Pairing: Max Phillips x Male!Reader
Rating: Explicit (18+)
Word Count:
Warnings: SMUT!, 18+ MDNI!, Blood, No use of Y/N, mentions of death, mentions of rape, unprotected , frotting, Boners., hypnosis, spit and come as lube
This a fic to the The Naughty or Nice Writing Challenge made by @tateypots
“I could take it,” he said in a low voice, directed at the salesman. “If that’s your final offer.”
The salesman went to the back, speaking to the manager. As he waited, his eyes stayed on what he was buying. He took a glance around the store, hands behind his back, analyzing everything. The people. The place. Himself. The salesman came back. He noticed the sweat on the salesman’s forehead as he approached. Without a word, he stepped closer and began fixing the salesman’s collar.
“Sorry… um, sir,” the salesman swallowed. “If I may say, there are plenty of beds here. I could… Mr. Phillips…”
“No,” he interrupted.
The salesman stayed in silence.
“How much money do you make here?”
The salesman thought carefully, afraid to say the wrong thing. He prepared a sentence that could either get him fired or punched in the face. Before he could speak, another man appeared. He was tall, around five feet ten. Red hair. Freckles across his face. Dressed simply, just a shirt and pants. A Sunday outfit for someone who did not go out much. Someone who stayed home, or someone just starting life again after a bad job and a bad relationship.
“Hi. I came for the bed. I forgot to give my address,” the red-haired man said to the salesman.
“Oh, come right this way,” the salesman replied, almost too fast, eager not to stay another second with the man who frightened him. Max stayed behind as they walked away, his brown eyes locked on the red-haired man with no name.
The red-haired man returned to his apartment. It was nice, but sparsely furnished. Boxes scattered here and there. A noise came from outside—a glistening sound, the curtain moving with unusual strength. He walked toward the bedroom, assuming the noise had come from the bathroom.
A large black shadow appeared on the living room floor. The curtains were still moving.
“Tom…”The Shadow murmured
The voice was almost too soft to hear, yet powerful. A smirk formed on his face. The shadow reached the window. The air stopped. Everything went silent.
A bird appeared on the windowsill, a small white bird singing its little song, wanting to be heard, to be praised. A black bird flew toward it. The singing turned into a strangled cry. A mouth full of teeth pulled it away. Feathers and blood were all that remained. The window closed abruptly with the movement of the air. The apartment became lonely again. Not even footsteps could be heard.
Tom was seated, his hands tied behind a chair. Blindfolded. His mouth taped shut. Muffled screams came from his body as he struggled, trying to free himself. It was useless. He was not going anywhere.
Footsteps approached; his heart skipped a beat.
“Please… what if… I don’t know what I did wrong. Why am I here?” he thought.
“Good question,” Max remarked.
Tom turned his head toward the sound.
Max grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the table and poured some into a glass. He walked closer to Tom, inspecting the whiskey while also studying Tom through the glass.
“You know,” he said, looking at him, “it’s weird. I drink this, but it has no taste for me.”
He pulled a chair closer and sat down, face to face with Tom. He rested his leg against Tom’s chair, close to his crotch. He took a sip and sighed with contentment, his sudden sadness washing away.
“But I like having things that aren’t mine. It makes life more thrilling. So I must say, I’m mad. I’m pretending. But aren’t we all pretending?”
Max began tapping Tom’s crotch lightly with his foot. Tom let out a small sound, terrified.
“Here you are, a lonely man. No one cares about you, and still you pretend to be important.”
The words sounded more for himself than for Tom.
Max stood up and stepped away, removing his jacket and tossing it onto the bed nearby. He rolled up his sleeves. Took a look at Tom’s body, his face, his hands, examining each part in detail. Took a step closer and pulled the blindfold away from Tom’s eyes.
Tom did not move, locked his eyes with Max, still wondering who he was, why he was there. He screamed, trying to be heard, but it was useless, the tape still in his mouth. Max turned, his back facing Tom. Tom took that moment and looked around, trying to understand where he was. His eyes widened, his heart dropped to his stomach as he saw the store clerk on the floor in a pool of blood, his skull crushed by the look of it—by a foot. He thought he was next.
Max turned again. He wanted him to look at him. Gave him the time. His face stayed cold. Sat on the chair. Hands on his chin. Did not say anything. Stayed there for a moment.
Then he laid his hand on Tom’s chest. Made his way to his crotch, slowly. Max did not want to look, but did it anyway. Max’s hand finally arrived at his crotch, gripping slowly and tenderly. A fake moan escaped his lips as he continued touching himself. Tom’s pants grew tighter.
Max smiled, took off his shoes, and placed his foot on Tom’s crotch. Now he was feeling the size, making him worked up.
Precum began to leak from Tom’s pants. Max moved closer, placing his hand on Tom’s lips. He grabbed him by the shirt. Once Tom’s face was close to his, he pressed his lips on his own hand. The other hand moved lower, unzipping Tom’s pants, freeing the hard-on, and stroked him slowly with the precum. Max smirked at the strangled moans. Tom was trying not to give in, but part of it excited him.
Then he got on his knees, his tongue tasting the tip of Tom’s cock, making circles, leaving Tom shaking with anticipation, breathing hard under the tape. Max stopped with a quick move and took the cock inside his mouth. His movements were good for Tom’s body. Almost at climax, Max stopped, stood, and looked at him. With a smirk on his face, he went away to the back of the store. He came back after some minutes, a black rope in his hand.
Max began to mumble a song as he ripped Tom’s clothes, leaving him more exposed. Finally, Max left Tom’s body in thick rope that crossed his chest, crotch, and neck, hands still behind the chair, like a ritual design rather than a restraint. The cords pressed into his skin.
“Shibari is Japanese bondage, something kinky,” he began. “You should feel one of the lucky ones,” he said as he finished the last knot.
He stood looking at his masterpiece, his eyes darkened and hungry for the man’s body. He tasted his lips and started taking his pants off and freeing his hard-on, letting Tom look at him, Tom’s cock twitching with anticipation. Max moved closer, letting his cock do all the touching on Tom’s face. He grabbed the end of the tape, taking it all out. But Tom did not scream; he just opened his mouth, welcoming the salty taste of Max’s meat.
Max’s movements were rushed, not letting the man breathe, his balls moving and dripping with Tom’s saliva, then letting Tom taste them. He licked and licked each part. Max could not take it anymore, spat on Tom’s cock, and sat. He gasped and moaned as he felt the heat of the cock inside him. His movements began slowly, tasting the moments. It had been a while since he was fucked. Max leaned his head closer to Tom’s, letting him bite his neck, sucking and tasting the skin. Max kept moaning, felt in a rush, his ass making sounds as he moved up and down. Max grabbed Tom’s mouth with such strength, spat, and then kissed him. Tongue inside, tasting every bit of him, sucking his whole soul.
Tom moaned as Max reached climax. Max let him. Max stroked him while still kissing and still moving on Tom’s weak cock. The white substance spilled on Tom’s body and mouth.
Max stood, grabbed and untied Tom from the chair, but still without letting him go. He carried him and took him to the back, leaving Tom with uncertainty.
Max suspended Tom’s body from the ceiling, bound by the ropes, all restraint. Muscles drawn tight, the ass suspended in the air, a good display of Max’s strength. Max opened Tom’s ass and began to lick it like ice cream. Tom was gasping. This was another level of pleasure for him, and he liked it.
“Good,” remarked Max as he saw Tom’s cock getting hard again. Tom was his toy. For him to play with. After leaving the ass wet, Max spat on his cock and thrust himself inside Tom slowly. Different from the toys he had. This was not rushed. He wanted to feel the moment. He moaned at the feeling of Tom’s tight ass, slapping the ass cheeks as he continued inside. Then he began to move with urgency and started biting Tom’s legs. He liked to be in charge, but he was a prisoner of his desires.
He moaned loudly as he reached climax, and the cum leaked from Tom’s ass. He left Tom gasping for air and moaning too as he reached his second climax. Suddenly, a noise came from the back door. Someone was opening it. The man entered the building, but there was no sign of them, just the chair and the body of the employee.
“We have a situation,” he spoke into his radio.
Tom was a lonely person. No one missed him, so there were no missing posters in the city. His parents hated him. Max knew that from the beginning. Weeks went by, and still there was no sign of Tom, nor his body.
Tom woke up. He was tied again in the same way he had been for weeks. The room was white and filled with mirrors on all sides and a cold metal door. Tom had dark circles under his eyes, tired and with almost no hope.
The door opened. Max was inside with a table of food, dressed in his usual suit, looking sharp and nice as always. He placed the food on a table, his back facing Tom.
“I could not put my finger on it, but now I do.”
Max turned at Tom’s words but did not reply.
“But I remember,” Tom continued.
Max jumped on him and looked at him, eyes widened. This was the first time Tom spoke. He had tried to get him to talk, to have a conversation with his toy, but each time was useless. Some days Tom did not want to eat. He would just stay motionless. That was not fun for Max, but he still decided to keep him.
“Hm,” Max replied, wanting to hear what he had to say.
“You are that guy, Max…”
“Phillips,” Max helped him.
“The company, the building filled with blood—I remember… your name and your face on the news, and then the bodies you left, the three workers that managed to escape, you…” He stopped himself. His words were harsh, with no feeling whatsoever.
Max just answered with a smile, showing his teeth. He licked his lips without taking his eyes off Tom.
“Why am I still here? Why have I not been one of your victims?” snapped Tom.
“Good. I was wondering when you were going to ask.”
“Just do it.”
Max moved to the side of the bed, still looking at Tom.
“I want what you have… life. You are not different from the others, but still, I want you here. You have been a good toy.”
“FUCK YOU! Just… JUST KILL ME NOW!” screamed Tom.
“Don’t rush things…” Max placed a hand on Tom’s face, like a boyfriend would when he cared for someone. That was not Max’s case.
“You are a fucking monster. I don’t care for my life. I don’t care… I just want it ended here,” he stopped for a brief second. “You are just a lonely fucking loser, someone who is going to live forever in misery. You would have sex, but you don’t have someone to trust. This… this immortal life, this thing that you are, is all that you have. You are nothing.”
Max’s coldness died abruptly. “You may be right.” His tone filled with sadness as he looked away from Tom. There was a brief silence. Tom watched the troubled immortal man but could not feel anything other than hate. For a brief moment, Max just stayed there, with nothing to say, looking at his hand. Then he looked at himself in the mirror, at who he was. He could not change. That was his nature. He turned his face to Tom, looking directly into Tom’s eyes.
“I’m a monster. That’s who I am,” Max said quietly, closer to Tom. “I’m always going to be alone, in one bed, in one life, for all eternity,” he murmured to himself.
Max nodded to one of his slaves who was waiting at the end of the hallway. The slave lit one of the torches, marched down the stone hallway, passing several doors, until at the end he stopped at a wooden door and opened the five locks that restrained everyone from the outside. The slave stepped inside. It was a big empty room, with an opening at the top. In the middle of the room was a pile of clothing and papers. With a sudden movement, he threw the torch onto the pile. He stayed there as the fire consumed everything. He took a last look at Tom’s lifeless body, with two marks on his neck. On his chest, a note:
series: spoiled boys (chapter I - the literature student)
pairing: professor joel miller x male student reader
summary: a promising young literature student visits his strict professor’s apartment one autumn evening to collect the books his professor promised to lend him.
“I loved your master perfectly…
I taught him all that he knew…
And I sent you to him with my guarantee…
I could teach him something new.
And I taught him how you would long for me
No matter what he said, no matter what you'd do"
tags: MDNI dark academia-ish vibe. big age gap (professor joel is 64, reader is 20) smut, praise and breeding kink
word count: 5,2k
playlist: master song - leonard cohen/teachers - leonard cohen/that old feeling - chet baker/empire line - the national/waiting room - phoebe bridgers/length of love - interpol
a/n: this is the first chapter of a series i'll call "spoiled boys", i think the title is pretty self explanatory. this was inspired by "master song" and "teachers" by leonard cohen. let me know what you think of it!
"is my passion perfect?"
"no, do it once again."
🍂🍁📚
the autumn afternoon light filtered weakly through the heavy velvet curtains, casting long golden shadows across rows of dark oak desks. outside, the wind whispered against the ivy-covered stone walls of the old university building.
it was only midway through your first semester, yet you had never felt more alive. english literature, this world of fiction worlds and theories. had already begun to consume you. you were doing well.
the lecture hall was almost empty, the last few students trickling out while chairs scraped against the old wooden floor. you stayed behind, clutching your notebook like it could steady you. professor miller was still at his desk, sliding papers into his leather satchel. the sleeves of his charcoal sweater were pushed up to his forearms, revealing quiet strength. he carried an air of severe and magnetic authority.
you approached slowly.
“hey, sir,” you said, stopping right in front of his desk. “i think i already know what i want to write about in my final essay. it’ll be about the magic mountain.”
professor miller looked up, one eyebrow raised, an amused smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. he leaned back against the edge of the desk, hands resting on either side of his hips.
“but you have the rest of the semester to think about it,” he replied, voice calm and low. “there’s no need to rush.”
“yeah, i know” you said, shifting your weight. “just thinking ahead.”
he studied you for a moment, those sharp, intelligent eyes lingering on your face a second longer than they should. the silence felt heavy. when you spoke about hemingway’s iceberg theory, when you lingered after class to ask about faulkner, even when you stayed quiet in the back row.
“listen,” he said finally, gentler now, “you should go for something easier to start with. a short story. something compact so you can really develop an idea with substance. don’t forget the literary theory we’ve been studying, alright? i have some books in mind i can lend you. then you can think more clearly about your essay.”
he reached for a pen and a small piece of paper, writing quickly. “that’s my address, come by this evening if you’re free.”
your pulse quickened. “yes, sir. thank you so much.”
professor miller gave you a slow nod. you gathered your things, a shy smile playing on your lips as you left the room.
you slipped the piece of paper into your coat pocket, fingers tracing the ink he had touched only moments ago. the corridor stretched long and dim before you, lined with portraits of dead scholar. this world was everything to you now.
you were only twenty — still soft around the edges, still eager and untouched by the real weight of the literary world.
professor miller was… something else. he could show you the way. he could mold you into the kind of scholar you desperately wanted to become.
the autumn wind howled softly through the quad as you stepped outside. you headed toward the classics building for your latin class, but your mind was far away. by the time you reached the lecture room and sat near the back, your cheeks were flushed from more than just the cold. as the professor droned on about declensions and the ablative absolute, your thoughts kept drifting back to professor miller, to the quiet promise in his invitation.
all the way home, you kept wondering which stories he had in mind for you.
it is a cold evening. the autumn wind had sharpened into something biting, and your hands were freezing by the time you reached his street. your backpack hung heavy on your shoulders, filled with notebooks, a half-read copy of the magic mountain, and the nervous weight of anticipation. streetlamps cast pale golden pools on the wet pavement as you climbed the stone steps to his building. it was dark grey, almost black. his apartment was on the 7th floor.
he opened the door wearing a green overcoat. you noticed that the years had touched him beautifully — silver at the temples, fine lines at the corners of his eyes when he smiled. he looked like the kind of man who had read every important book twice and still found new things to feel.
