you asked.
Finally.
“What’s wrong?” Henry asked it too quickly. He wanted to address it as soon as he could. He did not want to remain idle on the brink of losing you. He simply couldn’t.
“The noise,” you started plainly.
What about the noise? The house was peaceful. It was just the two of you. Before Henry could speak, you completed your thoughts. “I miss the noise.”
“Noise,” he repeated like it was a full statement.
“Family, friends, my sister yelling at me to stop using her stuff. Just—stupid things.” You almost cracked, but you couldn’t. That was too weak to show, and vulnerability with Henry didn’t seem like your strongest suit. You felt your emotions, but you’ve always programmed yourself to do it alone.
“You regret staying here,” he said as a revelation.
You shook your head, “No. Not like that. I just hate how quiet it could get, and I miss feeling. This house, Henry—it’s too empty. It’s just you and me in here, and at certain times, you would leave. I couldn’t even go with you.”
“It’s for your own safety. This house provides comfort and everything you need.”
“Yes, but a house is not always exactly a home, is it?” You fired back. “Not without laughter or chatter or even silly bickering. There’s no cat to pet, no friend to talk to, and absolutely no one to share thoughts with.”
“But I’m here,” he said.
“No, you’re only here when you feel like you need to.”
You were irritating him. Do you not see that he was trying his best? Did you not see that he stopped tearing the world apart just so he could keep you in this place? Away from bad people and the destruction resulted from human nature?
“What do you want? Truly?” Henry asked calmly.
You let out a sardonic chuckle. “You’re not exactly the hug-first-ask-later type.”
“I don’t touch things that don’t want to be touched,” he mumbled.
Your heart quickened. You were so close to saying it. If you could just set your pride aside and just blurt it out—“I want to be. Sometimes.”
Now, he understood. “Is that what’s wrong?”
Henry knew he could be lacking in those areas. His upbringing didn’t really allow him to develop a certain attachment to actions that showed affections. He avoided it. He didn’t even know how to step out of his principles to get himself to do it.
Vulnerability was the most pathetic thing every human was capable of, and it was disgusting to think about. Intimacy was an act of weakness fools seem to welcome. It was embarrassing.
The world likes to think that it ruled over all because of humans depending on each other and being slaves to feelings, a simple touch could make them reckless. He wanted to prove it wrong. So he refused.
Deep down, he was tempted to try. He was a smart man; he knew embraces, touches, kisses, and the likes, and he also knew how far things could go if you so choose. But with you, he acknowledged restraint and honor.
And also because he was too . . . prideful to ask.
Too disdainful towards the idea that it made him want to split himself into two.
You challenged his principles and threatened his philosophies.
“Don’t make it sound like that,” you complained. “I’m not that needy. I just wish you’d initiate something.”
“I wait to be asked.” He said.
You frustratedly looked up at him. “Yeah, I don’t want to keep asking.”
“You never did.”
The final straw.
“Henry, please.” You sighed defeatedly and stood from where you sat, finally facing him with the vulnerability you carried. “I know it was a long time ago when you said you loved me, but could you at least be consistent with it? I’m so lonely in this goddamn house, and I don’t know what to do with myself—I’m actually starting to think I’m going to go insane! I lost so much. I miss so many. I’m tired! I’m bored! I can’t feel anything but the emptiness in the kitchen and the lack of warmth in every room! I’m miserable, can’t you see?!”
You cracked.
This was it.
Henry’s senses were in an overdrive. He could feel something snapping in his head like a nerve just twitched out of its place. The heat in his body rose with every word from you, making him tense. He didn’t know what to say or do. He had ideas, but they were too much, he couldn’t grab one thought and put it in action.
He had to make a move or else you’d think of leaving and actually do it. Now felt like a chase. He had fallen prey to time.
Something he was supposed to control.
With that, Henry took long and swift aggressive strides towards you and pulled you by your arms to get you close to him like it was the only response his body knew what to do. He thought perhaps the closeness would suffice.
It was almost like an instinct to do it. He had no idea why or how, but he just—did it.
He was warmer than you assumed he was. Firm in areas you admit you imagined before. His chest was beating swiftly likely from his frustration with you. In his arms, your thoughts vanished like thin air. The anger didn’t even seem to exist.
“What you want is not something I grew up knowing. All I’m familiar with is isolation, and I know it well enough that it had become my norm. I cannot change, Y/N, and I apologize for lacking in areas you wanted me to excel in,” he said firmly like he was still stopping himself from being gentle.
He failed at it.
But you were more surprised by the fact that he apologized. For the first time.
“I can still learn,” he mumbled. Henry mentally winced. This was all wrong and out of place for someone like him. He wanted to break free from himself, but he couldn’t deny that it also felt refreshing somehow.
His pride was badly bruised. He felt pathetic. He had fallen. It was a good thing it was only you and him in this world. No one else could ever have the possibility of knowing.
Even if you told anyone, he would make sure they wouldn’t believe you.
You didn’t return his gesture. You just tried to feel his embrace. It wasn’t too much, but it was enough for you to see a glimpse of his thoughts he would never admit.
“Why are you holding me like you’re scared I’ll disappear?” you asked as you looked up at the eyes that looked down at your lips.
He was holding himself back again. It was difficult to do so. God, you break every single bone in his body from all the effort it takes to keep himself on the pedestal.
“I don’t like things leaving without my permission,” he admitted through gritted teeth as if he was still in denial with it.
“As if I can even go anywhere,” you commented. “I wasn’t planning to run. I guess I just wanted to feel something. Anything.”
“You sought to be wanted.”
Well, that was embarrassing to admit.
“I don’t know how to show you what you want like how you expect it from me,” he said your name like an affirmation. Although, you understood what he was saying. You have the full picture. It was enough clarity to pull you back to the ground.
“I don’t need perfection or doing it right by the book. I just want you to show me how you feel. Sometimes I need your hands to say what you won’t.”
His jaw tightened. He cursed at the stars. He let out a short breath through his nose.
“You think I don’t feel it,” he said. “I do. I just don’t let it run me.”
“I’m not asking you to lose control,” you said. “I’m asking you to choose me sometimes like you choose everything else.”
“Choice is a lie people tell themselves when they’re already trapped.”
You shifted in his arms, not pulling away. “And yet you’re still holding me.”
His fingers flexed like he hadn’t realized they were there. “I don’t hold people,” he said. “People cling. People weaken.”
“And you?”
“I observe.”
“That’s not what you’re doing right now.”
He looked down at you, eyes sharp, searching like he was trying to catch you lying. “Touch changes things. It makes people foolish.”
“Then be foolish for a second,” you said. “Just with me.”
Silence.
Then his hand moved again. Slower this time. Intentional. Resting at your back like he was testing the waters. “This is not weakness,” he said, sounding like he was reminding you but it also sounded more like a whisper to himself.
“Then what is it?”
“Control,” he said. You took the liberty to lean into his chest.
“And how does it feel losing a little of it?”
He closed his eyes for half a second.
“Uncomfortable,” he said.
You smiled faintly. “Good. Means you’re human.”
He opened his eyes to look down at you. “Don’t insult me.”
You shrugged. “Don’t pretend you’re above it.”
His arms tightened slightly.
“Stay,” he said suddenly. Not loud. Not soft. Certain.
“I am,” you said. “But don’t make me stay alone.”
“You’re not alone,” he said. “You’re just with someone who refuses to show it the way you want.”
“Then show it the way you can.” He hesitated. Then his forehead touched yours like he had been rehearsing it in his head a few seconds ago and now he made it real although brief and restrained.
“This,” he said. “Is all I have.”
‘For now,’ you thought. Then, you smiled. “I’ll take it.”
summary: Henry Creel always has a plan for everything. Every day, every hour, every single minute, he is calculating his next move with precision and care. He will not let another small lapse in judgement ruin his the rest of his plans. Until, he meets you, and he realizes he can never account for everything.
cw: threats, mentions of kissing and seduction, manipulation, doctors/hospitals
words: 1.6 k
a/n: been busy with schoolwork, catching up on some time with my partner (he's honestly the best for understanding that all i wanna do is write rn), and just life in general, but here is something to tide people over until my next fic comes out, which should be soon? (wednesday is my goal)
Henry Creel has been calculating since before he can remember. He was always regarded as an odd and standoff child, and now that child has become a cold and conniving man. From the moment that he was blessed, from the very second that the smooth rock touched his palm, Henry Creel had been the mastermind behind every single event in his life.
It was no coincidence that his family started to see horrifying visions from the dark and twisted corners of their minds. His father, a normally quiet army man, had been shaken to his core when he saw the fireplace that night. His mother, nice enough despite her dimwittedness, had cried when the widows came out of the dark. His poor foolish sister was hysterical when the animals started to appear. And Henry? Henry was content to watch it all, straight-faced and unphased.
And he had almost perfected it. He had set the plans in motion. He had killed his mother and his sister. Though he took little pleasure in their deaths, he savoured the terror from his father. Until he pushed himself past his previously unknown limits and sent himself into a coma. It was not happy about that, not at all.
But after the punishment and the change of plans, Henry Creel was determined to follow every directive to the letter. He would not fail again, and he would not lose sight of what truly mattered. He would plan every day, every hour, every second until he was successful. And then he would-
And then you arrived. A new transfer from a psychiatric hospital, you were eager to prove your worth. Always punctual. Always palatable. Always parroting his every move. He’d made sure to tell you that he wasn’t a doctor, simply an orderly. Just there to make sure none of the children hurt each other or were hurt.
Still, you followed him with your clipboard, jotting down notes of his actions. You had no idea how difficult you made it for Henry to enact his plans with you trailing behind him, watching his every move.
He’d even tried scaring you away. Turning around to face you when you two were finally alone in one of the maze-like halls, he practically snarled at you.
“If you don’t find someone else to haunt, I will make your life a living hell,” he had gritted out through his teeth, smiling at you in an attempt to show off his canines.
You had stared at him, eyebrows raised. He was almost proud of himself, he hadn’t tried to intimidate anyone in years-
You laughed. You laughed. If it weren’t for the chip in him, he was sure he would’ve snapped your neck right then. His mouth dropped open, and he stared at you in absolute shock. Who was this woman that was so unafraid of him? That was so unworried about his blatant threat?
You brushed the small tears from the corners of your eyes and smiled at him. “I was wondering when you’d talk to me, but I definitely wasn’t expecting that,” you chuckled. Henry was a painting of confusion. You continued, “Didn’t Dr. Brenner tell you? I’m supposed to follow you, specifically, until my training is complete. He was very clear about it.” You look at him as if this is something he should be aware of, as if you believe him to ever be a part of Dr. Brenner’s thoughts, much less his orders.
Rolling his eyes, he turns and keeps walking down the hallway, attempting to ignore the click of your heels right behind him.
── ・⸝⸝ ⟢ ⸝⸝・ ──
Henry had tried to get rid of you for weeks. He tried scaring you even more, breaking objects and threatening you and your family. You looked at him like this was some kind of initiation ritual you were unaware of. He tried politely convincing you to leave. While you seemed to enjoy the fake conversations he initiated, you were insistent that you could not leave until Dr. Brenner allowed you. Henry even tried to seduce you, hoping that maybe the passion could increase your willingness to part from him.
He had you cornered in a closet, his hands on either side of your head while he caged you against the wall. He was slowly leaning toward you, anticipation growing as you saw your head tilt up. He was nearly there when you put a hand on his chest.
Pushing him away, you frowned. “Mr. Ballard, as much as I wish that I could do this, don’t get me wrong, it would be entirely unprofessional and unethical of me to take advantage of you like this.”
He stopped, yet again entirely confounded by you. “You… take advantage… of me?”
“Well, yes, it would be wrong of me to abuse my position as your supervisor to allow you to enter a physical relationship with me. Though I imagine it would be quite pleasant for the both of us-”
“My supervisor,” he nearly yells. “You’ve been watching me! Doing everything I do! I am your supervisor!” Henry is aware of how he sounds, like a child throwing a fit, but he can’t help it. After weeks of frustration, of confusion, of attempting to understand your thoughts, he is entirely exhausted. If only the chip weren’t present, he could just look inside you, explore the depths of your mind, and know how to release himself for your binds.
You look at him, a weak smile on your face and confusion in your eyes. “No, I’ve been evaluating you. I’m training for Dr. Brenner, to help him and Dr. Kay with their experiments and testing. Part of my training involves supervising orderlies and understanding the basics of how this facility operates.” You sound like you’re describing something of basic comprehension to a toddler.
Henry is appalled. No wonder you laughed at him. No wonder you wouldn’t leave. No wonder Brenner found you perfect to spy on him. You were cut and dry. Clinical. Immovable.
But this immovable object has found its unstoppable force. If he cannot convince you to leave, he will convince you to stay.
── ・⸝⸝ ⟢ ⸝⸝・ ──
Another week passes, and Henry is glad to see you wearing down. He has been working in record time. Tasks that he would normally draw out have been completed in minutes. He walks quickly, ignoring the way that you struggle to keep pace with him. He speaks without elaboration, giving you no time to ask for clarification between tasks. If he cannot convince you to leave him, he will convince Brenner to take you away.
Henry almost lets himself breathe when you don’t come in, another orderly telling him that you’ve called in sick. He’s smiling to himself as he walks down the hallways. He’s content while watching the children. He’s… scowling when he finishes his charts. He’s blatantly glaring at the others when he walks to the restroom.
What is wrong with him? Henry has finally gotten what he has wanted all these weeks, a moment away from you breathing down his neck. Yet… he can hardly focus on his planning, instead focusing on how silent the halls have become without you telling him the minute details of your daily life. He never noticed how bored the children were before you arrived. His penmanship even seems more dismal without your neat handwriting and drawn smiley faces next to his words. He didn’t think he would ever admit it, but he even misses the way you would chide him for taking too many breaks.
Henry ignores the feeling. After many years with only the children, he is just missing the joy of adult companionship, to have an equal match to share his thoughts with. Though, he never considered the others an equal match-
Henry ignores the feeling. It whispers in his ears, reminding him of the plans, of the rewards. It reminds him of his place, of his blessings. It warns him how he used to feel before it.
Henry ignores the way his heart jumps when he sees you the next day, even with the slight tinge of concern that passes through him when he sees your red nose and dark eyes. Of course, he gives you a handkerchief out of desperation, he’s tired of hearing your sniffling, no other reason. He gives you his pudding cup at lunch to make you less wary of him. He definitely does not notice the way you smile at him as you scoop out the last bits of the chocolate dessert. Henry most certainly does not ask the cafeteria staff to keep chocolate pudding on rotation.
When he is lying on his cot that night, the room empty except for him and it, Henry, for the first time in his life, doesn’t plan. Instead, he wonders if you’re watching the newest episode of your favorite show, it would normally air tonight. Henry wonders if you’re feeling better, if the medicine he saw you taking when you thought he wasn’t looking was helping. He wonders if you’re thinking of him too.
It snarls at him. It is unhappy with his lack of focus. They are so close to succeeding, to convincing the girl to help them. All they need is a few more days and a plan, it reminds him.
For the first time in his life, Henry ignores it. If it is so great, it can make the plan. He can complete tasks, it knows that. Henry reminds it, it needs him just as much as he needs it. And if it wants him to work with it, it will need to find a way to keep Henry involved, encouraged.
And what better way to motivate him than a reward? An example of what their success will look like. And what better prize than you, forever by his side, following him through eternity?
PAIRING - professor!Henry Creel x student!fem!Reader
SUMMARY - When another man makes you laugh, Henry reminds you who it is that you belong to.