“evening,” he said, his voice low and warm, cutting through the cold air. “you came.” there was quiet pleasure in his tone, as though he hadn’t been entirely sure you would.
professor miller closed the door behind you with a soft, deliberate click. the warmth of the apartment wrapped around you instantly. it was darker than you expected. intimate and shadowed. the air smelled faintly of old paper, cigarrettes, coffee, and something like cedar. a record player sat in the corner where a chet baker record was playing.
the walls almost entirely hidden by tall, overflowing bookshelves that stretched from floor to ceiling. you couldn’t help but stare. thousands of volumes. you wondered if it was possible to truly read them all in one lifetime.
“have you read all of these?” you asked, still standing somewhat awkwardly with your backpack clutched in front of you.
professor miller smiled — a slow, charming smile that deepened the lines around his eyes. he slipped off his green overcoat and hung it up, revealing a dark sweater that fit him perfectly. even in his mid-sixties, he moved with the calm confidence.
“most of them,” he said in his deep voice rich with experience. “some i’ve read three or four times over the decades. others i keep for the pleasure of revisiting them when the right mind comes along.”
you swallowed, feeling painfully young and inexperienced next to him. still, the words slipped out before you could stop them:
“i’ve read most of dubliners already… but i don’t mind reading it again with your notes in the margins.”
the moment the sentence left your mouth, you felt a flush of embarrassment. it sounded so eager — almost childish — but you couldn’t help it. you were still so obviously starved for everything this world had to offer. and especially for his guidance.
“greedy boy,” he murmured, his deep voice warm and slightly amused. the affectionate nickname sent a shiver down your spine. “i like that hunger in you. it’s rare.”
he reached out and gently took hold of your backpack strap, his fingers brushing against your shoulder.
“here, let me take your jacket and your backpack,” he said, his tone low and intimate. “you won’t need them in here. let’s go somewhere comfortable.”
he led you into the living room, where a large, deep leather sofa sat facing the bookshelves.
the room was bathed in the warm glow of several antique lamps. you sank into the soft leather, acutely aware of how small you felt in such a refined space. professor miller didn’t sit immediately. he stood in front of you for a moment, then leaned against the edge of a heavy oak table, hands resting on either side of his hips. the position made his sweater stretch across his chest.
“you’ve been doing an excellent work this semester,” he said, his voice low and sincere. “better than excellent, actually. i don’t say that lightly.”
you knew how rare his praise was. other students called him strict, even ruthless — a professor who could destroy an essay with a single red line and a few coldly precise comments. he was feared for his high standards. yet, from the very first week, you found yourself able to contribute confidently in class, even when discussing difficult theory you had barely encountered before. he made you feel capable.
“would you like something to drink? tea? wine? whiskey?” only then did you notice the small but elegant bar cart in the corner of the living room, dark wood and glass, stocked with crystal decanters and heavy tumblers that gleamed under the lamplight. it looked like something from another era. sophisticated. adult.
your eyes drifted back to professor miller. an almost empty whiskey glass sat on the oak table beside him, the amber liquid reduced to a thin shimmer at the bottom. you had never tried whiskey before. the thought of drinking something so strong, something clearly part of his world, made you feel thrilled.
“i’ll have whatever you’re having, sir,” you said quietly.
“bold choice,” he murmured, clearly amused. “whiskey it is, then.”
he moved to the bar cart with the calm confidence of a man who had done this many times before. you watched as he poured two generous measures of rich amber liquid into heavy crystal glasses.
he handed you one of the glasses and sat down on the sofa beside you — close enough that you could feel the warmth of his body and catch the faint scent of his cologne.the leather creaked softly under his weight.
professor miller took a slow sip from his glass, savoring it, then turned his sharp, intelligent eyes on you.
you held the heavy glass in both hands, the whiskey’s honeyed aroma rising to your nose. you took a small, careful sip. it burned pleasantly down your throat but a slight wince betrayed you.
professor miller noticed immediately.
“you’ve never tried whiskey before, have you?” he asked, gentle amusement coloring his deep voice.
you hesitated, cheeks warming. you didn’t want to come across as an inexperienced boy.
“not… not really, sir,” you admitted quietly.
“it’s alright,” he said, rising from the sofa “this jack daniels honey is already quite gentle, but we can make it even kinder for your first time.”
he walked over to the bar cart and returned with a can of red bull. he poured a generous amount into your glass. “try it now. slowly.”
“so much better” you said.
professor miller watched you with quiet amusement, then leaned back into the sofa, resting one arm along the backrest.
being this close to him, you became aware of details you hadn’t noticed before. his chest was broad and firm beneath the charcoal sweater. you could see the faint outline of firm muscle. the strong line of his jaw softened by a well-groomed salt-and-pepper beard, and the elegant veins on the back of his large hands. his jet-black hair that was strikingly distinguished by elegant streaks of silver at the temples and throughout, catching the warm lamplight like threads of fine metal. it made him look wise, experienced, and impossibly handsome all at once.
sitting this close to him made your own youth feel almost fragile by comparison.
he was everything you hoped to become one day.
“tell me,” he said, voice low and curious, “what’s your favorite genre? what kind of literature truly moves you?”
“i don’t really have one favorite,” you answered honestly, a little shy under his attentive gaze. “i like anything that makes me feel something. anything with a powerful narrative that stays with me… that leaves me thinking about it for days. it doesn’t matter if it’s sad, unsettling, or beautiful. as long as it moves me.”
professor miller watched you intently, his expression softening with quiet satisfaction. he rested one arm along the back of the sofa, his fingers not quite touching your shoulder.
“that’s a good answer,” he said, nodding slowly. “an honest one. most students your age try to impress me by naming the most intellectual or fashionable authors. but you… you want to be affected. i see that hunger in you,” he continued, his voice dropping lower.
your face burned. you felt trangely electrified.
“do you like poetry?” he asked.
you hesitated, suddenly self-conscious under his attentive gaze.
“i… don’t read much poetry, sir,” you admitted quietly. “i’ve tried, but it always feels like i’m missing something. like i don’t know how to read it properly.”
professor miller smiled, the smile of a man who had guided many young readers through their uncertainties.
“that’s perfectly alright,” he said gently. “most people are never taught how to read poetry. they’re expected to simply feel it, which is unfair.”
he stood up and walked over to one of the tall bookshelves. his fingers moved with practiced familiarity across the spines until he found what he was looking for. he returned with a beautiful cloth-bound volume and sat back down, even closer this time.“i won’t push poetry on you tonight,” he said, opening the book with care. “but i will show you something better. someone who writes prose that feels like poetry.”
he handed you the book. the collected stories of katherine mansfield.
you took the book reverently. it was an old edition, the pages slightly yellowed, the cover soft under your fingers. professor miller leaned in slightly, pointing to a story titled “the garden party.”
“start with this one,” he murmured. “it’s only a few pages long, but it will stay with you for years. i’ll lend you this copy. make notes in the margins if you want. i want to see what you feel when you read her. keep it as long as you like.”
you smiled, unable to hide your excitement. “thank you, sir. i can’t wait to read it,” you said softly, your voice warm with genuine joy. you held the book a little tighter against your lap, already imagining yourself curled up in your room later, reading the words he had chosen for you. already imagining late nights spent underlining passages he had once read, hoping he would approve of your thoughts.
the idea that he wanted to know your thoughts made you feel seen in a way no one else ever had.
professor miller watched your eager expression with quiet satisfaction.
“are you thinking about getting a master’s degree?” he asked
you hesitated, unsure how to answer. the truth was you hadn’t thought that far ahead yet.
“you should consider it.” his thumb brushed slowly along your jaw. “it would be a waste not to let that mind go as far as it can.”
a small, teasing smile curved his lips as he studied you. his voice dropped even lower, laced with seductive amusement.
“though i suspect..” he murmured, eyes darkening, “deep down, you want someone to master you…”
the words settled over you like warm velvet. professor miller let them linger for a moment, his thumb still tracing slow circles along your jaw. then his voice dropped even lower, rougher, thick with desire.
“i’ve seen the way you look at me in class… how you stay behind after everyone else has left, lingering by my desk even when you don’t have a question. we both know what this is.”
his fingers slid gently to the back of your neck, holding you with quiet possession. “so be honest with me, velvet porcelain boy… what exactly are you hoping i’ll teach you?”
the question hung in the air, heavy and intimate.
you had tried, in the rational hours, to construct other explanations for why you read three times over every text he assigned. why you want so bad to say something precise enough to make him pause. to make him look. you had told yourself it was ambition. academic devotion.
he reached out and slowly brushed a stray lock of hair from your forehead, his thumb lingering for a moment against your temple. the touch was gentle. the mansfield book still rested in your lap like a silent witness to the growing tension between you.
“i…” you swallowed, voice barely above a whisper. “i want you to show me things i don’t know yet. i want to know everything”
“everything,” he repeated softly, tasting the word the way he would a delicate line of poetry — slowly, deliberately, savoring its weight. “that’s a very large appetite for such a careful boy.”
his hand returned to your neck, fingers stroking the sensitive skin with soothing possession.
“you’re trembling,” he observed softly, almost tenderly. “there’s no need to feel nervous around me.”
professor miller’s voice was low and reassuring, like warm honey dripping over velvet. he rose from the sofa with calm, deliberate grace. the lamplight cast a golden glow across his broad shoulders as he stood before you.
“let me teach you your first real lesson.”
he picked up his whiskey glass and without breaking eye contact, he reached down and slowly undid his belt, then the button and zipper of his trousers. he freed his enormous cock — thick, heavy, full of veins and half-hard — letting it rest against the rim of the glass before slowly lowering it into the warm whiskey.
‘i’ll teach you how to drink whiskey properly.”
the sight was obscene and strangely elegant at the same time.
“kneel for your master.”
professor miller stood tall and commanding in front of you, one hand still loosely holding the glass, his wet, glistening cock waiting for you.
this was really happening. the distinguished professor who had spent weeks shaping your mind was now offering something more.
you slid off the sofa and knelt before him without a word. the carpet was soft against your knees. as you looked up, the sheer size and weight of him so close to your face made your mouth water.
professor miller’s hand came down gently to rest on the top of your head, not pushing, just guiding.
you leaned forward and took him into your mouth. the first taste hit you immediately — sweet honeyed whiskey mixed with the warm, masculine flavor of his cock. you sucked slowly, savoring the way the sweetened whiskey coated your tongue while his thick shaft grew steadily harder between your lips.
the more you sucked, the harder he became, filling your mouth with growing heat and weight. professor miller let out a low, pleased groan, his fingers tightening gently in your hair.
“what a receptive boy you are…” he praised, his voice rough with pleasure.
you moaned softly. you could feel him growing fully hard now — impossibly thick and rigid — stretching your lips as you worked him deeper.
“easy, boy… just like that,” he murmured, guiding your head with gentle pressure. “a little deeper. let me feel your throat. you can take more. i know you can.” he pushed in a little further, careful but firm, watching with dark, hungry eyes as your lips stretched around him. the taste of whiskey was fading, replaced more and more by the warm, masculine flavor of his skin.
“you’re doing so well,” he whispered, voice full of approval. “look at you… such a brilliant, beautiful boy on your knees for me…” professor miller let out a low, satisfied groan and gently pulled your head back by the hair, sliding his thick, glistening cock from between your swollen lips.
“come here, sweet boy,” he murmured and before you could fully process it, his strong hands slid under your arms and lifted you effortlessly. in one fluid motion, he pushed you back onto the deep leather sofa. your back hit the cushions as he followed, covering your body with his much larger, heavier frame, pressing you down with weight.
his tongue pushed past your lips with confident hunger, sliding against yours, tasting you thoroughly. he kissed like a man who had waited weeks for this: slow, wet, and demanding. his tongue explored every inch of your mouth. the faint taste of whiskey still lingered on his tongue, mixing with the taste of his cock that was still fresh on yours.
you moaned into his mouth as he devoured you, his silver beard brushing softly against your skin. he tilted his head and kissed you even deeper, sucking on your tongue, licking into your mouth with filthy, luxurious strokes. one of his hands slid down to grip your thigh, pulling it higher around his hip as he pressed his still-hard, heavy cock against you as he started to take off your clothes with hunger.
his fingers moved with practiced urgency, pulling your shirt up and over your head in one smooth motion, barely breaking the kiss. he tossed it aside and immediately ran his warm palm over your bare chest, thumb brushing across your nipple as he groaned into your mouth.
“so soft,” he whispered as he touch your skin, voice rough with desire. “such a perfect boy.”
he sat up just enough to work on your pants, unbuttoning and unzipping them with impatient hands. in one strong pull, he dragged your pants and underwear down your legs together, leaving you completely naked beneath him.
“open your mouth for me”
you obeyed instantly, parting your lips. he leaned over you and spit slowly into your open mouth. the act felt so filthy, so possessive, that a needy whimper escaped your throat. you loved it. you held his spit on your tongue, tasting him, swirling it slowly in your mouth like a sacred offering before finally swallowing it with a soft, grateful moan.
“good boy,” he growled softly. he stood up from the sofa, pulling his charcoal sweater over his head, revealing a broad, powerful chest dusted with dark hair threaded with silver. fully naked, he was magnificent.
“come here,” he order, looking at you with commanding affection. “let your master teach you how to worship properly.”
you rose to your feet and stepped close to him. professor miller towered over you, radiating quiet power. he placed one large hand on the back of your neck and gently but firmly guided your face toward his raised arm.
you moved slowly, reverently, tasting the faint salt of his skin. professor miller hummed in approval, his fingers threading gently through your hair.
“that’s it… good boy.”
encouraged, you moved lower, kissing and licking down the center of his torso. your tongue traced the defined lines of his abdomen, savoring the firm ridges of his six-pack. he was impressively toned. you took your time, licking every groove, pressing open-mouthed kisses against the hard muscle, occasionally sucking lightly on his skin.
you lost yourself in it, licking and kissing with increasing devotion, sucking lightly on the sensitive skin. the more you tasted him, the harder you became.
“good boy… such a hungry, perfect boy,” he praised, pressing your face deeper for a moment. “you worship me so beautifully.”
your mouth moved past his toned abdomen, following the sharp v-line of his hips.
you looked up at him for permission. professor miller stroked your cheek with his thumb, eyes dark and full of possessive affection.
he cupped your face with both hands and kissed you deeply, tasting himself on your tongue. he led you back to the sofa, guiding you down onto your back with careful strength. the leather was cool against your heated skin. he lowered himself and took your cock into his mouth. the heat was overwhelming. his mouth was incredibly warm and skilled. his tongue pressed firmly along the underside of your shaft while his soft silver-streaked beard brushed teasingly against your thighs. a deep, guttural moan escaped your throat as pleasure shot through your entire body.
he took you even deeper, relaxing his throat and swallowing around your length with practiced ease, then pulled back to swirl his tongue around your sensitive head, savoring the taste of your precum.
he looked up at you with dark, satisfied eyes while his mouth continued working you so beautifully.
“you taste so good,” he murmured against your wet cock, stroking you slowly with one large hand. “do you like when your professor takes all of you in his month?”
“yes— fuck, yes, sir.” you gasped, voice wrecked with pleasure. “i love it. it feels amazing, sir. please don’t stop—”
“such a filthy boy” he praised while grabbing a firm handful of your ass. he squeezed it possessively while he continued sucking you with slow, wet strokes.
suddenly, he pulled off your cock with a wet pop and flipped you over onto your stomach. you gasped as your chest pressed into the leather sofa. professor miller knelt behind you, spreading your legs wider and pulling your hips up so your ass was raised for him.
“such a perfect ass,” he growled softly, voice thick with lust. “so soft and untouched…”
he leaned down and spat directly onto your hole, you felt the cold liquid right into you. then he did it again, making sure you were dripping wet. his fingers joined in, spreading his spit around your tight entrance, rubbing slow circles.
now you could feel the thick blunt head of his enormous cock, he slapped your ass with it twice before he pushed in slowly, steadily, the spit and precum letting him slide in surprisingly deep on the first thrust. you felt every inch as he filled you, stretching you open in the most delicious, overwhelming way.
“fuck— professor…” you whimpered, fingers gripping the sofa.
“that’s it.” he stayed buried deep for a moment, letting you adjust to his size, his large hands gripping your hips. then he began to move — slow, deep thrusts that made your whole body light up with pleasure. every stroke dragged against that perfect spot inside you, sending waves of intense bliss through your body.
“you feel incredible,” he breathed against your ear, pressing his chest to your back. “so tight… so warm… gripping me so beautifully. my clever, eager boy.”
he started fucking you harder, deeper, the wet sound of his hips meeting your ass filling the quiet room as he claimed you completely.
professor miller’s enormous cock felt impossibly thick as it slid deep inside you, filling you completely, pressing against every sensitive spot. the wet, filthy sound of his spit-lubricated shaft pushing into your tight hole made your mind hazy with pleasure.
he pulled back slowly, almost removing his entire length, leaving just the fat head inside you — only to slam back in with one powerful thrust. your eyes rolled back, a broken moan tearing from your throat as intense pleasure shot through your body.
“so wet…” you whimpered, voice shaking. “it feels so fucking good, professor…"
professor miller groaned in satisfaction. after a few more deep thrusts, he suddenly pulled out, flipped you onto your back, and grabbed your legs. he hooked them over his broad shoulders, folding you beneath him.
he looked straight into your eyes with a possessive gaze — the look of a man who knew he was claiming something precious.
“look at your master while he ruins you.” one of his large hands wrapped around your rock hard cock, stroking you in time with his hips.
he started to fuck you harder, picking up a relentless rhythm. his hips snapped forward with powerful strokes, driving his enormous cock deep inside you again and again. you could feel every thick vein dragging along your walls with each thrust — the heavy, ridged texture stretching and rubbing against your most sensitive spots perfectly.
he looked so strong above you. broad shoulders flexing, powerful chest glistening with a light sheen of sweat hair falling messily over his forehead as he pounded into you.
he gripped your thighs tighter, folding you further as he railed you faster, deeper. the wet, obscene sound of his heavy balls slapping against your ass filled the room. every brutal thrust made you feel him completely — the heat, the thickness, the way his cock throbbed and pulsed inside you.
you didn’t need to say anything. he could read you so easily. he knew exactly how desperate you were to be filled.
“cum for me, baby” he growled, voice rough and desperate. his hand stroking your cock faster.
the pleasure crested violently.
“that’s i— good b— fuck!!” professor miller growled. “urghhhhh!”
with desperate moans, you both came at the same time
your cock pulsed hard between his skilled fingers, shooting thick ropes of cum across your stomach and chest. at the exact same moment, professor miller buried himself to the hilt with a deep, guttural groan and began flooding your insides.
he came hard, pulse after heavy, powerful pulse, pumping an incredible amount of thick, warm cum deep into you. you could feel every throb, every spurt as he filled you beyond full. he kept thrusting through his orgasm, slow and possessive, fucking his massive load even deeper into your body.
even after reaching his edge, he didn’t stop moving. he continued with long, lazy strokes, making sure every last drop stayed buried deep inside you.
for a long moment neither of you moved.
the book you had come for had fallen to the floor at some point.
"fuck," he rasped "god, you are just…" he growled with deep satisfaction, staring down at the creamy mess leaking from your ruined hole. thick warm cum slowly dribbling out of you, running down your balls and onto the sofa.
“fuck, you’ve got such a tight little ass, baby,” he groaned, rubbing the fat head of his cock against your cum-soaked entrance.
“let’s push professor’s cum back where it belongs.” he gripped your hips and pushed forward.
a broken moan escaped your lips. he felt even bigger this time, sliding through the sloppy mess he had already pumped into you.
your heart was still going. you could feel it everywhere, your throat, your fingertips, the place behind your sternum where something bright and almost painful had taken up residence and showed no sign of leaving.
"look at you," he dragged a thumb through the mess on your stomach, swirling it. "absolutely ruined. and you fucking love it, don't you?"
"mm-hmm," you hummed, your voice cracked and breathless.
"my little scholarly seducer.” he said.
the dark leather of the sofa was slick, stained with the evidence of our collision— spilled whiskey, sweat, and the cooling traces of our release pooling in the creases of the upholstery.
"you're so devoted, aren't you?" he pulled me closer, his skin sliding against mine with a wet, tacky friction. "not just to the texts, or the theories… but to the sensation of being completely undone."
🌙⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚✨
you woke up slowly, still dazed and heavy-limbed, curled against professor miller’s chest on the wide leather sofa. the room was quiet now, lit only by the soft glow of the antique lamps. for a moment, everything felt surreal, until the pleasant ache in your body and the sticky warmth between your thighs reminded you exactly what had happened.
you were still naked, pressed against him. your skin was soft and smooth, almost delicate compared to his. his chest and shoulders carried the texture of a man who had lived fully. faint scars, sun spots, and the natural marks. yet he looked incredibly gorgeous.
professor miller’s large hand moved slowly up and down your back.
“did you enjoy your first real lesson?” he asked
you hid your face in the crook of his neck for a moment, cheeks burning. “you were perfect. so devoted… so passionate.” he completed
“i’m not sure if i really learned my lesson… do it once again.”
summary: your dad asks for his best friend to fix the shelf you keep the things you love the most. alone in your room, the two of you end up sitting on the floor with cold beers and Springsteen playing softly in the background. by the time the afternoon ends, Joel Miller leaves completely fascinated with your musical taste.
tags: MDNI age gap, joel is 55, smut, unprotected p in a, spanking, slapping, daddy kink, breeding kink
word count: 4,4k
a/n: this is something i had in my mind for a long time. i'll go back to it later probably, just needed to let it out to the world so i could write a new dynamic i have in mind. btw i was totally inspired by @stitch-away writing, i was obsessed with they work a few months go i decided to give it a try.
the house was empty and quiet. your dad had gone into town for the day. you were alone after soccer practice, still on your uniform laying on the sofa when the knock came.
you opened the door to find joel miller standing on your porch, toolbox in his large hand, wearing a green flannel shirt that clung to his broad chest and those well-worn jeans.
“hey, kid” he said, voice low and warm. “your dad told me the screen door on the back porch was actin’ up and that shelf in your room keeps comin’ loose. figured i’d come fix it for you while i had the chance.”
you swallowed, stepping aside to let him in. “he’s not here right now, but yeah… come on in. i can show you where it is.” you felt anxious. you were alone with joel for the first time.
joel’s eyes lingered on you a second longer than necessary as he stepped inside, the scent of wood hitting you as he passed. you closed the door behind him, heart already beating a little faster.
“you really didn’t have to come over on your day off,” you said. “dad’s too lazy to fix anything himself, huh?”
joel glanced up at you, a small smirk tugging at his mouth. “i don’t mind. gets me outta my own empty house.” he pulled out a screwdriver and started tightening the hinges. “besides… i like comin’ over here.”
the way he said it made heat crawl up your neck.
“yeah?” you asked, trying to sound casual. “even when my dad’s not here to bother you?”
joel let out a low chuckle, deep and rough.
“especially then.” he took a slow look at you from where he was crouched. “don’t get me wrong, i love watchin’ the matches with your old man… but we can’t ever shut up long enough to actually enjoy the game.” he shook his head with a fond smile. “constant yappin’ the whole ninety minutes.”
“yeah, i know how it goes,” you said with a soft laugh. “you two get too loud.”
you took him upstairs first, straight to your bedroom. the shelf above your desk had been half-pulling out of the wall for weeks. joel set his tools down and got to work, muscles flexing under his shirt as he held the shelf in place and drilled new anchors. you leaned against the doorframe, watching the way his jeans hugged his thick thighs and that perfect ass every time he shifted.
you felt a strange rush of nervousness. this was your space, with your bed, your posters, your clothes all over the place, the little pieces of you scattered everywhere, because you a pretty messy boy and wasn’t expecting a visitor. and now that hot old man was standing in the middle of it.
the greys in his beard and the faint lines around his eyes only made him more attractive to you. he looked strong, experienced…in a way that made your stomach flutter.
joel drilled in the new anchors with steady, practiced hands, then tested the shelf, making sure it was secure. after a moment, he stepped back and gave it a firm tug.
“all done,” he said, satisfied. “should hold now.”
his eyes flicked to your bed, then back to you. “nice room,” he said quietly. “feels very you.” the air between you felt thicker. joel cleared his throat, his voice coming out a little rougher than before.
“does your dad got anything cold to drink?” he asked
“beer?” you offered, smiling.
“perfect.”
you went downstairs to grab a couple of cold beers from the fridge, heart racing the entire time. joel was alone in your bedroom right now. the thought made you feel strangely tense and nervous… but also incredibly excited.
when you come back, joel is looking at your record collection: “damn… this is a good collection,” he murmured, genuinely impressed as he pulled out born to run. “you got taste, kid.”
“thanks, i like old music” you said, feeling shy but happy he noticed your taste. “i’ve always liked older music. it just feels… warmer. more honest.”
joel looked up at you, brown eyes soft. “yeah. i know what you mean.”
he took the beer from your hand, his fingers brushing against yours for a moment longer than necessary.
then he asked, almost casually: “does your dad let you drink?”
you smiled, a playful, bratty little spark lighting up in your eyes.
“he doesn’t need to know, right?” you teased.
since the shelf had been broken for weeks, you’d been keeping most of your vinyls stored in two big wooden crates on the floor. joel didn’t seem to mind at all. he sat with his back against the side of your bed, legs stretched out comfortably, while you sat close beside him.
the afternoon sun poured through the window, casting everything in a golden hue.
joel carefully slid the record out of its sleeve and placed it on the player with the gentle care of someone who truly loved music. the opening chords of “thunder road” filled the room, low, intimate, and full of quiet yearning.
for a while, you both just listened. joel took slow sips of his beer, nodding along, one knee bent as he rested his arm on it. every so often his eyes would drift from the records over to you.
“you got springsteen, pearl jam, the eagles… even neil young,” he said, impressed. “most kids your age only listen to whatever’s on tiktok.”
you passed him another record, an old pearl jam one to show him the coverart you loved, and when your fingers brushed, neither of you pulled away immediately.
“you know,” he said after a moment, voice quieter, “i don’t get to do this much anymore. just sittin’ and listenin’ to music with someone who actually gets it.” he looked at you, really looked.
you kept talking, showing him different albums, telling little stories about where you found them. he listened attentively, asking questions, laughing quietly at your stories. every time you leaned in to point something on a lyric, your shoulders pressed together. every time he handed you a record, his eyes dropped to your mouth.
“i’ve always loved springsteen the most,” you admitted, pulling out born to run. “there’s something about his music that feels… defiant. like he’s saying ‘fuck you’ to the way things are supposed to be.”
joel’s mouth curved into a slow, knowing smile. he took the album from you, his thumb brushing over the cover almost reverently.
“yeah… that’s exactly it,” he murmured, voice low. “springsteen writes about rebellion, but not the loud, stupid kind. it’s quieter. more desperate. like runnin’ away from everything that’s tryin’ to keep you small. he makes you believe you can outrun your circumstances if you’ve got the right person ridin’ shotgun.”
you shifted slightly closer, your shoulder pressing against his. “is that why you like him so much? do you feel like that? like you want to rebel?”
“i was a rebel when i was your age, you have no idea” he said “gettin’ into trouble, chasin’ girls i had no business chasin’… thought the whole world was mine to take. i’m supposed to be past all that rebellious shit. supposed to know better.”
his eyes dropped to your mouth, then slowly dragged back up to meet yours. “supposed to stay in my lane… and definitely not be sittin’ on the floor of a boy half my age’s bedroom.” he smile.
you swallowed, heart racing.
the music played on.
at one point joel stretched his legs out more, his thick thigh pressing firmly against yours. he didn’t move it away. neither did you. the heat of his body seeped through your clothes and made your pulse throb.
“you keep lookin’ at me like that, darlin’…” joel finally muttered, voice rough around the edges as he stared at your lips again.
“like what?” you asked, barely above a whisper.
“like you want the same thing i do.”
the tension was thick enough to taste. your beers were over forgotten beside you. joel’s hand rested on his own thigh, fingers twitching like he was fighting the urge to reach for you.
your faces were so close now. close enough to count the faint lines at the corners of his eyes. close enough to see how his pupils had blown wide. his gaze dropped to your lips again, heavy and wanting.
“been wantin’ to kiss you for so long,” he confessed, voice low and gravelly. “every time i see you… every damn time, but i never had to courage to do it. could never get you alone like this.”
“you can kiss me” you breathed. joel cupped your face with one big, calloused hand and closed the distance.
the kiss was slow at first, warm, deep, and full of all the restrained yearning you’d both been carrying. then it turned hungry. joel groaned into your mouth, tilting your head as he licked inside, claiming you properly.
you climbed into his lap, straddling his thick thighs as his hands gripped your waist, pulling you closer.
warm lips pressed against yours, tasting faintly of beer and restraint. but the moment you parted your lips, something in joel snapped. he groaned deeply into your mouth, tilting your head as his tongue slid against yours, claiming you with years of pent-up hunger. the kiss quickly turned filthy — wet, desperate, and deep.
“fuck” he panted against your lips. “that’s a dangerous thing we are doing” his words sent a shiver through you.
“been thinkin’ about this for so long,” he confessed between kisses down your neck. he sucked a mark just below your ear, then soothed it with his tongue.
“tell me to stop,” he rasped, even as his hands tightened on your hips, guiding you to keep grinding on him. you shook your head, lips brushing his.
“i don’t want you to stop, joel. i want this.” you said shily, feeling his hard cock pressing insistently against you.
he let out a shaky breath and kissed you again, hungrier this time. his hands moved with more purpose — sliding under your shirt to pull it up and off. the moment your chest was bare, his mouth was on you, kissing and licking down your collarbone, sucking your nipples while rough hands explored every inch of your skin like he was trying to memorize you.