WARNINGS - 18+; MDNI. Smut with a plot: soft dom!Henry, possessiveness, semi-public sex, hickeys, oral (f receiving), fingering, p in v, creampie and slight cum play. No use of y/n. All characters are 18+!
WORD COUNT - 3.3K
A/N - While this can fully be enjoyed as a stand-alone fic, it exists in the same AU as Dark Paradise, taking place sometime after its events. Also, it took me three rewrites with slightly different tones to finally get this right. Please tell me it was worth it, lol.
The lecture hall smelled of old wood and chalk as you brought a pencil between your teeth, your back resting against a wooden chair.
Before you stretched rows of tens of students. Some were scribbling in their notebooks, others were lounging in their chairs looking ever so slightly too relaxed, yet what came to you, your attention was stolen by your professor.
Each word passing his lips was calm and measured, his voice warm with his chuckles as he dove into today's topic.
Obsession in literature.
It was wrong, the way the words slipping past his lips made you squeeze your thighs together ever so slightly harder. Wrong, the way you had stopped dissociating during his classes, just to stumble when it came to him.
For suddenly you had no idea what it was that he was saying. Not because you didn't care, but because you did. Too much, only not about the topic, but about him.
Christ.
Sliding ever so slightly lower in your chair, you tried your hardest to redirect your thoughts.
"What you have to remember is that obsession, at its core, is about control," Professor Creel mused, his hand sliding to his nose to adjust his glasses. "About possession. About the inability—" His gaze found you, the tiniest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Or refusal—to let something go."
You drew in a breath, dropping your gaze.
"What makes obsession dangerous is how often it’s framed as destiny. As inevitability. As something the characters have no choice but to surrender to." He leaned against his desk, his body language so casual. "But inevitability is rarely innocent."
"So basically—," came a chuckle from your left, and you turned your head to see Paul grinning at you. "Every great novel was about someone who desperately needed therapy."
It was a stupid joke—an obvious one—but god, if it did not hit the nail on the head. The laughter that pushed past your lips was a warm sound, and from it, Professor Creel's words came to a halt.
For just a moment, something flickered across his face. Too fast to name, nearly too raw to belong in a lecture hall. His head tilted, his fingers pausing against the edge of the desk before he seemed to pull himself back together.
When his eyes met yours, the expression was gone. The damage, apparently, was not.
"Mister Donovan," he spoke after silence that had surely not been more than three seconds but had felt like half a minute. "Is there something you'd like to add?"
"No, Professor."
"In that case let's keep the chatter down, shall we?" Professor Creel hummed, yet his gaze was not on Paul, but on you, as he continued: "Obsession only becomes monstrous when it’s acknowledged. When the character is forced to confront it. Until then—," He raised a brow, amused. "It's justified."
Good god.
"Or so it convinces itself."
The rest of the lecture you spent chewing on your pencil until it tasted bitter, your gaze not daring to leave Professor Creel. Even as his gaze lingered on you, you did not break your eye contact. Even as the words he spoke sent shivers down your spine, you didn't allow your thoughts to escape you.
Finally, after what had felt like hours, he clapped his hands together.
"Alright. You're dismissed."
You slid your notebook and pens into your bag, watching as the students began to pour out of the lecture hall before standing up—just for a curse to pass your lips as your bag dipped upside down and your possessions rolled all over the wooden floor.
Great.
Shaking your head you gathered your things, triple checking that you had found everything before straightening up.
The low murmur of voices had faded down the corridor, and suddenly, in the quiet of the lecture hall remained only you and him.
Professor Creel stood at the front of the room, calmly gathering his notes and straightening a pile of papers that did not need straightening. With a soft breath in, you swung your bag over your shoulder and started down the stairs, your steps against the floors feeling too loud.
"Thank you for the lecture, Professor," you said lightly as you passed him, willing your voice to sound casual. "It was a good one."
"Even if it wasn't I who made you laugh?"
You blinked, your steps coming to a soft halt. "Henry—"
He sent you a pointed look, reminding you of the open door and the students walking past at a hearing distance.
Alright.
With a raised brow, you walked to the door and swung it shut. "That better?"
"Dangerously so," he chuckled, his gaze lingering on your frame as you leaned against the closed door.
He was jealous, wasn't he?
Yes, the touch of something slightly darker in his blue eyes told you.
"It was just a joke."
He leaned against the desk, his arms crossing over his chest. "Was it?"
"It was," you assured, a touch of careful amusement in your voice. "It didn't mean anything."
"So you say," he wet his lips as he pushed off the desk to close his distance to you with steps slow and calculated. "But does Paul Donovan know that? Because from where I'm standing—" He tilted his head ever so slightly. "It seemed like you—," he raised a brow, "were flirting with him."
Flirting?
"Henry—"
"And I did not like that."
He was so close to you now that you could smell him: laundry detergent, faint cologne and chalk dust clinging to his skin. Your lips parted and closed in your desperation to find something to say, yet the touch of sudden possessiveness to him…
"Tell me, sweetheart, who do you belong to?"
It was making your head spin and your thighs squeeze together.
"You," you spoke without a hint of hesitation in your voice. "I belong to you."
"Yes, you do," he murmured, a touch of amusement in his voice. "Good girl. But see, that's not the issue, is it?"
A knit formed between your brows, lost.
"I know you're mine. You know you're mine," he hummed as his fingers reached for your jawline. Holding it gently, he tilted your head back ever so slightly. "But does Paul Donovan know that you're mine?"
"No," you shook your head, your voice a soft breath.
"No, he does not." He leaned closer to you, his lips now hovering over yours. Not touching, yet the promise of what was to come was enough to make you shiver. "So how will we make sure that he knows?"
"We can't tell," you managed.
"No, we can't, darling," he chuckled. "But what we can do—," his lips moved to brush against yours, "is mark you."
You blinked, your lips parting. "Henry, if they see me walking out of your lecture hall with hickeys all over me—"
"Shh, darling," he chuckled. "Not all over. Just—," he then kissed you softly, "on the parts," his hand fell on your waist to pull you closer to him, "that Paul Donovan wants to see."
"Henry—"
"Henry?" He raised an amused brow, and from it, you let out a breathless laughter.
"Professor Creel."
"That's my girl," he murmured. "Now, take off your shirt for me."
It was pure adrenaline that rippled through you as you hooked your fingers around the hem of your shirt and pulled it over your head.
Suddenly standing in front of him in nothing but your bra and a skirt, you felt exposed—not in a way that made your cheeks heat up, but in a way that made you tremble in anticipation.
He could see it, too, you knew: the way stripping for him made you feel. For it was with nothing but endearing warmth in his voice that he said: "oh, my needy girl."
And with that, his hand cupping your cheek had led you into a kiss deep and full of yearning. Full of so much secrecy and need that was only shared between you and him.
His tongue running on your bottom lip sought permission to deepen the kiss, and who were you to deny it from him?
With a chuckle, he slid into your mouth, his fingers sliding to your jawline repositioning your head in a way that allowed him access to all of you.
The kiss was burning with need, just like you were when he pulled apart.
"Professor—"
"I know, sweetheart, I know," he murmured against your lips. "But I need you to be a good girl for me first and stand still. Can you do that?"
"Yes, Professor."
"That's my darling."
His blue eyes slightly darkened he dropped his gaze, and the softest of curses passed his lips as it traveled from your neck to your breasts, and down your body.
"You're perfect."
"Yours."
"Say that again."
"I'm yours," you chuckled as his lips found their way to the side of your neck, kissing and licking on your skin.
"Again," he hummed against your skin, his lips finding their way to your collarbone.
"I'm yours, Prof—"
And with that, he began sucking on your skin, coaxing a surprised moan from your lips. It wasn't painful, not exactly, but the warm pull of his mouth settling against the thin layer of your skin felt intense.
Deep.