“goddamn, look at you…” he breathed, almost in awe. “so fuckin’ perfect.”
emboldened by his words, you tugged at the hem of his shirt. joel helps you out, lifting his arms so you could pull it all the way off and toss it aside. his hands dropped to your ass, squeezing hard as he pulled you tighter against his cock.
the friction was driving you crazy, but he kept the pace torturously slow, like he wanted to savor every second of this forbidden moment.
your hands move on their own. you ran your palms across his hairy chest, tracing the strong lines of his pecs and stomach.
you leaned in closer, burying your nose in his armpit, breathing him in deeply. he smelled so masculine, so warm, right before you are moving your hands down his strong arms, squeezing the firm muscle of his biceps and forearms. everything about him felt so safe, and so addictive.
in one smooth motion, he flipped you both and laid you down on your bed, hovering over you. his broad shoulders blocked out most of the golden light coming through the window.
“your dad ain’t home,” his voice was low and rough, “so right now… i’m gonna be your daddy.”
the words sent a bolt of heat straight through you. joel leaned down, brushing his nose against yours. “tell me how you want it, darlin’. tell me you want this old man to fuck your sweet hole.”
“i want you, joel” you breathed, trembling with need. “you can have me the way you want.”
he kissed you again, slower this time, pouring every unspoken feeling into it.
you sat up on your knees, heart hammering. joel stayed kneeling on the bed, watching you with hooded eyes as you reached for him. your hands moved to his chest, you could feel how fast his heart was beating.
your fingers found his belt. the metal buckle felt cool compared to his skin. you looked up at him as you slowly unbuckled it, the quiet sound of leather sliding through the loops filling the room. joel’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t rush you. you popped the button of his jeans and dragged the zipper down, the sound loud and obscene in the quiet bedroom. you pushed his jeans down his thick thighs, and joel shifted to help you pull them off completely. you threw them onto the floor, leaving him in just a pair of black boxers.
the bulge in them was obscene, thick and rock hard, straining against the fabric. you leaned in and pressed your face against his clothed cock, breathing him in. he smelled so fucking good, so musky, masculine, with that warm, heady scent. you nuzzled against the thick length, inhaling deeply, and joel cursed under his breath, one hand gently threading through your hair.
“fuck, baby… are you tryin’ to kill me?” he rasped.
you hooked your fingers into the waistband of his black boxers and pulled them down. joel’s heavy cock sprang free, thick and flushed, the fat head glistening with precum. it bobbed heavily in front of your face, veined and intimidating.
you leaned forward again without thinking, pressing your nose right against the base of his cock, breathing him in deeply. the scent was even stronger here, you dragged your nose up along the thick shaft, savoring it.
joel’s hand tightened slightly in your hair, a low groan rumbling in his chest.
“jesus christ, darlin’…” his voice was wrecked. “you like how daddy smells?”
“yeah, it smells so good, can i taste it? it looks so sweet.”
“yes, baby,” he breathed, voice deep and rough, thick with lust and affection. “daddy’s here to make you feel good.”
the words sent a shiver down your spine. joel’s thumb gently stroked your cheek as he looked down at you with dark, conflicted eyes.
“go on then,” he murmured, guiding your head just a little closer. “be a good boy and lick it. but slow… so you feel taste it all, feel it all over your mouth”
you dragged your tongue up the thick underside of his cock, tasting the salty skin and the bead of precum at the tip. joel hissed through his teeth, hips twitching forward slightly.
“fuck… that’s it, sweetheart. just like that.” his voice dropped even lower. “a needy little boy. look at you… so pretty with your mouth on me… you look so goddamn pretty like this… i don’t think i can stop you, baby.”
joel gently pulled you up, then laid you back down on the bed. without a word, he grabbed your thighs and lifted your legs, resting them over his broad shoulders. the position folded you slightly, leaving you completely exposed to him.
“been watchin’ you grow up for years” he says while touching your face “and now i’m finally gonna bury every inch inside you. you gonna take it all?” he whispers.
he spat into his hand, stroking his thick cock once, twice, coating the head with his own spit.
his eyes stayed locked on yours as he pressed the blunt, leaking tip against your tiny hole. “fuck…” he breathed, already sounding wrecked.
he pushed in slowly, just the fat head breaching your tight ring of muscle. joel groaned deeply, low and guttural, as your walls stretched around him.
“goddamn… so tight” he breathed hard.
you gasped, back arching off the bed at the intense stretch. joel paused halfway in, forehead pressed against yours, breathing shakily.
“easy… breathe for me,” he whispered tenderly, even as his hips trembled with the effort of holding back. “that’s it, good boy. takin’ daddy’s cock so well already.”
he pushed in a little deeper, groaning again when your heat swallowed another inch. he was so big and your hole was so tight.
“that’s it, sweetheart… takin’ me so perfect.”
once he bottomed out, joel stayed still for a moment, just holding you, just feeling you, kissing you tenderly while you adjusted. then he started moving, deep, rolling thrusts that made the bed creak softly.
“you’re so beautiful like this,” he whispered against your neck, voice wrecked with pleasure. “been dreamin’ about havin’ you under me.”
“you’re so full of me right now. my boy… takin’ every inch of this old man’s cock.” he fucked you with long, steady strokes, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other gripped your thigh, spreading you wider. every thrust hit deep, dragging against that spot inside you that made you moan his name.
“joel— fuck— feels so good…”
“yeah?” he kissed you again, slower and sweeter even as his hips snapped harder. you both could hear as the record would start skipping but you got all his attention, you were only his. “that’s my good boy. let me hear how much you like it, moan for me.”
he wrapped a big hand around your cock, stroking you in time with his thrusts while murmuring filthy praise against your skin. but after a few minutes, joel slowed down and pulled out, leaving you empty and whining.
“on your hands and knees, darlin’,” he ordered “want to see that pretty ass while i fuck you.”
you obeyed quickly, arching your back and pushing your ass up for him. joel groaned at the sight, running his rough palms over your cheeks before spreading them wide.
“look at you… so fuckin’ eager.”
“fuck, yes—” you gasped, fingers twisting in the sheets.
joel set a punishing rhythm, hips slapping against your ass with every deep stroke. the new angle had him hitting your prostate perfectly on every thrust, making your eyes roll back.
he started fucking you harder, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the room. his hand came down again — sharp, rhythmic spanks that made your hole clench around his thick cock with every strike.
he suddenly pulled out of you, leaving your hole clenching around nothing. you let out a desperate whine at the empty feeling, already missing the thick stretch of his cock.
you didn’t have to miss it for long. joel grabbed both your cheeks and spread them wide open, exposing your twitching hole. without any warning, he buried his face between your asscheeks and dragged his tongue right over your sensitive rim. you moaned loudly into the mattress. his tongue was hot, wet, and greedy. he licked broad, slow stripes over your hole at first, tasting you thoroughly, before turning filthy. he stiffened his tongue and pushed it inside you, fucking you with it in deep, hungry strokes.
“such a sweet hole, you taste so good, baby.” he groaned loudly against your ass, the vibration shooting through your body. he was eating you like a starving man — messy, wet, and completely shameless. loud, obscene slurping sounds filled the room as he licked and sucked at your hole, trying to push his tongue as deep as possible, desperate to taste every inch inside you.
“atta boy,” he growled, one hand gripping your hip hard while the other delivered another sharp slap to your ass. “arch that back more. let me fuck you proper.”
you moaned loudly, pushing back to meet his thrusts. joel kept spanking you between strokes — firm, rhythmic slaps that left your skin burning and your hole clenching tighter around him.
“i want you to slap me, dad. i’ve been… craving you too much.”
joel’s eyes darkened with pure lust. he rubbed his palm over your ass once, almost soothingly, before bringing his hand down harder — a loud, sharp smack that echoed in the room.
“like that?” he asked, voice rough. you moaned, pushing back onto his thick cock “jesus christ,” joel muttered under his breath, clearly losing more of his control. “such a filthy boy.”
“you like that, baby?” he panted, voice strained with pleasure. “like when daddy spanks this pretty ass while he fucks you?”
“yes, daddy.”
“such a naughty boy… letting dad use your body in the way that he pleases.”
the sting bloomed into heat, going straight to your cock. joel slapped the other cheek harder, then rubbed the heated skin soothingly before lining himself up again. he pushed back inside in one smooth thrust, burying himself to the hilt.
he started fucking you with deep, powerful thrusts while his hand came down again and again — firm, stinging slaps that made your skin burn beautifully. each spank made you clench tighter around his cock.
“that’s what you wanted, huh?” he panted, spanking you between thrusts. “wanted your dad to bend you over and spank your ass while he fucks you?” you cried out, gripping the sheets tightly.
joel inside you felt like he was meant to be inside you all along. his thick, warm cock fit you so perfectly that you felt protected, safe, and completely owned all at once.
you felt so full, so claimed, so wanted. this was everything you had secretly dreamed about: joel miller, strong and rough, ruining you in your own bed. you felt small beneath his big body, protected and completely overpowered all at once.
“you’re squeezin’ me so tight,” he growled, breathing ragged. “you want me to fill you up, sweetheart? want daddy’s cum deep inside this tight ass?”
“yes— please, joel—”
he chuckled darkly and slowed his thrusts to a teasing grind, keeping you right on the edge.
“i don’t know… only good boys get filled up.” another hard slap landed on your ass, making you cry out. “you gonna be good for me? gonna keep this pretty ass up and take everything i give you?”
“i’ll be good— i swear, gonna take every drop” you whimpered, desperately pushing back onto his thick cock. “please breed me, daddy. i need it” you were only his desperate baby boy.
he reaches under you to stroke your leaking cock while the other kept delivering occasional slaps to your reddening ass.
“that’s my boy,” he panted, voice strained with pleasure “so perfect. you’re gonna make me cum so hard, baby.”
the combination of his deep thrusts, his hand pumping your cock, and the sharp sting of his palm sent you spiraling. you came first with a broken moan, clenching hard around him as you spilled over his fingers and onto the sheets.
joel cursed loudly, burying himself as deep as he could go. “good boy— f-fuck, daddy is gonna fill you up.”
he snapped his hips a few more times before he came with a deep, guttural groan, flooding your insides with thick, warm pulses of cum. “fuck, bab!—” he scream as pushing your hips closer so he could fill your insides.
his cock pulsed hard inside you as he flooded you with thick, hot spurts of cum. he kept your hips pressed tightly against him, grinding deep as if he wanted to push his hot release as far inside you as possible. the warm, wet sensation of his cum filling you was overwhelming, heavy, claiming, and addictive.
you wish we would never pull it out.
he stayed buried inside you for a moment, both of you panting. then he carefully pulled out, groaning softly at the sight of his thick cum leaking from your used hole. then flipped you onto your back again, collapsing on top of you. his mouth found yours in a slow, tender kiss as his hand gently rubbed your sore ass.
“goddamn…” he whispered hoarsely, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder. “never felt anything better than this…”
you wanted to feel joel’s cum inside you forever. feeling it trickle down your thighs, like having a piece of him inside you. you loved it. you craved it.
you wanted to keep every drop of his seed inside you forever. you wanted to walk around the house with his cum steadily leaking from your used asshole, feeling it smear between your cheeks with every movement.
you wanted to spend the rest of the day leaking joel miller’s cum like the desperate little needy boy you were for him.
“when i was downstairs watching soccer matches with your dad…” he murmured, voice low and sweet, almost shy, “i was always thinking about you. wonderin’ what you were doing up here in your room. sometimes i’d hear you moving around and my heart would start beating faster like some damn teenager.”
he let out a soft, self-deprecating chuckle and held you tighter, one hand gently cupping the back of your head.
“but the best days were when you’d come down and sit with us. i’d try so hard not to stare… but i couldn’t help it. you’d smile or laugh at something and i’d forget the whole game. i just wanted to look at you.”
“i knew it was wrong. knew i shouldn’t be feeling that way about you… but i couldn’t stop. every time you walked into a room, it felt like the air got lighter. and now that i’ve had you like this…” he swallowed hard, brushing his thumb across your cheek. “i don’t think i can go back to pretending anymore.”
you felt your chest tighten at his words.
joel leaned in and kissed you — slow, deep, and incredibly tender. when he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours.
“i’ve wanted you for so long, darlin’,” he whispered. “not just your body… i wanted you. all of you. i like to be around you.”
keys jingling. familiar footsteps.
“shit,” you whispered, eyes wide. joel’s body tensed instantly. “get in the shower,” you said, getting up from bed. “i’ll tell him i offered you a shower since you got sweaty from fixing the shelf.”
he leaned down and kissed you once, quick but deep, before grabbing his jeans and shirt off the floor. you watched his broad, naked back disappear into your bathroom. a second later, the shower turned on.
your heart was hammering as you quickly pulled on some shorts and a t-shirt, trying to look casual. you could still feel joel’s cum slowly leaking out of you as you hurried downstairs.
your dad was in the kitchen, setting down a couple of grocery bags when you reached the bottom of the stairs.
“hey, kid,” he said, smiling at first. then his eyes narrowed slightly as he looked at you. “joel come by to look at the screen door?”
“yeah, but we decided to fix my shelf first, he was sweaty so i offered him a shower.”
little did you know your dad would never buy this story. he knew joel too well. he’d known him for over thirty years.
each vertebra reveals a mystery / pray on my spine, it's a rosary
reader x frankie morales
summary: You pray that God will keep you on the path of righteousness: to guard your heart, discipline your desire, and keep your mind free from wandering. But after a year away, Frankie isn't willing to be apart for much longer.
|| smut MDNI 18+, angst, please heed the warnings it's not a dark fic but it has dark themes, catholic!reader, devout!reader, virgin!reader, innocent!reader, kidnapping, obsessed!frankie! exbf!frankie, love bombing, toxic relationships, catholic guilt!!!!!, forced proximity, proposal, virginity loss, pinv, oral, praiseeeeeee kink, loving smut, religious imagery, canon to triple frontier 2019 except everything works out, frankie is a manipulative love bomber you've been warned (I do not condone, but if anyone was gonna be obsessed w me….anyway), beach smut ||
a/n: this is my submission for @tateypots's naughty or nice writing challenge with the naughty theme for both frankie & grand gesture!
a/n II: I use some spanish in this, what little I know from working with people who are fluent and from colombia. one of the cutest things was when my boss would call his wife 'mor' like short for mi amor, so that is in this fic. also, I must add im the least religious person ever, I didn't even have to go to church as a kid. please excuse any mishaps and mistakes.
references & inspired by: Rosalia's LUX (specifically divinize, magnolias, la yugular, and la perla) / That One Scene in A Walk to Remember
Forehead.
Chest.
Shoulder.
Shoulder.
It’s like memory, like breathing. It lives in you so intimately it barely feels chosen, more reflex than thought, something your body learned before language. It moves through you, closer than anything else, closer than your own blood, than the dark rivers that pulse in your neck, the jugular carrying life itself. Even that is not as near as the Spirit.
You slide into a pew and kneel against the rough wood pressing through your skirt, welcoming the familiar ache of your worship. It echoes the ache of it in your bones. It feels earned, deserved. You let it bloom in your knees and stay there, a small penance.
You want to feel your faith like this, the only physical proof you have of your conviction. It is the choice you make again and again to be good. To feel as if you belong to something higher than your own desire. It keeps your heart pointed upward, not outward. It burns in your knees.
Above you, Christ hangs in His stillness, ribs pulled taut beneath skin, head bowed under the weight of mercy made flesh. His eyes are cast downward, simply watching. He's not accusatory but He still lacks a gentleness. He bears a violent witness. You think of how much blood there must have been. How slow.
Your throat tightens as you close your eyes. You know you have been careless with memory. You know you have lingered where you should not let your thoughts linger, allowed your mind to drift back into a time when things like love and desire clouded your mind. You stop yourself again, now, before your mind's eye takes his shape again.
You reach into your bag and draw out your rosary, the beads cool at first, then warming as they settle into your palms. You wrap them around your fingers, letting the string pull snug until it presses into your skin. You tighten it. The pressure feels good. Corrective. You like the way it demands your attention. It keeps you present, anchored in the here and now instead of drifting back into longing.
You bow your head.
Thank you. Thank you for loving me. Thank you for the path you laid out when I could not see my way through it myself. Thank you for discipline when comfort would have ruined me.
You think of your savior again, His final surrender. You think of how good He was, how He gave everything so you could be forgiven when you wandered into sin. Weakness in the form of nostalgia, desire that insists on resurfacing for a man you nearly gave everything to before he left. The awareness of Christ's eyes on you presses down on the back of your neck, making you feel small. Exposed and unworthy.
Please.
Please keep me faithful, even when my thoughts start to wander. Please guard me and my family from harm, from the things seen and unseen. Keep my heart turned away from what is evil, from sin and predilection. Show me discipline where I am weak, and clarity when I am confused. For now I know that all I want is to be with you, in the kingdom of heaven.
Amen.
After evening Mass, you stop at the doors of St. Anthony’s as the last of the parishioners say their farewells. It's quiet outside now, evening like a blanket of stars over the quietening chapel.
Father Paul takes your hand, thanks you again for your help this weekend, asks after your family with the same gentle attentiveness he always does. You answer quietly, promise to return in the morning for the food pantry, assuring him you’ll bring coffee, and step aside into the night.
You descend the steps and pull your coat tighter around yourself, breath fogging faintly in the cold. The street is mostly empty, the chapel behind you dark now except for a single light near the sacristy. You start toward home, your footsteps the only sound accompanying you in the dark.
Tomorrow will be the food pantry, and how much there always seems to do even when the night gives you the reprieve of silence. You hear the crickets, a lone car passing by once. You'll need to get to church early to set up, make sure all the boxes are in order. Father is always so sweet and you'll stop for his favorite coffee to wake him like you always do.
Your rosary beads knock softly against the zipper of your bag as you walk—a faint, familiar sound that keeps time with your steps. A car passes again, then the street returns to stillness. The quiet settles around you, deep and expansive, and you feel how easily it opens space inside your head.
Sometimes the quiet of night is welcome, but sometimes it allows for too much time to think. About things, about…about times before. About… him.
You tighten your grip on the strap of your bag and begin to pray again, the words rising instinctively, protective, filling you.
Our Father, Who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy Name.
Whenever you feel your mind straying from you, from good, you say it again. You let the words occupy your mouth, your tongue, the soft hollow behind your teeth.
Thy Kingdom come. Thy Will be done, on earth, as it is in Heaven.
The night feels very still around you, the sidewalk stretched long and empty ahead, your breath a fog in front of you, steadying with the cadence of prayer. You are halfway through the next line when something changes. The sound of the passing car lingers longer than before, tires not moving away. There's an engine idling too close.
Give us this day our daily bread and —
There is the sharp scrape of metal, a sliding door pulled open with no hesitation, and then light explodes across the sidewalk, headlights washing over you so suddenly it steals your vision. You turn instinctively, already stepping backward, heart leaping hard into your throat. A figure moves out of the glare, tall and broad, its outline sharpening too quickly, too near for your mind to catch up.
Your arms pull in tight to your chest, shoulders hunching, fear driving straight down your spine like a nail hammered down. You feel it everywhere at once, white and electric, every nerve lit.
“What do you want?” you hear yourself say, shocked that your voice works at all.
The shape does not slow. Footsteps eat the distance between you, purposeful, unhurried. A hand reaches for you.
Then you remember how to scream.
It tears out of you raw and loud as you kick and thrash, hands striking at anything you can reach. It does nothing. You are lifted easily, hauled up and over a broad shoulder, the world tilting as your stomach lurches violently. Your fists pound against the man's back, but he's so solid, and your blows get absorbed without reaction. His arm clamps around your legs, locking your knees together so your feet can’t swing free.
“Let me go!” you scream, the words breaking apart in your mouth.
Your wishes are granted, but only to be thrown into the dark van, where there are three more men in all black with ski masks waiting. You scream again, but the door slides shut, making you blind to their reaching hands, which clasp around your wrists, a thin harsh plastic wrapping around you. This isn't like the rosary, a calming pressure of worship and devotion, this is a zip tie.
You are still fighting when rough fabric is dragged down over your eyes, smothering and close, stealing what little light remains. Your breath turns frantic inside it, the air hot and stale. They catch your ankles next, cinching them tight, stealing your balance completely, your body reduced to something contained and helpless.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” a voice curses beside you as they struggle to finish restraining you.
“Mind your tongue,” you spit back, the reprimand tearing free before you can stop it. For a fleeting second, anger steadies you, gives you something solid to hold. Hearing the Lord’s name said in vain snaps you back into yourself, into who you are, into what you belong to.
"Haven't changed much, has she, boys?"
There's something about the voices that piques a curiosity in you. If the blood wasn't pounding so loudly in your ears, if your skin wasn't buzzing with adrenaline, maybe you'd have recognized them.
But the voices overlap now, a laugh to your left, a chortle to your right from the front seat, "There's no way this is gonna work if—"
"Shut up," another one of them cuts in.
The buzzing in your ears is too loud to place any of it, drowning out all logical thought and the ability to think. Whatever recognition tries to surface slips away again under the fear.
You curl inward as much as the restraints allow, folding yourself small, clasping your bound hands together. You draw your knees up, pressing your forehead against them, turning inward, then downward, the way you were taught. The way you have always done when the world feels dangerous and out of your control. You begin to pray.
Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy Name.
The time passes without meaning.
The van, and time, seem to move and stop, then move again. You can feel every turn in your stomach as you pray, every brake against your spine. At some point your throat is hoarse from whispering your orisons, your hands clenched so hard together they lose their feeling. No one else speaks, the silence stretches. You're not sure for how long, whether it's twenty minutes or twenty hours. It feels a bit like forever.
Then there's another sound, distant. A vibration more than noise at first, something you feel through the floor of the van, like the tires beneath are on a fault line. The van is slowing, you're sure of it, and the sound is louder, thick and filling the space. A mechanical thrum that presses against your chest and hums behind your covered eyes.
Your heart stutters when the van door slides open.
No.
No, no no.
Air rushes in hard and cold, whipping across your skin, carrying the sharp bite of fuel and night. It feels violent after the sealed quiet of the van, too much all at once. Someone reaches for you, and you let them. You do not resist this time. Your body moves because it is moved, pliant and strange, as your mind is seized by a sudden, terrible certainty.
“Careful,” a voice says close to your ear as your feet are positioned outside the door and the zip ties are cut from your ankles.
Your feet are positioned at the edge, then lowered, the ground solid beneath you. The zip ties around your ankles are cut away, the release abrupt and disorienting. Hands grip your arms, lifting you upright, keeping you steady. Your wrists remain bound. The blindfold stays in place.
They guide you forward.
The sound swells into a roar that consumes everything. It vibrates through your ribs, your skull, your teeth. You can barely hear your own breathing over it, shallow and uneven inside your chest. You can't see. You can't hear clearly. But you know.
You know that sound.
It brings back memories, flooding you. Your body reacts as your mind swims with them, dread pouring through you, cold and absolute. And threaded through it like a warm current in the turn of two oceans meeting, is something else. Something you refuse to name, that you've prayed to extinguish for the past year. It feels as if the hands at your sides and the sound ahead is submerging you into those memories, like being held under and lifted out again. A baptism.
Your stomach flips and your knees threaten to give out as the person beside you tightens their grip and says something you can't make out over the noise. You stumble forward a bit, guided step by step, until you're being lifted again and strapped into a seat.
And finally, when you're no longer being pinned or guided or restrained by hands, you bow your head and begin to cry in the passenger seat of the helicopter.
You’re only half aware of the trip through the sky.
It’s too dark to make sense of anything, the strip of fabric around your eyes starting to itch, sweat collecting beneath it as you try, uselessly, to peer through the narrow gap it leaves against your cheekbone. There’s nothing to see anyway. Just darkness. No lights or landmarks below, no sense of height or distance. The helicopter vibrates through the bench seat and into your bones, rattling your skin, turning your stomach over and over until you can’t tell if you’re afraid or just sick.
Maybe you’re over the ocean.
The thought comes unbidden, but it sticks, makes sense. Endless black water beneath you, nothing solid for miles. You swallow hard, throat tight, and curl your shoulders in against the cold that seeps through the metal.
Eventually, the vibration changes, the pitch dropping and movement shifting, and the descent throws your belly into your throat with sudden pressure. When you touch down, the rotors kick the air into a frenzy, wind and grit blasting through the open door as it’s wrenched wide. You turn your face away, tucking your chin down, bracing.
"What the fuck did you do to her?"
The shout cuts through the mechanical roar like a blade.
Oh god.
No, no no no.
Some part of you had prayed you were wrong, desperately hoping. Somewhere between the van and the sky, you had begged to be mistaken. You wish you still had your rosary. You don’t know where your bag is. You wish you could have knelt, pressed your forehead to the floor, prayed harder, prayed better.
Hands grab at your wrists, wrenching the ties free, and relief comes quickly but painful, pins and needles racing through your fingers as blood rushes back. The hands move to fumble at your head, and you flinch, jerking away, keeping your eyes squeezed shut as the fabric comes away. If you don’t look, you don’t have to see who it is. Who you know it is. You feel like you knew all along, from the first words uttered in the van. From the broad expanse of the shoulders you were hauled over when they took you.
But then the two broad hands are back to your face even without restraints. Thumbs brush along your temples, gentle, reverent, moving your hair back like he’s done a hundred times before. Your breath stutters. You turn your head away, squeezing your eyes shut so hard your vision sparks, blood pounding so loud in your ears it feels like a scream. The hands leave your face and close gently around your wrists instead, steadying you, lifting you from the seat.
Your feet hit the ground and you gasp.
The earth beneath is…soft. Not the jolt of blacktop or cement you expect. Your shoes sink slightly, the surface shifting under your weight. You open your eyes without meaning to, a curse of human curiosity, and look down.
Sand.
You make sure to advert your eyes again, away from…him, because you can't yet. You need to occupy your vision with something else, anything else. You turn to see the helicopter crouched on the beach just behind you, rotors still churning, the ocean stretched out behind it, black and endless, moonlight breaking across its surface in silver ripples. You raise a hand to shield your eyes as grit lashes past your face.
Then the helicopter lifts.
Someone in the cockpit raises a hand in a quick, casual wave, their face hidden by the glare of the moon, and then it’s gone, rising into the dark until it disappears completely, black against black sky. The wind settles to a gentle breeze as the sound of waves crashing against the shore fill your ears.
You can't turn around. You think maybe you were looking for more in the blanket of stars, looking for someone to come and rescue from what you know was waiting behind you. Praying to God or the archangel Michael to save you from this fate.
A hand touches yours, and you flinch away as if burned. Your hands lift to cover your face, hiding your eyes as you realize no one is coming.
"Look at me, 'mor,"
'Mor. That nickname. Mi amor. My love. And that voice. It throws you back into your minds eye, so hard you have to force your eyes to open so the back of your eyelids won’t paint your vision in memories.
"What have you done, Frankie?"
Frankie
You wouldn't look at him—why wouldn't you look at him?
"'mor, please," he says gently, staring at your back. Your pretty blouse flutters, fabric tugging against your waist, your hair lifting and falling in the sea wind like it used to when you’d walk ahead of him down the street and he’d reach out just to feel it. His fingers twitch uselessly at his sides now at the memory of it. You’re here. You’re actually here. In front of him. Real, alive, beautiful.
If only you'd turn around.
He opens his mouth again, already full of everything he wants to tell you, but he stops when you drop your hands from your face.
The red marks on your wrist glow in the light of the candles he'd set up, the burns angry against your skin, and the sight of them twists something hot and violent in his gut. His jaw locks, his hands curl into tight fists, he thinks he might kill his friends for one fleeting moment. The candlesticks stretch ahead of you in a soft path along the sand, petals scattered out of place from the helicopter, the arch waiting at the edge of the beach like a promise that’s suddenly gone wrong.
He wants to take your hands, kiss the redness away and swear it never happened.
"I told them to be careful," he began, softly, his voice thick with apology, "I didn't know Ben would…and Redfly, I didn't think—"
"Take me home." you whispered.
"Baby—"
"Take. Me. Home." you still wouldn't look at him. But he could see your shoulders shaking.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, panic changing his tone. “You wouldn’t answer my calls. You wouldn’t see me. I had to— I had to do something, just to see you.”
"So you kidnapped me."
He shakes his head. This is not what he pictured. He'd pictured you coming off his fellow pilot's helicopter, eyes lighting up like they once did for him and jumping into his arms. He pictured your lips against his, soft and warm and all the memories of before washing away in a beautiful twilight proposal on the beach.
"I fixed everything, 'mor," he insists, and his words start to tumble over one another, "I'm clean, I have money now to take care of you. I bought—" his hands shoot out around him. He wishes you'd just fucking turn around and look at him. "this entire place, baby, it's ours."
"I don't want this." you whisper, "I don't want any of this."
The words are sharp and cruel, even in your sweet voice.
"Look at me, 'mor," he pleads, stepping closer, "por favor,"
"Stop calling me that."
"Please."
You let out a shaky sigh, and finally oblige.
You turn, and god, your face, it's like seeing god. An angel, carved from every dream he'd ever had. All the sleepless nights he'd thought of you over the past year did nothing to compare to you, now, bathed in the moonlight, the wind from the sea blowing your hair around. The cross at your throat flashes silver when you move, and something tightens painfully in his chest at the sight of it, something aching and possessive all tangled together.
"Marry me," he says. His voice is barely loud enough over the water crashing at the shore.
It isn't how he meant to say it. He should’ve taken you to the arch first. Gotten down on one knee. Why did he let it go on this long? Why didn’t he just take your hands and walk you down the candlelit path, show you everything he built for you? He glances at it now, distant and waiting, but his eyes come right back to your face. He can’t look away, he never wants to look away.