You felt your pulse thrum beneath the surface, blood rushing to where his lips held you. Your skin was buzzing, your thighs squeezing together, and as he finally pulled away with a smile tugged at the corners of his lips, the spot felt strangely exposed.
As if it remembered his mouth even after it was gone.
The curse that passed his lips was a confirmation of him having managed to mark you. "God, you look beautiful."
"I can't see it," you whined, just for Professor Creel to wet his lips with a chuckle.
"So how about I leave another mark where you can?"
"And here I thought we were marking me for Paul Donovan's sake—"
"A little reminder for you too doesn't hurt, now does it?"
"No," you managed a soft chuckle. "I suppose it doesn't. Not that I need it," you then added.
"Of course you don't," he grinned, and with that, his lips found their way to your breasts. Kissing his way across them, he seemed to savour the softness of your skin: so at odds with the sudden pressure of his lips clamping around a spot right above your bra.
God.
The ecstasy that it sent through you—how had you never done this before?
"There you go, darling," he chuckled as he pulled apart from you. "Now, how does that treat you?"
It treated you goddamn excellent, alright.
To see the change in skin color where his lips had closed around your breast was enough to cloud your thoughts and make your arousal pool between your legs.
For where this wasn't nowhere near the first time the two of you had stumbled to one another, never had there been physical signs of your encounter afterwards.
It almost felt like a dream always: the memories so sweet, all while so fleeting.
"I love it, Professor," you breathed out.
This time, when you would take a look at yourself in the mirror, you would be able to see it. The reminder of it being real.
Of you being his.
"Of course you do," he chuckled as he kneeled on the wooden floor before you. "My sweetheart's so desperate to be owned, isn't she?"
"Only by you," a moan replaced your words as his fingers gathered your skirt up, his mouth finding its way to your lower belly. This time there were no gentle kisses at first. This time his lips sucked without hesitation, marking you in a way that left behind no doubt.
First your belly, then your ass cheeks.
Now, your thighs.
"Professor Creel—," your breaths were desperate as his lips closed around the sensitive skin of your inner thigh for the third time, his mouth sucking and licking on the skin.
You were dripping. The evidence of how wet you had gotten from his lips marking you was visible in the drenched material of your panties, now laying forgotten on the floor.
It was undeniable as his hand on your thigh guided you to rest it over his shoulder. You knew he could see it, then: the glistening of your folds.
"Good god, sweetheart," he breathed out against your inner thigh. "If I had known—" His finger dipped to run along your slit, from your opening to your clit and back to your opening. "I'd have marked you each time I had you."
Your pussy clenched around nothing from his words, but not for long: his finger, so long, dipped in.
"There you go. That's better, isn't it, darling?"
"Yes, Professor—"
Maybe it was mercy, the way that you seemed to forget just how meant to be his touches on you—in you—felt. If you'd remember, how could you ever focus on anything else but him?
His finger slid in and out of you, slow, as if he was merely examining you. Seeing how well you were opening up for him: seeing how ready you were for more.
And yet, it was from the desperate note of your words that he got his answer. "Professor, please—"
With a chuckle, he slid his finger out and brought it to his lips, his blue eyes locked on you as his mouth closed around the digit.
The groan that passed him sent the deepest of shivers down your spine, and with that, his mouth had found its way on you.
Sucking and licking, kissing and lapping, he devoured you, your hips bucking against his caresses as your fingers tangled around the blond waves of his hair.
It was carnal, the need that burned between the two of you.
With your head leaning against the door of the lecture hall and your eyes fluttering shut, you submitted to his touches: to the pleasure already coiling up at the pit of your tummy as two of his fingers slid into you.
"God, darling, you're squeezing around me so tight," he chuckled against your inner thigh. "So perfect for me."
"Yours" was the only answer you could think of, your words soft like a prayer as they passed your lips.
"Yes, you are. Good girl," he murmured. "Considering how good you've been today, I'll let you decide. Does my sweetheart want to cum around my fingers—"
"Your cock," you moaned out as his fingers brushed against your cervix.
"No hesitation?"
"No, Professor."
You were past the point of feeling shy. Past the point of hesitant words and careful laughters.
You needed him.
All of him, and that's exactly what he gave you. Spinning you around, he guided you to lean your forehead against the wooden door.
"God, I can't wait to be in you."
Hearing him unbuckle his belt and unzip his pants sent you begging, and as he aligned his cock—so long—with your entrance, it took everything in you to not wiggle your hips in impatience.
"Deep breath for me, sweetheart." And with that, he eased in. The burn of your walls opening up around him, combined with the pleasure it brought you, was enough to coax the deepest of moans from your lips.
And you were not the only one: with deep curses he breathed out your name like a confession, his body so warm as it locked you between him and the door.
"You're heaven around me—"
"Professor, please—"
"Use your words, darling," he chuckled, his nose brushing against the side of your neck. "What do you need?"
"Need you to fuck me."
"Fuck you, huh?" His laughter was a warm sound. "And here I was, thinking of taking it sweet and gentle on my sweetheart."
"No," you managed out a whine. "Need to remember—"
"Remember what, baby?"
"That I'm yours."
"Good girl."
His cock slid out of you, only to slide back in, this time each inch of him filling you to the brim. You were so full of him: so drunk off him, that as he picked up his pace and began to rail you against the door, it was the deepest of moans and whimpers that slipped past your parted lips.
The most desperate sounds, so pretty, so beautiful, that as his hand clamped over your mouth, it would've been a pity had it not been such a turnon.
"As much as I love hearing you, sweetheart, we can't get caught."
You nodded your head with knitted brows: relishing the way his cock brushed against your cervix with each snap of his lips.
The sounds taking over the lecture hall were obscene: wet squelches, muffled moans and skin slapping against skin, and you could already feel the pleasure beginning to gather at the pit of your tummy.
"Professor," your moans were resembling sobs now, your desperation for your orgasm only growing as his movements in you slowed down ever so slightly.
He, too, was chasing his orgasm.
"That's it, sweetheart," he murmured against the back of your neck. "Remind me who it is that owns this body. Remind me who owns all of you—"
"You do," you cried out.
"So, show me."
God.
"Prove to me that you're mine, and mine alone. Cum for me. Cum for me right now, baby."
The pleasure reached its peak and pushed you over the edge, sending you sobbing his name as you came undone around him.
Your pleasure rippled through you in waves that sent your walls clenching around him again and again, and you knew that from the feeling of you milking his cock he had no choice but to follow you.
"Jesus fuck, darling—" His groans were deep as he came, his cock burying itself into you so deep it bordered painful as he painted your walls with his cum. "There you go, sweetheart. Take every drop—"
You did, moaning out his name as he fucked into you slowly once more, before easing out.
"God, you were so good for me," he chuckled against the back of your neck, his voice slightly breathless. "But I'm not done with you yet."
"Henry—"
"See, as much as I love the idea of sending you on your way with my cum dripping down these pretty thighs—," he chuckled. "We can't risk that, now can we, darling?"
"No," you breathed out.
"No, we can't. So be good, and open your legs for me."
He kneeled down behind you, his thumbs coaxing a gasp from your lips as they brushed over the hickeys he had left on your cheeks.
And with that, his mouth had found its way to your opening.
His tongue dipped in you, and his mouth worked on collecting every drop of his cum and your arousal, the dirtiness of it sending your mouth watering and your head spinning.
Good god.
Yet he was not done.
After what had felt like a minute of him eating you out and cleaning you up, he stood up from the floor and spun you around.
His mouth finding yours.
To taste his cum and your arousal on his tongue, sliding against yours, felt like the most obscene thing you had ever done, all while it did nothing but turn you on anew.
"Good girl," he stretched o's, his hands on your cheeks so soft and gentle as he gazed into your eyes: the blue of his taken over by nothing but adoration.
Obsession only becomes monstrous when it’s acknowledged.