"This was supposed to be perfect—I wanted it to be—"
"No."
He freezes, his eyes search your face, your pretty eyes, your sweet plump lips he remembers like the back of his hand, the feeling, the taste. The way they felt that night when you'd…
He shakes his head.
"What?"
“No, Frankie.” Your voice is steadier now, even as tears build in your eyes. “I’m not going to marry you.”
Something like the devil on his shoulder makes him laugh.
“You don’t mean that,” he says. “We—we're always meant to be together, 'mor.”
"I mean it," you snap, your tone sharp and serious, though your voice is shaky and wet. He can't help but think how absolutely adorable you are, even when you're angry with him.
"I don't want to be with you, Frankie."
"You're scared," he cuts in, stepping closer, shaking his head harder, his hands wanting so badly to come up and touch you. He hears your breath hitch, your body leaning away. He pushes down the anger that boils in him.
"You're scared, baby, I know. I know I scared you." he tries to force a calmness over himself, over the situation. Forcing reason. "The guys were never supposed treat you like that, I wanted them to talk to you about coming, about seeing me. They were meant to only pick you up and tell you there was a surprise, I'm sorry. I know you're scared, but that's over now. It's just us."
“I can't,” you say suddenly, brows furrowing, a hand coming up to clutch your cross necklace, and the words hit him sideways. “God has made me realize this is wrong.”
His stomach clenches.
“Don’t,” he pleads. “Don’t do that.”
“I can't be with you,” you continue, tears spilling now, your hands clasped tight. “I’ve prayed about it every day. I’ve prayed so much. This—it isn’t right.”
The only thing he hears is that you thought of him every day. In your most intimate time, between you and Christ.
"So that's it?" he asks, "You and God have decided, huh? Don't I get a say?"
"Frankie, please," you sob, "I don't want to fight you. I don't want to be punished for picking the wrong thing."
"You think I'm the wrong thing." he echoes, flat and wounded.
You don't answer, and it feels like confirmation.
"I got clean for you," he says, louder now, stepping even closer, chests nearly brushing, and your breath stops. You close your eyes tightly.
"I left all that behind—the coke, the partying, the bullshit." you wince at his curse, "I'm sorry, baby. I know." he lifts his hands so they hover over your arms, wanting, so badly, to touch. "I lost my license and my career, but here I am. I fixed it. All of it."
"I never asked—" you shook your head, squeezing your eyes shut before glaring at him glassy eyed, "I told you to not come back."
"I love you," he says, desperate, shaking from fingers to his toes, "I love you so much, I'm trying to show you—I'm ready to give you everything. I have the money, I bought this island for us, I have this ring." he reaches into his pocket, pulling out the box.
You take a step back, "You're scaring me, Francisco."
“I would never hurt you,” he says fiercely. “Never. I would die before I let anything happen to you.”
“You already did,” you say, voice barely there. “You left for Colombia with your friends on a suicide mission. I had to live with the fact that I thought you died.”
He stares at you, chest heaving, the candles flickering wildly behind you, the ocean roaring like it’s listening.
“We're supposed to be happy,” he says, almost to himself. “This was supposed to make you happy. I didn't die, 'mor, I'm back, I'm clean, I can take care of you.”
You shake your head again, helpless. “Take me home.”
The word home hits him like a betrayal again and again.
“We can make this home,” he says, voice shaking as he reaches into his pocket, “We can make a life here. Or anyway, I don't care. Just—just let me show you. Please.”
"Don't—" your voice cracks, "I don't want a reason to be angry at God. Please, Frankie, stop—I've m-moved on."
That stops him cold like he'd just been plunged into the ocean.
There's a silence between you, thick and ringing in his ears. Frankie's hands fall uselessly to his sides with the velvet box clenched tight in his fist.
His chest constricts around his heart, something sour crawling up his throat.
“Who?” he asks.
Your shoulders tense, hesitating just a fraction too long.
“It doesn’t matter,” you say quickly. “That’s not—this isn’t about that.”
“It matters to me,” he snaps, the edge in his voice cutting through the night before he can soften it. He sees you flinch again and it only makes everything inside him feel louder. “Who is he?”
"I don't want to do this. Take me home."
But he's already there, already doing this, his thoughts spinning, green and fevered. Santiago said no one ever saw you with anyone. The days he'd been going insane and sent his friends to check on you at the church, at your house without being seen. Were you lying?
"Tell me the truth."
You look up at him, a glare on your sweet face, "I am. I went on a few dates with a man from church. Stop being mean. I only wanted to—I was trying to not…"
Your face pinched, and you shook your head, as if willing the thoughts away. Your cheeks glistened wet in the moonlight.
"Say it." Frankie demanded, his eyes trying to bend to find your gaze now that you'd looked away again. It was so close—your confession. He was your confessional, you, his little sinner wanting to do right. Always.
You took a few breaths, and Frankie, not for the first time, but maybe more desperately than ever before, prayed that you'd just say it.
"I've been praying…" you breathe out slowly, and tears were rolling down your face as you looked up, "I've been trying anything just to stop thinking of you, Frankie."
He rushes towards you now, velvet box shoved back in his pocket, forgotten, and he's pulling you into him. You squawk in protest, pushing your hands up, but they only fold in between your chests.
"Frankie," you whine, a rush of breath leaving your body as he squeezes you to himself, "stop it, Frankie, please,"
"Did you let that man touch you, baby?" he coos, "tell me you didn't give him what's mine, hermosa, por favor mi amor, amor amor amor," he's kissing your face, babbling away, and his kisses—they're wet. He'd do anything to make you stop crying, he's never wanted to make you sad. It cleaves his chest in two to think he created them.
"I'd never—I'd only ever wanted—but Francisco, I can't—not—"
"Let's get married," he pleads, arms tightening around you, bringing you even closer, "'mor, please, it's what I'm tryna tell you, then you'll never have to worry, you'll never be apart from me," he kisses your face harder, your breasts push up into him, "kiss me back, say yes, 'mor, por favor, ángel mía, hermosa,"
"Frankie," you sob, gripping his shirt. You look up at him, finally, you're taking him in, drinking in his closeness, he can see it. And your eyes, they're glassy, full of something— and then he knows.
And he kisses you.
He doesn’t give you time to second guess him, to recover from the shock of his mouth smothering yours. If anything, you pull him closer, nails biting into his shoulders where you cling to him, dragging him in like instinct has finally won. The moment your resistance softens, though, he takes it as permission, as proof. Silly thing, always fighting him, his sweet angel, trying so hard to be good for your god.
His hand comes up into your hair, threading through the locks to hold you tight, pressing you even closer to him. Your gasp breaks loose as he clenches his fingers harder, as if the breath was knocked from your lungs. He feels it immediately, the give of your wet lips, and something both feral and relieved floods him at once. He leans into you more, plunging his tongue into your waiting mouth, claiming the opening without hesitation. The kiss deepens until it’s nothing but heat and breath and want, until he feels a little unhinged, pouring himself into you like there’s no end to his need.
“Frankie—” you breathe when he finally breaks away, his mouth trailing over your jaw, down the soft curve of your neck.
"—Frankie, we shouldn't—"
“I’ve waited so long for you, ’mor,” he murmurs, his tongue flattening against your pulse. You tilt your head back without meaning to, exposing yourself, and he feels like if he could unhinge his jaw he’d swallow you whole. The red apple of Eden, offered straight into his mouth.
"Not here, Frankie, oh please, I can't—"
"I don't give a fuck," he demands.
You cry out when he tugs your blouse aside, teeth grazing the place where your neck meets your shoulder, biting just enough to make you gasp.
“I just love you so much,” he corrects softly. “Will you marry me, baby? Make me the happiest man alive.”
He says it between kisses as he lowers himself in front of you, hands everywhere, strong and sure as they grip and pull you close. His palms are broad, and you fit into them so perfectly, like he'd never forgotten the map of you, even as your knees threaten to give out.
You're looking down at him, chest heaving, blouse askew.
He's never thought you more beautiful in his life.
He kisses your stomach, lifting the hem of your top so his mouth can touch your hot skin. You shiver as he moans against you, nuzzling into your navel. He wants every sound you make, and you give them to him, soft and breathy, whining little noises as his hands tighten. His hands come down to your ass, groping and spreading even through your skirt.
“I’m gonna fall, Frankie,” you whimper, clutching his shoulders. “This is wrong. We shouldn’t. It’s a sin.”
He groans as he looks up, fists full of you. He must look a little unmoored, half-mad, because your eyes widen, your tongue slipping out to wet your lips. You swallow around the feeling climbing your throat. The moon above you halos your head as he kneels.
“Mi ángel,” he whispers, “I’d never let Lucifer take you. God loves you, but he’ll never save you from me.”
You frown deeply at that.
“Admit it,” he murmurs. “You’ve been angry with him for a long time.”
“No,” you whimper, pushing at him now, but he holds you fast, mouth returning to your stomach.
“You’re angry because you want me just as much as I want you,” he says quietly. “Because he made you fall in love with me. Because you want my cock just as badly as I want your sweet little—”
“Frankie!” you cry out, covering your face.
He raises to his feet, cupping your face over your hands.
“Look at me, ’mor.”
You peek through your fingers. Your eyes are shining again.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “Wanting’s natural, baby.”
You shake your head.
“Tell me,” he whispers, “are you wet right now?”
You hide again, like you might disappear, like God himself might be watching.
“If I reached down between your legs,” he murmurs, “would I feel you soaked for me? You remember that night, baby? When you let me touch her?”
Your head dips lower, the tips of your fingers brushing his chest.
“Remember how good it felt, hermosa,” he whispers, arms wrapping around you, holding you close, kissing the crown of your head. “When you let me taste you. How bad you wanted me, but told yourself you couldn’t. Not until we were married. But I let you taste me too, didn’t I?”
“I’m going to hell, Francisco.” you whisper.
“Never,” he says, kissing your head again, squeezing you harder. “You’re too good. Too perfect.”
He pulls your hands down so he can see your face, memorizing you again. Those eyes, they bring all the memories back, burned into him. The day he met you. The day he told you he loved you. The day he left, how you cried. He’ll never forget those eyes.
"I've missed you." he says finally.
“I miss you,” you confess back, a secret carried out to sea. “It hurts just to think about you.”
"I know, 'mor," he says, kissing your top lip so carefully, gently. Your eyes close, lashes fluttering against your cheekbone.
"I love you, Frankie," you say finally.
Finally.
He leans down, wraps his arms around your body, and lifts you against him.
“I love you so much,” he says, carrying you toward the archway, where everything should’ve begun.
And finally, finally, you're smiling down at him. Enough of the secrets, of trying to stay away, of trying to fight this. Finally, he had you.
Your hands move to his hair, petting and pulling, his curls a little unruly from the wind and sweat.
He sets you down gently, only taking his hands away to reach into his pocket again, and gets down on one knee.
"Marry me, 'mor?"
Your hand flies to your mouth as you stare at the ring. Ten carats, blazing in a halo of diamonds. He never cared about the price. It was you the moment he saw it.
“Oh, Frankie,” you breathe, offering him your hand.
“That a yes?”
You nod, laughing through tears. “Yes. Of course.”
He slides the ring onto your finger, already pulling you close again, kissing you like restraint was never part of him. He draws you down to kneel with him on the red rug beneath the arch, candlelight warming your skin, the night pressing close.
He eases you back onto the ground.
"Frankie—" you whisper. "What're you doing?"
"Want you," he moans, "now."
"What? Here? Frankie—" you gasp as your back hits the red rug on the sand, "Not here—anyone can see us—"
"Didn't you hear me, hermosa?" he smiles, "I bought this entire island. For you. It's just us."
You turn your head to look around, left and right, as if testing if he was right, before looking back at him and smiling. Your cross necklace is askew on your chest, bathed in candlelight and the brush of the moon. You're beautiful.
Frankie kisses you again, no longer waiting, pushing his tongue into your mouth. He sits between your legs, your skirt bunching up higher and higher as your knees fall open and let him in.
He doesn’t waste a second before shoving the fabric up around your hips, moaning softly at the feel of your skin under his palms. He kneads you, grips you hard enough to pull a whimper from your throat, the last of your tears still drying on your cheeks, catching silver in the moonlight.
When his hands reach the apex of your thighs, you’re shaking. Trembling. Nervous, but fuck—
"You're wet, mi amor, just like I knew—"
“Don’t make me feel bad,” you whisper.
“Never,” he says immediately, shaking his head. He kisses your chin carefully, before lowering himself again.
You watch him, holding your breath. His eyes stay on yours until he can’t help it anymore, until he’s kneeling between your legs, staring openly at the way your cotton underwear clings to you, darkened where it presses against your folds.
"Ohhh," he breathes. He nudges your skirt even higher, guiding your knees over his shoulders, locking you there. He presses a kiss to your covered mound, slow and sweet, inhaling, and you gasp, your hands flying into his hair.
The sound he makes startles him, slipping out before he realizes it’s his own. His tongue presses flat through the fabric, and he groans again, helpless. Nectar. The nectar of the gods. His own ambrosia. He thinks, with sudden certainty, that he could die here and know heaven could never come close.
“Fuck,” he breathes, mind gone, undone by the feeling of you, by the sounds you make for him. He hooks a finger into the gusset of your panties, tugging them aside just enough, and finally lets his tongue have what it’s been begging for.
Your back arches immediately, a broken moan tearing free into the night. Frankie devours you, eating, licking, taking his fill.
To be fair, dear reader, he had done this before. He remembers it now better than ever. The taste, the smell of your honey invading his memory.
It was Santiago’s birthday. You’d loosened up with a little help from his friends, wine poured generously, laughter spilling from you easier than usual. By the time midnight crept close, you were giggly, flushed, your hands restless in a way they never were when you were being good. Your devout Catholic hands, always folded, always careful. That night they weren’t careful at all.
When the party thinned out and it was just the guys left, you’d slipped away with him, quiet as a secret, into Santiago’s bathroom of all places. You’d tasted like Malbec and something unreal, warm and plush in his arms as he kissed you against the door the second it closed behind you. You’d begged then, he can hear your voice in his memory now, sweet and breathless, asking to be touched like it was a confession you couldn’t keep anymore. And Frankie—God—he hadn’t stood a chance.
With one word, and he was on his knees at the altar of your hips, worshipping you the same way he is now, mouth full, mind gone. Afterward, you’d wanted to try more, curiosity shining in your eyes when you whispered it. He nearly came just hearing you say it. He let you taste him, just a little, guiding you with a steady hand, petting your hair, letting you cradle what god had given him. That was all, though. He’d drawn the line there.
Not because he couldn’t have taken more.
Because he decided he wouldn’t. He couldn't risk the fallout of your penance.
And then a few days later, Santiago had told him and the guys about his plans. To take down Lorea for once and for all. And when Frankie told you he'd said yes, he'd never seen you so angry. Almost as angry as tonight when you'd touched down and finally looked at him.
But he’d known then, the same way he knows now.
You would forgive him.