The words echoed in your mind as you smoothed over your skirt, taking in the sight of the hickeys on your skin.
If this was obsession, you would gladly welcome it. If it was monstrosity that waited you, you had already surrendered to it.
Plot: Time moved differently within his mind. In the year that your brother Will and the rest of your family had been looking for you, you’d spent 15 within Henry’s mind. Growing to love him. And now they’re here to bring you home.
TW: MINORS DNI, smut, manipulation, Henry Creel, dubious consent
“Nancy?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper. It had been years since you’d seen her face, you’d almost forgotten her features.
“It’s me,” she smiled, crossing the threshold of your home to hug you tightly.
You returned her affection, breathing in her familiar scent. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”
“Me neither,” she laughed.
You finally pulled away from her, drying your already dampened eyes.
“Please sit,” you offered, gesturing to your dining room table. “I’ll make us tea.”
“I’m sorry,” Nancy said, dumbfounded, “I just didn’t expect it to be like this.”
“It’s been peaceful here from the start. Henry swears there are monsters in the forest, but I’ve never seen them myself.”
“You’ve never ventured past your front yard?” she asks.
“I’ve never had a reason to. Henry says it’s dangerous and I have no reason not to believe him.”
“Henry,” Nancy scoffs. “You’re talking about Vecna here. The same man who killed Eddy and tried to kill the rest of us. Tried to kill you.”
“I know. It took a while to trust him in here. But I was stuck and I had nothing but time. Don’t act like you wouldn’t do the same. You don’t know until you’ve experienced it, Nancy.”
“I’m sorry,” she says quickly. “I’m just ready to get out of here. This whole place creeps me out.”
“You’re not just here for a visit, are you?” you ask, smile faltering.
“Of course not. I’m bringing you home.”
You didn’t respond for a moment, busying yourself around the kitchen. “It’s safe while we’re alone. I can’t promise how Henry will react when he gets back.”
“Then we should go now,” she urges.
“Sit,” you order again.
She complies, unhappily. “We need you back. To beat him, we need you back.”
“And what does Henry’s evil plan have to do with me? I’m nobody, Nancy.”
“Nobody is ‘nobody’ and you know that. Especially not you. You’re the sister of the boy who died and came back with telepathic powers. The one intrinsically connected to the place you’ve called home for a year and a half.”
“Then why not just take Will? Why bother playing house for all this time?”
“I don’t know,” Nancy admits. “Maybe his connection to Will blocks him from bringing him here directly. Whatever his reason is, it’s nefarious in nature.”
“He’s given us a good life.” After sitting out the cups of tea, you sit opposite of Nancy.
“Sorry, who’s ‘we’? Are there other women here?”
You roll your eyes. “I’m not in a harem, Nancy. I’m talking about my children.”
“You have children?” Nancy asks, choking on her cup of earl gray.
“Three now,” you smile. “Two girls and a boy. Henry insisted we have a son, but I know he would’ve been just as happy if our third was another daughter.”
“But you’ve only been gone for a year.”
You shook your head. “Time works differently in here. It’s been almost fifteen since I’ve seen you.”
“But that’s not real,” she exclaimed. “Your body is out there and it has aged one human year. This can all be over if you just come with me.”
“No,” you said, mind suddenly clear.
“No?”
“No.”
“What the fuck do you mean, ‘no’?” Nancy pressed.
“My life is in here. My children are in here, Nance.”
“They’re not real.”
You stand. “They’re real to me.”
Nancy sighs, deciding between fighting with you and booking it out here. “If I leave now, I can’t come back.”
“Then go. I won’t stop you, but I can’t come with you. If this world collapses, I will go with my children in my arms.”
Your youngest ran into your arms, burrowing his head into your neck. “You need to go now, Nancy. I won’t be able to stop Henry once he knows you’re here.”
“Once he has Will he’ll have no need for you. He will end this connection, and you will die in the hospital room back in Hawkins.”
“Then I die, Nancy. I told you I’ve made my choice. Now leave before I call Henry myself.”
It was already dark when Nancy finally left, leaving you to three needy children all ready for bedtime. Bedtimes were always harder on the days Henry was out late, but he made it up to both you and them whenever he returned. He would bring a new trinket for the children, somehow more perfect each time. For you, he would devote hours of himself to your pleasure, not quitting until he left you a shaking, well-spent mess.
Henry returned shortly after you got the kids down, being extra gentle as he closed the door behind him. “Hello, love,” he whispered, pulling you into his embrace.
“I’m glad you’re back,” you whispered back, clinging to him. You didn’t know how to tell him about Nancy. He would know soon enough, either way, but the weight of it brought you dread.
Henry sensed it immediately. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” you said, far too quickly.
His eyes darkened. His voice was deep and reverberating, somehow even more so when he was angry like this. “Tell me the truth.”
It was no use lying to him. Nothing in these walls could evade him. So, you told him everything. He didn’t react as you blurted out everything Nancy had said to you, he just watched you, studied you.
“What have I told you about lying to me?” Henry asked calmly.
“I can’t let you kill my brother, Henry.”
“He’d let them kill you. Do you think they plan to leave me alive? To allow me to walk free with my mind intact? If they win, you and our children will die with me.” You didn’t speak. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
You couldn’t. “Search my memories then. She gave me nothing.”
He said nothing, moving into place a hand on either side of your head. His lips brushed your forehead as he penetrated your mind.
It hurt. That much never changed. He was gentler than in your first days there, but the feeling of someone clawing through your mind was never a pleasant one. You followed him throughout your own mind, watching as he played out every word exchanged between you and Nancy. Like you, he noted nothing of importance and quickly exited.
You gasped as you were brought back into the present, mind throbbing but notably empty. “Shh, you’re okay, darling.” Henry pulled you into his chest, rubbing circles into your back. “You did so good.”
You cried now, choking heaving sobs crawling out of you until you couldn’t breathe.
“The world doesn’t understand us. Doesn’t accept us. Nancy wishes nothing more than to pull you back into the conformity expected of her.”
With ease, Henry sits you atop the counters, finally allowing you to be eye level with him. He holds your chin in place, forcing your eyes to meet his. “You are mine. I will not allow them to hurt you to get to me. I would burn their world to ash before I allowed them to lay a finger on you.”
His hands ghost your side, running up and down your frame. “You and our children are my world. And you will not be taken from me.”
He’s skating a delicate balance of gentleness and rage, one wrong move away from snapping. “I need you, Henry.” Your voice is barely a whisper but it completely changes him. Contents him.
His hands easily find their way under the seam of your dress, his warmth seeping into you as he devours every inch of your skin. You gasp when he finally finds his way under the wire of your bra, cupping your breast within his hands. “So perfect,” he croons, eyes devouring the sight of you.
Then his mouth is on yours and every thought, every annoyance, every fear, is gone from your mind. He’s hot and all-encompassing, all hands and tongue and nails.
He lifts you with a single arm, allowing you to wrap your legs around him as he takes you to your bedroom.
With ease, he throws you onto the bed and crawls on top of you. With a flick of his wrist, the door slams and locks, cocooning you from the rest of the world.
“You are mine,” he growls, looming over you, a predator moments from sinking into his prey. One of his hand covers the entirely of your neck, pressing in just enough to hold you in place. “Say it.”
“I’m yours, Henry.” He groans, grinding himself into you. A gasp of your own leaves your lips. “All yours, Henry. All for you.” He’s everywhere, all at once. He’s pushing and squeezing and biting and pulling and overwhelming you in the most wonderful way. The noises that leave your mouth are no longer coherent, save his name.
He doesn’t hesitate in ripping your clothes. No matter the damage he does, they will return to your closet as pristine as the day you arrived. Not that he cared, truthfully. They were his, and he would rip them if he liked.
So much skin was at his disposal now, and he needed it all. Every inch of him works every inch of you, somehow touching every part. You’d worn nothing underneath your dress, and Henry groaned when he realized, grinding into you once more. “Fuck, pretty girl. I'm going to ruin you."