No matter what he did—whether he stayed up all night coked out of his mind, or came to you with beer on his tongue, slurring his words as he kissed you—you always forgave him. You forgave him the day he told you god wasn’t real, though even now he isn’t sure he meant it. He’d just been angry and hungover. He remembers shaking with the early ache of trying to quit the snow.
All it ever took was reminding you how much he loved you. Telling you he was the only one for you. That his devotion was sacred, set apart, something god himself would have to understand. He liked that part best—the moment your resistance gave way, the instant your certainty cracked and you looked at him like he was both the wound and the cure.
His tongue flattens against your clit now, swollen and pulsing beneath him, and he snaps back into the present as you gush around his mouth, hands locked tight in his hair. He hadn’t even realized he’d been grinding a hollow into the sand, his cock dragging against the ground beneath him, desperate for friction.
Frankie, Frankie, Frankie you chant. He groans, lifting his head to look at you, reaching up to tear your blouse down your chest, freeing your breasts so he can watch them rise and fall as you gulp in the night air. Your nipples pebble instantly in the cool ocean breeze, and he crawls back over you, taking one into his warm, wet mouth. His lips tingle where he’s tasted your orgasm, like a constellation bursting across his tongue. Heaven.
Your hands never leave his hair as he circles his tongue around you, greedy, unwilling to choose just one. He squeezes your breasts together, nuzzling between them, shaking his head, burying himself in the valley of your warmth.
“Hermosa,” he moans, his covered cock grinding up into your wet, open cunt.
“Frankie, please,” you cry after a particularly rough thrust of his hips. He knows his jeans are too rough for you, knows you’re sensitive there, but he wants to see your eyes when he pushes just a little harder.
“You’re so beautiful, ’mor,” he murmurs. “Let me have her. Please. Let me give you everything.”
You pause, watching him, your forehead dappled with cold sweat in your hairline. You're still breathing hard, coming down from your high.
"You're just so perfect, 'mor," he says, "so perfect, it's only going to be you and me, forever. You know that. Me and you. Always. I love you."
"I love you, Frankie," you whisper, "yes, okay, just please—be gentle—please,"
You sound so soft and sweet he could eat you alive, he might, he wants to. His mouth opens wider, taking your breast fully this time, wondering dimly if he could bite hard enough to see your heart, the way it swells for him, the way it hammers faster and faster as he convinces himself he’s giving you everything.
A high buzz fills his ears as he lifts back onto his knees, fumbling with his belt. He frees himself and rests against your hip, forcing himself to pause, to ground his mind back into his body. Your hand is already reaching for him. You say something sweet, something whispered, half-lost to the sound of the waves—something about remembering him, about how he once felt like velvet in your mouth. He wishes you wouldn't say such things, because one more minute he'll combust then and there.
You’re a mess beneath him. Clothes torn and shifted, blouse pulled away, skirt hiked up. Blasphemous. He can’t do it like this.
"Baby," he whispers.
"Yes, Francisco?"
"Let me—let's get these things off of you, I wanna see you—"
You nod, beginning to pull your top over your head.
"Can I see you too, 'mor?" you ask quietly. His heart swells in his chest, his skin warming, finally, finally, finally.
“Of course, mi ángel,” he says, pulling his shirt free. Your hands roam him immediately—hands he’s watched clutch a rosary, fold in prayer, open for the Spirit—now holding him like treasure.
“Ohhh,” you whisper as he slides your skirt down your legs. “You're so warm.”
“I know,” he murmurs, folding over you, arms slipping beneath your body to hold you tight. “I’ve got you. Let me love you. Let me have you.”
"You already do," you say, kissing his nose, kissing the bend of his cupid's bow. You watch him, your eyes, so pretty, god how he ever went a year without them, he's not sure. Your hands cradle his face. “Make love to me, Francisco.”
He guides himself to your weeping entrance, and pushes in.
Your brows shoot up quickly before pulling together. He mimics the look on your face, his brows pulling tight at the feeling of your velvet keep—so tight it's almost resisting his intrusion.
"S'alright," he slurs, drunk on the feeling, "s'gonna feel funny, 'mor, s'okay, s'okay," he chants, kissing your frowning lips.
You whine softly, almost feline as you mewl, discomfort threading through the sound, but your arms fold around his neck, pulling him close. He can’t move, only his hips are free to push in.
"Oh, oh, oh," you whisper, "oh God,"
It's the first time he's ever heard you say the name in vain. He thinks he might go insane for it. He wants to hear it again.
"Fuck," he swears, he can't help it.
"Oh, God, Frankie, oh—"
Yes yes yes.
He pushes deeper. Your pussy grips him like a fist, and his vision flashes white. He can feel the head of his cock brushing your womb, pressing there, claiming it, whispering promises to it only he believes. You pulse around him, fluttering, and he stays still, pressed hip to hip, closer than he’s ever been to you. It's like nothing he's ever felt. This is the kingdom of heaven, he realizes. On this beach. In your tight keep, and god is looking back at him through your eyes.
"¿Cómo te sientes?" he whispers, kissing your open mouth, "Cuéntame."
"So—" you sigh out, a breath held too long, "it's so—"
He kisses your gasping lips again.
"So good, b-but funny—"
He nods, gently urging you on as he holds you.
"Feels, so—like I'm being split in half. So full in my belly. I feel like…like God is…"
Frankie feels a rush of nerves, will you tell him this is a mistake now? Not save him with grace and tell him after?
"This is what God created, this…this feeling, and oh, it's wonderful."
Frankie pulls his cock out as his mouth covers your in urgency, eating your whines, as he begins fucking you—no—how did you put it? Makes love to you. You moan now, louder, unable to hold his kiss, your head is thrown back, and you're gasping, sobbing now in earnest, and he watches you like you’re a vision, fucking you into the sand, into the rug beneath you, your bodies carving a hollow the tide will erase by morning.
"You are so perfect, 'mor," he breathes, skin slapping skin, his cock growing and tightening. He can feel you fluttering around him.
"I've only ever wanted you," he says, "you're the only thing that's ever fucking mattered, my girl, mi amor, I love you,"
"I love you Frankie," and he realizes you're crying again, hands tight around his neck, "I love you so much—oh, I think I'm gonna—oh! Say it again, 'mor, por favor,"
"I love you, I love you, my sweet baby, you're everything, come on my cock, let me feel her, let me feel you, I need it, give it to me." his lips curl and he's baring his teeth, he can't help it, he's so close it's making him animal, "give it to me,"
Your eyes are wide, and he doesn't think it's fear, but maybe awe, because your body is tightening, your pussy latching onto him so hard he's barely able to move, and your back bends, he feels it under his hands. And your breasts, now slick with sweat, push into him and bear your neck to him as you come.
He follows, a raw sound tearing from his chest as he spills into you without hesitation. If it’s god’s will, he’ll give you children, ten more if you ask. The sensation stretches on endlessly, too much, too full, stars bursting behind his eyes as your body holds him.
He thinks he sees God.
Or maybe it’s just the way you look at him in the moonlight as you take everything he gives.
The world eventually comes back to him, the crashing sound of waves filling his ears, steady and eternal. The candles flicker low now, dripping down into the sand. He's breathing hard over you, still inside the circle of your body, but he's quiet, and you're quiet, both of you soaking in the moment. It's like the stillness after prayer, when you don't move, the silence almost holy.
Your chest rises and falls beneath his, uneven, your fingers slack in his hair now, petting lazy shapes against his scalp. He can feel your heartbeat everywhere—against his mouth, his neck, the place where your bodies are still joined.
He presses his forehead to yours.
For a long moment neither of you speak. There’s nothing urgent left to say, everything feels already decided.
"Frankie," you finally whisper.
"Yes?" he murmurs immediately, softly.
You swallow, your hand comes up to his cheek, thumb brushing along his mouth, slow and loving.
"If God…" you swallow again, "if He was watching…do you think He's angry with me?"
The question settles between you, fragile as breath.
Frankie’s chest tightens. He kisses your temple first, then your cheek, the corner of your mouth, gentle where his lips brush.
“No,” he says, low and sure. “No, mi ángel.”
You search his face, still unsure, your eyes still wet with question.
“I just—” Your voice trembles. “I don’t feel ruined. I feel…” You trail off, embarrassed by the honesty of it.
Tags: minors DNI, canon-typical violence, murder, beating, fear, breaking bones, begging, angst, smut, flirting, secrets, illegal activities, alcohol use, cigarettes, attempted sexual assault/rape, dubcon, multiple orgasms, multiple sex positions, rough sex, oral sex (m!receiving), creampie, dirty talk, pet names, safeword (not used), pinv sex
WC: 7.9k
Summary: Your father runs a casino (as well as a lesser known shady business) and you help out with the occasional serving job. While working, you run into Clint, an acquaintance/work-connection of your dad's. To say the two of you get off on the wrong foot is putting it mildly, and as time goes on, you find that Clint is harder and harder to avoid, for more reasons than one.
A/N: This is from @tateypots' PPCU Naughty or Nice Writing Challenge! I had Clint Flood (Naughty) & Enemies to Lovers trope. Thank you so much for hosting this challenge for us. This was out of my comfort zone, as I've only written for Joel Miller before, but I really enjoyed this! I'm looking forward to reading what others have written as well. 🫶🏻
Divider: @/saradika-graphics
AO3 | masterlist
April 21st - 9:45 P.M. [The Hidden Pokergame]
You were working the first time you met Clint. Standing in the corner of a dimly lit room, holding an empty tray down by your side, you passively watched the poker game occurring in the center of the drab space.
The men chattered, making crude jokes or thinly veiled insults at each other, sipping their assorted alcoholic beverages. You waited for them to finish so that you could collect their glasses and refill their drinks.
When Clint walked in, it was quiet. He slipped in as if he’d been there all along. It wasn’t until he cleared his throat, nearing the table, that the men looked up and their chatter slowly died. His focus was on one of the men on the far end of the table, Jerry, you thought his name was. Clint hadn’t so much as glanced at you when he entered.
You could tell by his clothes and how he carried himself that he thought he was hot shit. Every man sitting around that table did, but Clint, in particular, looked pompous. He wore a weathered leather jacket, zipped three-quarters of the way. His brown curls were slicked back, and he had a prominent mustache with a patchy beard, as well as a scar that ran across his right cheek. He reeked of cigarettes as he strolled past you. The smell didn’t particularly bother you, though, after being around it so often.
“Jerry,” Clint spoke as he stood at the opposite end of the table. His voice was monotone and nonchalant, disguising his intentions. It sounded like a normal greeting, but you knew that it was anything but.
“Mr. Flood, I-I,” the man stammered. He pushed his chair back, putting his hands in front of his chest, palms facing Clint. “I’ll have the money by next week. Promise. There was a snag and-” He was cut off by the approaching of Clint.
“You know next week is no good, Jerry. Grace period is up.” Clint was now standing about two feet from where Jerry sat. “C’mere,” he motioned with his two fingers.
Jerry stood up with a shuddered breath and feebly walked over to him, mere inches now separating the men.
“Which hand?” Clint may as well have been asking what the weather was like with how casually he spoke.
“Listen, man…I can-” He was once more interrupted by Clint.
“You want to cry in front of your friends here, Jerry?” Clint motioned to the table of weary-eyed men. Jerry shook his head and muttered a simple, “No,” before raising his left hand to Clint.
There was still a splint on his ring finger and you rolled your eyes in disbelief that he was stupid enough to get himself in the same predicament twice. Clint couldn’t hide his smirk as he reflected on the man’s idiocy.
The man didn’t even have time to wince before Clint snapped his finger backwards, the crack echoing through the room followed by a yelp and groans. Clint clapped him on the back as he was doubled over, grabbing his hand.
Clint strolled back to the table, picking up one of the whiskey glasses and downing it in one gulp then plopping the glass back down and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Have a good night, fellas,” he said, readjusting the sleeves of his jacket and turning to leave the room.
His arrogant attitude was grating and as he walked by, you couldn’t help but scoff. The sound caught his attention and he turned to look at you.
“Something wrong, miss?” You hadn’t felt intimidated before, but having his firm voice directed at you was enough for your stomach to knot, just a little.
You wanted to knock him down a peg. “No, it’s just that you seem to pride yourself on how you command a room, but you didn’t even notice me when you came in. Can’t be very observant then.”
“What makes you think I didn’t notice you?” His eyes bore into yours and you held eye contact, unwavering.
“Well, you didn’t even look at me,” you stated simply.
“Maybe I didn’t think there was much to look at.” His words were a punch to your gut as he slowly turned and walked out of the room, letting the door thud behind him.
You stood, speechless. The other men at the table were wise enough to not make a comment, ducking their heads when you looked over and returning to their game.
April 29th - 10:05 A.M. [The Diner]
The second time you saw Clint, he’d actually spotted you first. You and your friend, Gabby, walked into the diner closest to your home. You were vaguely hungover and in dire need of some coffee and pancakes.
You were mid-conversation as the two of you navigated your way to a booth, and it wasn’t until you went to take a seat that you glanced up and happened to spot Clint eating at a table diagonally from where you were about to sit.
He was watching you, this time without his leather jacket and instead dressed in a button-up flannel. When you took a seat, the back of the booth shielded you from him and your shoulders relaxed, turning your attention back to your friend.
Gabby was in the midst of a messy break-up (hence the hangover), so the breakfast was spent listening to her and offering support. The pancakes hit the spot and you’d already sucked down two cups of coffee.
You didn’t see Clint walk by until two twenty dollar bills landed with a heavy hand on the table. By the time you’d registered what he’d done, he was already at the door.
“Who’s that?” Gabby asked, just as shocked as you.
“No one,” you muttered, shuffling out of the booth. “I’ll be right back.”
When you exited the diner, Clint was just unlocking his car, a cigarette already hanging out of his mouth.
“Hey!” you called, irritation laced within your voice.
Clint looked up, peering at you over his car before he looked back down and pulled the door open.
You jogged over to him, “Hey, I’m talking to you.”
“Okay.” He paused with his car door open, looking at you with a blank expression.
“Why did you put that money on the table?” Your tone was accusatory, and you crossed your arms, trying every which way to show him that he didn’t intimidate you.
He shrugged and replied, “Figured you needed it. No one in their right mind would willingly serve those idiots.” He was referring to one of your many side hustles, and it aggravated you that he felt he had the right to comment on anything you did.
“Well, for the record, I don’t need it. So you can keep your dirty money and shitty opinions to yourself.” You nearly spat the words, your chest huffing out, feeling proud of yourself.
The corner of Clint’s mouth pulled up ever so slightly as he replied, “Doesn’t seem you’re too eager to return that money you don’t need, considerin’ you didn’t bring it out with you.”
You deflated, realizing that in your haste to confront him, you’d forgotten to grab the money.
“Shit,” you muttered under your breath, turning on your heel and hurrying back into the diner.
Gabby spotted you as you came in, confusion on her face and in her tone as she asked, “What’s going on?”
You didn’t have time to respond, just snatched the money and rushed back outside just in time to see Clint’s blue Monte Carlo zip out of the parking lot and cruise down the street.