"Then ruin me."
Your words immediately set him off, completely overpowering you as he rushes to free his cock from his trousers. He shifts his hand on your throat to the back of your neck, using it to push your body closer to him. Right where he needed you.
"Tell me to stop now. I won't care once I'm inside of you."
"Don't stop," you moan, hands pulling him to hover over you again. "I need you."
He didn't let you adjust before slamming into you, groaning as he bottomed out. The stretch and pace was enough to bring tears to your eyes, which he quickly licked away. "Good girl," he moaned. "Feel so fucking good around me."
He pulled your head to one side, opening up your neck for roaming tongue. You moaned, melting even further into him as goosebumps crawled over your open flesh. "Want to hear you, dear," he ordered before digging his skin into to spot right above your collarbone.
"Fuck, Henry, right there," you groaned, inching closer to the edge between his mouth and cock.
His pace didn't slow. He could feel how close you were. The way your walls fluttered around him told him you were moments from finishing. His hand moved once more, back to your throat, squeezing just enough to cut off your airway.
"You're fucking mine," he stuttered, pace quickly turning erratic. "Won't let them take you from me. You belong to me."
With one last dig of his teeth, you come apart beneath him. Waves of pleasure and pain and need wash over you, only slowing once Henry releases the hold on your throat, allowing you to gasp in a lungful of air.
"Yours," you gasp. "All yours."
This sends him over the edge, bottoming out completely as he finishes in you. He mixes curses and moans as he comes, holding onto you like you're all that matters to him.
That look, the one you only catch in moments like these, make you think that maybe you are.
Then the world started shaking.
He was immediately off of you, groaning now from pain.
"What's happening?" you ask, quickly wrapping a robe around your shoulders.
"They're attacking," he groaned. "I have to go."
"You can't-" you began, but his hand settled over your mouth, silencing you.
"Do as I say. Stay with the children. If something enters the house, all you need to do is call for me. I'll hear it. Wherever I am." Tears burn your eyes. "Do you understand me?"
You nod, pushing his hand away. "Come back to us, Henry."
He nods once. "I promise."
You gather your children before he's even out the door, holding them to your chest as the house shakes beneath you. Each of them is crying and you do your best to provide them comfort. It helps, only slightly. You hold your son in your lap, while each daughter gets one arm. They're still so young. Had so much life to live. "I love you," you whisper, holding them a little tighter.
A scream ripped through your throat as the walls collapsed around you. You clung to your children, feeling the fabric of their clothing slip through your hands as you bolted awake in a hospital bed. Your screams didn’t stop, instead growing more frantic as you began pulling wires from your body like stray threads. Immediately a crew of nurses came in, one finally injecting you with something and bringing the world back to darkness.
You didn’t wake up at home with your children. You woke up back in the hospital. Your throat was raw now and refused to produce noise. Nancy sat at the end of your bed, staring at you with a mixture of shock and sympathy.
“I didn’t think you’d wake back up.” Rage boiled your blood. You tried to speak again but found yourself unable to. “Here,” Nancy said, producing a paper and pen.
Your hands shook as you wrote the words. What did you do?
“Will tapped into his mind, with the help of Eleven. We did systematic burns of the upside down simultaneously. It was a dual front.”
Why am I here?
Nancy gulped. “We knew he wouldn’t be able to maintain his hold on the upside down and his inner mind. It was a calculated risk.”
Your children. They would have disappeared from existence the moment his world collapsed. She knew that. You'd told her only hours earlier.
Not risk - sacrifice
“He was going to kill my siblings. You would make sacrifices to protect the ones you love, too, so don’t blame me for what I did to save mine.”
Your throat tightened as tears pricked their way past the corners of your eyes. Get out.
“We did what needed to be done. What was needed to save the world.”
By destroying mine. Your hand shook as you wrote the last two words, underlining them twice. Get out.
She finally obeyed, leaving you with nothing but your thoughts. In a moment, your life was over. 15 years, gone in a moment. Not a trace of them existed apart from your mind. And Henry’s.
If Nancy was right, you would never see him again. He would die at the hands of your brother. 15 years ago, that was your greatest wish. Now, it was your nightmare.
No one else came to see you.
Not your brothers or mother, nor any of the friends you’d risked your life for so many years ago. You laid in a hospital bed, alive only by definition, and truly alone for the first time in your life.
In an instant, you could feel him in your mind, the feeling somehow stronger than each time he’d entered it before. Where are you, his voice growled inside your mind.
You cried now, an ugly guttural sob. He was still alive. The hospital. I can’t move.
I’m coming for you. His voice was strong in your mind, steady.
Yours was not. Our children, Henry.
Will be dealt with. After you’re safe with me.
The lights flashed above you, a clear sign that something from the Upside Down was near. Hurry.
You heard it before you saw it. A growl mixed with claws hitting tile alerted you to the monster outside your door. It inched into your room with trepidation but seemed to relax when it sensed you. It was one of the demodogs, one of the last things you saw before you ended up in here the first time.
Even if you wanted to escape, your body was useless. A year without movement had debilitated it completely. “Please don’t hurt me,” you whispered to the monster, using your actual voice for the first time. It was scratchy and raw, but finally produced noise.
It made no more movement toward you, though, instead sitting at the end of the room, guarding the door. You exhaled. Henry had sent it. “Good boy,” you whispered. “Thank you.”
With all the strength you possessed, you turned to the window at the end of your room. It wasn’t huge, but it showed you everything you needed to see.
Hawkins was gone.
Every building had been scorched, every landmark decimated. Fire licked up every last bit of the town as smoke billowed into the grey sky. The hospital was all that remained untouched by the flames.
You wished the fire had taken you, had snuffed out your life force the moment it crossed back into the right side up. Had that happened, you wouldn’t have felt the pain of losing everything you loved in a split second. Wouldn’t know what it felt like to be a childless mother.
You had no way to be sure, but you knew that your family was no longer in Hawkins. Every bone in your body was sure that they’d high-tailed it out of there the moment shit hit the fan.
The heat of the fire tempted you. From how it looked you were pretty sure you’d be gone in seconds. People couldn’t survive in heat like that for long. Not that you could get to it, anyway.
Still, some part of you wanted to stay.
You felt his presence before you saw him.
He was no longer your Henry, but the original version of himself you’d met all those years ago. The two versions of himself clashed in your mind, fighting for dominance.
The demo heeled to his side, waiting for his next command from his master. Maybe it was your closeness to Henry, but the being slowly took shape in your mind as more of a pet than a monster.
The sane part of your mind that should’ve commanded you to cower had long been forgotten. Henry was no threat to you.
“Stay with me,” he said, the words no more an order than a question.
You stared up at the being above you. Whatever he was, he was closer to monster than man. He towered over you now, easily dwarfing you by a foot. The hands which had held you together had caused the world to fall apart.
₊˚୧ PAIRING: Henry 'Mr Whatsit' Creel x f!reader || Stranger Things
₊˚୧ CATEGORIES: smut | reader 18+
₊˚୧ WARNING: cunnilingus, unprotected p in v, praising
₊˚୧ HINT: You accidentally call Henry daddy.
₊˚୧ WORD COUNT: 1.6k
୨♡୧ ｡ You didn't call Henry by any pet names at first. You were nervous to try, and his gentle attitude and the considerate words made you feel embarrassed to try any kinky things, like name-calling. He came across as a kind gentleman whom you could never associate with any inappropriate acts.
୨♡୧ ｡ That was at first, until the cracks began to show in Henry's demeanour. You thought a man couldn't be this calm and collected, and you were right. The composed man was only a facade that showed fissures when you dared to step out of his terms. If your misbehaviour were minor, Henry would pretend to overlook it, let it go and nudge you to do better next time. However, if you did something forbidden, like daring to yearn for the woods, Henry's voice would rise ever so slightly as he guided you away from the window.
"Sweetheart, I told you not to think about it."
"I wasn't thinking about it, I was just looking."
୨♡୧ ｡ Henry's hand would grab your shoulder, at first gently, but then the pressure would intensify slightly as he guided you away. He would draw the blinds and curtains and have you sit down on the edge of the bed, pointing his finger at you.
"You know I get very disappointed when you think of betraying my trust, sweetheart."
"You're not my dad."
୨♡୧ ｡ His voice would grow temperate as his hand took yours between his, stroking your palm soothingly. Henry knew he had to keep the facade, not to scare you away. If you'd see the real him, you'd run, so he had to keep acting calmly even when he wanted nothing more but to humble you. Henry gave you everything you might need, fulfilled all your needs, so how dare you even consider running away when that was the one rule he gave you? Never gaze at the woods because they would lure you away. And even when this was the only rule, he would still catch you on the verge of breaking it.
୨♡୧ ｡ One evening, Henry was preparing dinner while he instructed you to relax. He praised you for behaving well that day, so you had no duty to fulfil around the house. His new system of punishment was that when you were naughty, he'd have you assist with various house chores, but this time, there was nothing he expected from you. Yet, you came over to help anyway, telling him that you wanted to make yourself useful since you had nothing else to do. Henry's hand came to your chin, lifting it delicately and placing a kiss on your temple.
"I knew you'd learn to be good, sweetheart."
୨♡୧ ｡ Throughout cooking dinner, Henry smiled at your eagerness to help him and promised to let you have more dessert. He said it was because you had been such an enchanting lady while helping him out. Nothing out of the ordinary, until the time came for you to help him with the plates. He didn't want to force you to help, but you offered, and he wasn't going to turn down your help. After all, offering to aid him strengthened your bond. Your trust in him made it less likely for you to consider leaving.
"Take that one, yes. Exactly. Oh, you are such a good girl for me."
"Of course I am, daddy."
୨♡୧ ｡ Oops. When you said it, the intention was more to tease Henry, but what followed was not what you expected. You heard the plate drop back on the counter and the firm resounding sound of his shoes against the floor as he approached you. Slow, meticulous steps that culminated with his hand grasping your shoulder.
"What was it you called me, darling?"
"Do I have to repeat myself?"
"Good girls do."
"Daddy."
୨♡୧ ｡ Henry grasped your wrist and forced you to lower your plate too, freeing your arms. He spun you around, his chest shoved against your back, as he forced you to lean forward over the counter. His hands pinned yours down on the wooden surface, and his nose nuzzled against your neck. Henry took in a deep breath, letting his nose migrate slightly until his forehead took its place against the back of your shoulder.
"Don't move your hands. Keep them steady."
"But-"
"Good girls don't question it."
୨♡୧ ｡ Henry instructed, his hands sliding up against your sleeves, all the way to your elbows and shoulders, gliding down your back. His lips found your ear, teeth grazing your lobe. The delicate path of his hands continued until they reached your lower back, then coiled to your sides and stomach, sliding under your top and feeling your stomach as he pulled you closer against him, his crotch pressing possessively against your butt. His lips never left your ear, but moved from your lobe upward, to lick the shell, hands migrating up to your breasts, fondling them.
"You will stay here and be a good girl for me. You will let me take care of you, and you'll continue calling me that. Do you remember the word?"
"Daddy?"
"Yes, darling, that's the one. I want to keep hearing it."
୨♡୧ ｡ Henry's hands dropped from your breasts, finding your sides and squeezing them, his fingerpads leaving tiny marks as you felt movement behind yourself. He lowered himself down behind you, hands bringing your trousers down to your knees. His lips found your thighs, which he placed soft, delicate kisses on, while pressing his face against the back of them.
୨♡୧ ｡ Your soft whine did nothing but spur him on, his hands pushing your trousers and panties even lower, until they reached your ankles before he had you step out of them so you could properly spread your legs for him. His hand guided it, knees apart, ass pushed back, and upper body leaning forward so your cunt was open for him. Henry kneaded your butt, then gave it a gentle smack to force that sweet word to leave your lips.
"Daddy-"
୨♡୧ ｡ Henry placed a kiss above where he had smacked you, then his fingers reached your clit, caressing it with the most feather-light touches, making you shudder against him. His lips went from your buttcheek to your cunt, continuing to stroke your clit while opening you up with his other hand to have better access to bury his face inside you. His tongue soon replaced his finger, nose prodding against your opening while he removed his hand and took it to your butt, using both now to keep you spread out for him.
୨♡୧ ｡ Henry's mouth continued its relentless assault on your cunt, his tongue working tirelessly, eager and more desperate with each soft chant of that word. Each time you called him 'daddy', you'd hear his feral grunt as he pushed his face insistently against your cunt, his hand landing another smack over your ass, then grabbing your thighs and hugging them.
୨♡୧ ｡ Henry didn't stop until he had you cum on his face, against his mouth, until you had to grip the counter in hopes of not losing your footing. Henry kept you standing, arms hooked around your thighs, face into your cunt, lapping you clean of your arousal.
୨♡୧ ｡ But that was far from enough.
୨♡୧ ｡ Before you could register what was happening, you heard the clinking of a belt as it came undone and felt Henry move, his face away from your cunt as he stood up.
"Good girls help daddy cum too. Now lean forward. Lower."
୨♡୧ ｡ Henry's hand pressed down against your back until your chest was flush against the counter, then he eased himself inside you with a low growl that was nothing akin to his usual gentleness. He pounded into you right away, skipping all gentle soothing, all talking you through, only pushing you down on the counter, hands going to your shoulders, while you heard the lewd sounds of his cock slapping against your dripping cunt.
"Daddy, it's too much."
"Good girls don't complain."
୨♡୧ ｡ Henry kept one hand on your shoulder, moving the other to your hip, putting his weight down on you while his hips gained speed, angling himself to slam into you. He was starved, needy, fucking into you like he wanted to teach you a lesson, to teach you how to be his good girl. When he felt himself draw near, his hand reached down under your body, finding your cunt again and your oversensitive clit, which he began to punish again.
"Good girls cum with daddy. Can you do that for me, sweetheart? I know you can. You will cum with me, yes?"
"Yes."
"That's a good girl, so good for me."
୨♡୧ ｡ Henry made sure you did. He made sure that when his climax hit, when he emptied his cock inside you, that you milked him of every drop, your cunt squeezing him inside you. He embraced you, one arm around your body, holding you tightly down on the counter while his other hand was busy working on your clit until he helped you come down from your high.
୨♡୧ ｡ When he pulled away from you, Henry was panting, and you were using the counter to keep yourself from falling. He saw that and, despite his exhaustion, he pulled his trousers up and picked you up in his arms, carrying you to his couch.
"Daddy?"
"Careful, sweetheart. Not until you have dinner first."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
୨♡୧ ｡ Henry smiled knowingly. You were his sweet girl after all, there was no way he would leave you there after having been such an obedient darling for him, and there was also no way he would only let you off the hook this easily after you found his weakness.
Plot Summary: Three weeks of playing house with the mysterious Mr. Whatsit, and you finally worked up the courage to test his boundaries. Lucky for you, he knows exactly how to handle disobedient spouses.
Warnings: NSFW, 18+ only, fingering, spanking, punishment, pain, pet names, praise, power dynamics, mild humiliation/shame, possessive dominant Henry, aftercare
The parlor smells of bergamot and old wood. You've set the tea service just as he likes it: the porcelain cups arranged precisely, the sugar cubes in their silver bowl, the cream in its matching pitcher. Your dress rustles as you move, layers of taffeta and lace that he selected for you, pale blue like a summer sky. It fits perfectly, as everything he provides does.
You know he'll be home soon. The pocket watch he gave you says four o'clock, and Mr. Whatsit is never late.
But your gaze keeps drifting to the window, to the dark line of trees beyond the manicured lawn. Three weeks you've been here, in this beautiful house at the edge of the woods, playing at being his perfect wife. Three weeks of tea and pleasant conversation, of his hand at the small of your back, of the way he calls you "darling" and looks at you like you're something precious.
Three weeks of wondering what's actually out there.
The woods pull at something in your chest. They always have, even before you came here, before you agreed to this arrangement. Before you understood what it meant to want something you shouldn't have.
The thought crystallizes with sudden clarity: you're going to look.
Just to the tree line. Just to see.
The grass is cool under your thin slippers as you cross the lawn. Your heart pounds, rabbit quick, and there's heat in your cheeks that has nothing to do with the afternoon sun. You know you shouldn't. He's been so clear about the rules, about the monsters, about keeping you safe.
But your feet carry you forward anyway.
The tree line looms closer. The shadows between the trunks seem to shift and breathe. You're ten feet away, then five, then close enough to touch the rough bark of an oak tree when you hear it.
"My dear."
His voice stops you cold. Not loud, not angry. Just... firm. You turn slowly, and there he is on the porch in his brown suit, his glasses catching the light. The wide brimmed hat casts his face in shadow, but you can feel his gaze nonetheless.
"Come inside, please."
The walk back feels three times as long. Your legs shake with each step, and that heat in your cheeks has spread down your neck, into your chest. Fear and anticipation twist together in your stomach until you can't tell one from the other.
He holds the door open for you, ever the gentleman, and you step into the cool dimness of the entry hall. The door closes with a soft click.
"I'm terribly disappointed," he says quietly, removing his hat and setting it on the hall table. His movements are measured, controlled. "You understand, don't you, that the rules exist for your protection? I've explained this. The woods are not safe. And yet you went to them anyway."
"I'm sorry, I just..." Your voice comes out smaller than you intended.
"Just what, darling?" He steps closer, and you can see his eyes now behind those gold rimmed glasses. Blue and sharp and seeing right through you. "You were curious? You thought you knew better than I did?" He tilts his head slightly. "Or perhaps you wanted this. Needed it, even."
Your breath catches. "I don't..."
"Don't lie to me." His fingers brush your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. "You think I don't see you? That I haven't watched the way you look at those trees, day after day? The way your pulse quickens when I remind you of the rules?" His thumb traces your lower lip. "You've been waiting for this. Haven't you?"
The words you've been too afraid to say lodge in your throat, but he sees them anyway. He always does.
"Come with me."
He takes your hand and leads you to the sitting room, to the velvet settee where you've spent so many evenings reading while he worked. But he doesn't sit. He stands there, looking at you with that mixture of disappointment and something else, something darker and more promising.
"You know what happens when rules are broken," he says. It's not a question.
Your mouth is dry. "Yes."
"Then lift your skirts and come here."
The fabric whispers as you gather it in trembling hands, layers and layers until you're holding it all at your waist. The cool air kisses your stockinged legs, the bare skin of your thighs above them. You're aware of every inch of exposure, of how vulnerable you are, of the dampness already gathering between your legs.
He sits and pats his knee. "Over my lap, darling."
You drape yourself across his thighs, your palms flat against the floor for balance, your backside elevated and utterly exposed. The position is mortifying and electrifying in equal measure. You can feel the solid muscle of his legs beneath you, the expensive fabric of his trousers, the heat of his body.
His hand rests on the curve of your bottom, and even through the thin cotton of your drawers, his touch burns.
"How many do you think you deserve?" he asks conversationally, as if discussing the weather. "For putting yourself in danger? For worrying me so?"
"I don't know," you whisper.
"No, you don't." His fingers trace the edge of your drawers, then slowly, deliberately, he draws them down to your knees. The air hits your bare skin and you gasp. "But I do. Twenty, I think. Count them for me."
The first slap lands with shocking force. Pain blooms hot and sharp across your right cheek, and you cry out.
"One," you manage.
"Good girl."
The second follows quickly, on the left this time. Your fingers curl against the floor. "Two."
He establishes a rhythm, alternating sides, each strike precise and measured. By five, your skin is burning. By ten, you're squirming against his lap, and you can feel him hard beneath you, his arousal pressing against your hip. By fifteen, you're sobbing out the numbers, tears streaming down your face, but between your legs you're slick and aching and desperate.
"Sixteen." Your voice breaks.
"You're doing so well, darling," he murmurs, and his other hand comes to rest on your lower back, grounding you. "Just a few more."
Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen.
Twenty lands harder than the rest, right where the curve of your bottom meets your thigh, and you let out a broken sound with it, trembling and gasping.
"There we are." His hand smooths over your burning skin, soothing now. "All done. You took that beautifully. So very beautifully."
His fingers trail lower, exploring, and you feel him pause when he discovers how wet you are, how the arousal has been dripping down your thighs.
"Oh, darling," he murmurs, and there's something almost reverent in his voice. "Look at this. Look at what you've been hiding from me." His fingers slide through your slickness, slow and deliberate. "Your body tells me the truth, even when your words don't. You needed this. You've been craving it. Haven't you?"
Still draped over his lap, vulnerable and exposed, you can only whimper as he explores you leisurely, as if he has all the time in the world.
"My sweet, reckless wife," he says softly, and his voice takes on that hypnotic quality, measured and certain. "You think you were seeking freedom out there in those woods. But this is what you were truly seeking. This surrender. This release." His fingers find your entrance and circle it, teasing. "I know what you need. I've always known."
"Please," you breathe. "Please, Henry."
His fingers stroke through your folds, circling but not quite touching where you need him most. "Please what?"
"Please touch me. Please, I've been so good, I've waited so long..."
"You have been good," he agrees, and finally, finally, his fingers find your clit. The sensation makes you jerk in his arms. "Except for today. But we've dealt with that, haven't we?"
He works you with maddening skill, fingers stroking and circling, occasionally dipping inside you just to make you gasp. His other hand rests on the small of your back, keeping you pinned in place, completely at his mercy.
"That's it," he murmurs. "Let me hear you. Let me hear what I do to you."
The pleasure builds and builds, coiling tight in your belly. Your hips move against his hand, chasing it, shameless now despite the humiliating position. His fingers press firmly against your clit and everything inside you pulls taut, suspended on the edge.
"Come for me, darling," he says, and you do.
The orgasm crashes through you in waves, pleasure so intense it borders on pain. You cry out, your body shaking, your fingers scrabbling against the floor for purchase. He works you through it, gentle and relentless, drawing out every last tremor until you're boneless and gasping, draped across his lap.
When you finally still, he withdraws his hand. You hear the soft sound of him tasting his fingers, and even without seeing it, the knowledge makes something clench deep inside you all over again.
"Beautiful," he says softly. "Absolutely beautiful."
He helps you up then, carefully arranging you to sit sideways in his lap, your head on his shoulder. He produces a handkerchief to dry your tears, his hands gentle now, stroking your hair, your back, soothing away the last of the tension.
"You scared me," he says quietly. "When I saw you at the tree line. The thought of losing you..."
"I'm sorry," you whisper. "I won't do it again."
"I know you won't." He tilts your chin up and kisses your forehead. "Because you understand now, don't you? Why the rules exist?"
You nod against his chest. Maybe you do, maybe you don't. Maybe the monsters in the woods are real, or maybe the only monster is the man holding you so tenderly, the one who just made you sob and scream and come apart. Maybe it doesn't matter.
"Let's get you upstairs," he says. "A bath, I think, and some salve for your poor bottom. And then dinner, and perhaps we'll read together by the fire."
He carries you up the stairs as if you weigh nothing, and you let yourself be carried. Let yourself be cared for. Let yourself sink into the safety of his arms and the beautiful prison of his Victorian house.
The woods can wait.
They'll always be there, dark and full of promises, whenever you're brave enough to try again.
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