“Motherfucker,” you whispered harshly to yourself, over-enunciating in your anger. If you never saw him again, it would be too soon.
May 2nd - 7:27 P.M. [The Casino]
It was only a few days later that you had the displeasure of seeing Clint for a third time. You were working at your dad’s casino, swinging your hips side-to-side as you passed poker and black jack tables, looking to see if anyone needed a drink.
You always dressed up when you worked the casino, this time wearing a gold-sequined form-fitting dress that hugged your curves just right. You had on tall, glittered heels that you’d already received a couple compliments on. Dressing up brought you good tips, and you were never one to shy away from extra money (unless it came from Clint, apparently).
“Sweetheart,” your father’s voice called to you from behind.
You pivoted with a smile, “Hi daddy,” you said with a twinkle in your eye.
Your dad always made sure to take good care of you. You never went without, but you also enjoyed making your own money, not just using daddy’s credit card.
His smile widened as you turned to face him, you’d always be his baby girl. “Hi honey,” he said, standing beside you then pointing to the desk for the hotel check-in, “Do you see that man over there?”
You followed his line of vision and had to suppress a groan when you saw none other than Clint standing with his usual broad stance at the front desk. He wore his signature jacket and slicked-back hair, hands shoved into his pockets as it looked like he was in a tense conversation with the girl working the desk.
“Yes,” you tried to say nonchalantly.
“Well, sweetie, he’s a friend of mine…and he needs to be escorted to a room upstairs. Could you be so kind as to take him? Room 219.” He patted you on the back lightly then gave your shoulder a squeeze. “Thank you.” He kissed the top of your head then left, slipping back into the shadows of the casino.
Your dad never talked about his actual business. The casino was a front, for the most part. His real money came from his underground businesses that he didn’t want you to worry about. Aside from serving drinks at the occasional high-end poker game, you typically had no idea what your dad was up to. It had been this way your whole life, so you didn’t think much of it anymore.
Raising you as a single father, you’d been accustomed to late nights when he was “out working” and you had to warm up a frozen meal for yourself, or find your own way home from school. But your dad made sure that every minute he was home with you, he made the most of it. You had fond memories of movie nights with all the snacks you could imagine, or luxury shopping sprees where you could buy anything you even looked at.
You always felt protected, safe, cared for, even when you’d hardly see him for days at a time. So, even though it wasn’t a conventional way of growing up, you didn’t mind.
Clint’s voice grated against your ears as you approached the desk. “I told you, I need to check on my friend, but I don’t remember their room number.”
“I hear you, sir, but unfortunately we cannot share any information related to our guests. It’s strictly confidential,” the woman said in her most-polite voice.
“Hi,” you looked down at her nametag, “Elizabeth. I can help this gentleman. Thank you,” you said with a smile.
Elizabeth nodded quickly. While you weren’t familiar with everyone who worked at the casino, they were all certainly familiar with you. Your dad made sure that everyone treated you with the same respect he demanded for himself.
When Clint turned to look at you, you caught his expression shift, the frustration that had been etched into his features transformed into subtle amusement at the sight of you. “Hi,” was all he said in his quiet, gravely voice.
“Follow me,” you commanded coldly, turning and walking away without so much as a look back to see if he was following you. Still, you continued to sway your hips, ass pushed out, sure that he was watching you.
The idea of teasing him was alluring to you, as you wanted to create as much discomfort for him as possible. And, while you tried not to pay much attention to it, it aroused you as well.
You led him to the elevator, stepping to the side and pressing a button as he stepped onto it. He stood on the opposite end, creating as much space between the two of you as possible.
“Workin’ the casino too, huh?” He spoke to you while looking straight ahead.
“Yep. Family business,” you replied coolly.
Clint turned to look at you. “Family?”
“My dad owns the casino.” You had to fight your smile, sure that Clint was shitting himself with your reveal.
“Your dad is Hugo?” He didn’t sound concerned, but curiosity certainly coated his voice.
You gave a “mhhm” and stepped out of the elevator when the doors opened. The hallways were quiet as Clint followed close behind you. You didn’t know what business he had in room 219, and you had little interest in finding out.
Clint stalked behind you silently, but his sheer presence was palpable. He just had that way about him.
“Here we are,” you said as you pulled out your keycard and tapped it against the lock. The door clicked and you pulled on the door handle, just barely opening it so that Clint could enter.
“Thank you,” he said with a wink, stepping forward as you stepped to the side.
You hated the pull you felt between your thighs and sauntered down the hallway quickly, hoping that Clint hadn’t had a chance to see your reaction to his wink.
When you reached the end of the hallway, turning to go down the next corridor, you glanced back to where you had left Clint.
He was watching you, and upon you looking back at him, gave another wink along with a smug smile as he pushed open the door and walked inside.
“Motherfucker,” you whispered to yourself yet again.
May 24th - 10:50 P.M. [The Hidden Pokergame]
“C’mon sweetheart, just give us a little show. I won’t tell no one,” he drunkenly slurred, the words barely leaving his tongue as he swayed in his chair.
“Tony, you’re gonna get us all in trouble ‘f ya keep this up…she’s Hugo’s daughter, man,” another man tried in desperation to put an end to the situation.
You’d become skilled at ignoring drunken men, it was necessary in your line of work, and you’d realized over time that ignoring them was much more effective than arguing with them. So, you stood in the corner, tray gripped in front of you, and your eyes passively watching the table.
But then he stood up, stumbling slightly forward as he moved toward you. None of the other men stood. They didn’t care about your wellbeing, only concerned about the wrath of your father that they might end up experiencing if they bore witness to any mistreatment of you.
Tony stood in front of you, trying to stay steady but awkwardly shuffling so that he didn’t fall. His eyes roamed up and down your body and you gulped, trying to maintain a calm appearance. “You should take a seat,” you said softly but assertively.
“Y’wanna help me with that darlin’?” He said, more clearly than you thought he was capable of.
“Hey guys,” the other man spoke, “Waddya say we end the game f’the night?”
He was met with nods from the other men as they cleared their tokens and emptied their drinks. No one had dared to even look at you as they filed out of the room. The last man cowardly said right at the exit, “Come on Tony, time to go home,” but didn’t even wait for a response before he left.
You drew in a shaky breath, preparing to confront the drunk asshole. He set his hand on your waist and you slapped it away, taking a step back and scolding him, “Don’t fucking touch me.”
“Oh baby,” he drunkenly cooed. “I know you’re gonna taste so sweet though.” He leaned forward, his chapped lips trying to come in contact with yours.
“Get away from me!” you shouted. Your heart was pounding and fear had its ugly talons wrapped around you. “Fuck off!”
He didn’t say anything more, just frowned and shoved you back against the wall. His hand came between your thighs, pressing against your mound through your panties. You attempted to close your legs but he pushed his leg between yours, forcing you to spread for him.
A tear escaped your eye and only added to your anger, not wanting to show him an ounce of vulnerability. His fingers pinched at your pussy painfully and you had no option but to resort to begging. Your hands desperately pushed at his shoulders as you pleaded, “Please, please, stop. I’m begging you. Please!!”
Your cry was interrupted by the door flying open and banging loudly against the wall. A broad frame blocked the doorway and you couldn’t tell who it was initially, just relieved to have another person in the room with you.
The figure shot across the room, ripping Tony off of you and sending him crashing into the poker table. His back hit the wood, splintering it as he crashed to the ground. The other man’s back was now to you, but you would have recognized the leather jacket from anywhere.
“The fuck is your problem?!,” Clint spat at the man, bending down and lifting him up by fisting his shirt.
Tony held on to Clint’s forearm as he was lifted into the air, feet dangling and panic in his eyes. “Clint! Hey-Hey man…I was just fuckin’ around. I-I promise…I wasn’t gonna hurt her or nothin’...”
“Yeah?” Clint swung his arm to the side, releasing the man into the wall where he slammed and then slid to the ground.
“Ah, fuck!” Tony yelped, throwing his head back and attempting to take a breath. It was clear that his back was injured.
“How ‘bout I just fuck around then?” Clint stalked toward him. “Promise I won’t hurt you or nothin’...”
Tony’s eyes widened even more than before. He shoved his hands in front of them, shaking and pleading. “Please, man…I-I’ll leave…I’ll never come back.” His voice was quivering and tears came to his eyes.
“How ‘bout I help with that?” Clint grabbed the man by the back of the neck, pulling him up to his feet but moving with him before Tony could get his footing, causing him to stumble toward the open door.
Clint dragged him outside and around the corner, out of your view. You were still trying to compose yourself. Your dress was smoothed down now but the tears had started flowing, so you swiped underneath your eyes, trying to clear the mascara mess.
You had your hand pressed to your chest, trying to guide your breathing, when Clint came back into the room. He entered slower this time, taking just a couple steps into the doorway before pausing and looking at you.
You glanced at him before looking back down at the floor in front of you, still taking in deep breaths. “I’m fine,” you asserted.
There was a pause. He didn’t move or say anything, just stood there like a solid presence, unwavering in its solidity. You could smell cigarettes off him, but also a heavier, almost sweet scent. Cinnamon, maybe, you wondered.
You looked at him through your periphery and said, “You can leave now.”
A moment passed, and then he moved toward you, causing you to look up at him. His eyes were soft, and they conveyed compassion despite his mouth being in a straight line. He stopped when he was just a foot away from you.
“Are you hurt?” His voice was like sifted gravel, the harsh edges removed until it was dissolved to fine sand.
You took a breath and shook your head, “I don’t think so.” You didn’t notice the bruise on your upper arm until Clint’s knuckles ran over it softly.
“He do that?” he asked through gritted teeth, clearly trying to quiet the storm in his voice.
You looked down to see Clint’s hand pull away, revealing a blue mark on your arm. “He must have,” you muttered. “My dad’s gonna fuckin’ kill him if he finds out…” You covered your face with your hands, shame and forebodement taking over.
“I’m gonna fuckin’ kill him,” Clint corrected, and it was unclear whether he meant of is own volition, or of your father’s command.
You lowered your hands from your face and looked around. “I have to clean this place up then get home.” You walked around Clint and began to pick up the glasses that had fallen to the floor after the brawl.
“Don’t worry about that,” Clint said, stopping you with a hand on your shoulder. “You just get home. I’ll take care of this. Are you good to drive?”
You swallowed down the tears threatening to spill. As much as you wanted to argue, you knew that you really did just need to be home. So, with a quiet nod you moved toward the door. You didn’t notice Clint following you until you entered the alleyway and glanced behind to see that he was standing in the doorway.
You walked down to your car parked on the side of the road. It was sprinkling out and you were thankful, feeling like it was cleaning you of what you just experienced.
When you unlocked your car and got inside, you looked back toward the alley to see Clint still watching you. Rain fell onto his jacket as his hands were shoved into his front pockets. For once, you were thankful for his presence. For once, you could walk away from him without calling him a motherfucker.
June 6th - 7:02 A.M. [The Coffeeshop]
You were in line, yawning, with bags under your eyes. Sleep had been evading you since the night of the poker game. Every time you closed your eyes, you pictured Tony’s face hovering over yours, his stale breath and painful hands eclipsing you.
Tears of fear and frustration stained your pillowcase as you tossed and turned. Nothing seemed to shut the thoughts off and you yearned for a night when this didn’t feel so encompassing.
So, it had become common for you to make early morning coffee runs. You’d been avoiding Gabby, lying to her about needing to work more to help your dad out. And you’d been lying to your dad, saying that Gabby was having a rough time post break-up and needed extra support.
You still worked at the casino here and there, but had completely avoided working poker games, even though you were sure Tony didn’t dare enter that room ever again.
“Ma’am?” The barista was looking at you concerned and you realized that they’d been trying to get your attention.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” you mumbled the apology and stepped closer to the counter. “Large Americano with an extra shot, please. And a splash of almond milk.”
You paid and then stepped to the side, scrolling mindlessly on your phone while you waited. Your head felt heavy, as though you could pass out at any moment. It was a cruel joke, because you knew that as soon as you laid your head down, your eyes would shoot open with a burst of adrenaline that would wake you up again.
You hadn’t noticed that you were swaying in place until your shoulder bumped against someone standing next to you. “Shoot, I’m sorry,” you said as you took a step back, looking around for a table to sit at. You didn’t look up at the individual, instead keeping your head down and moving to the side.
You heard someone clearing their throat right next to your table. When you lifted your head from your phone, you were met with a broad chest wearing a checkered button-up. The smell alerted you that it was him before you even looked up at his face. Something about the cinnamon and cigarettes warmed your chest, letting your shoulders drop slightly.
You didn’t say anything, but motioned with your hand to the chair. Clint slowly lowered himself, eyes on you. “You look like shit.”
You scoffed, “Thanks.”
He exhaled and shook his head, “I don’t mean like that…Are you sleeping?”
“What do you care?,” you shot at him, realizing that it was probably unfair to direct your venom toward him.
He opened his mouth but was interrupted by the barista who called your name. He instead waited patiently for you to retrieve your drink and come back to the table. You’d ordered your coffee to-go, but it was clear that Clint expected you to stay.
Taking the lid off to let the drink cool, you leaned back in the wooden chair and looked out the window. Your whole body was tense, like a coil about ready to snap.
“So…” was all he said, awaiting your answer to his previous question.
“No, okay? I’m not. I…” you huffed out a breath, sitting up straighter in your chair and looking down into your cup of coffee. When you went to speak again, your voice caught and you had to stop yourself so that you wouldn’t cry.
Clint stiffened in his chair. His body went rigid as his jaw tensed. The barista called his name but he didn’t move.
You’d successfully repressed your tears, so you looked up at him. “Your coffee,” you said softly but still guarded.
He didn’t even look at the counter, just kept his eyes on you. You shrank under his gaze, suddenly feeling vulnerable.
You jolted in your seat when he pushed his chair back, standing up. His body loomed over you, but not in a threatening way.
“Here,” he said, tossing a card onto the center of the table, “if you need anything.” He walked over to the counter, retrieving his small to-go cup that looked ridiculous in his large hand and then exited the coffee shop without looking back at you.
You picked up the card, the only thing written on it was his name followed by a phone number. It was the most nondescript business card you’d ever seen. Still, you pocketed it and took your first sip of your bitter coffee.
Leaving the coffee shop, drink in hand and card in your pocket, you felt a small sense of peace for the first time in weeks. “Motherfucker,” you whispered to yourself with a smile.
June 7th - 8:35 P.M. [Your Apartment]
You were three glasses of wine deep, a random rom-com on the TV, when your phone rang. “Hello?” you answered, trying your best to not sound intoxicated. Before you heard the voice, you realized that you hadn’t even glanced at the caller I.D.
“Hey sweetheart.” Your dad. “I know you’ve been busy with Gabby, but I was hoping you could help me out with something. You have a moment?”
You sat up on the couch, “Hey dad. Yeah. What’s up?”
“You been drinking, darling?” He didn’t sound critical, just concerned.
“Just some wine. What do you need, dad?” You attempted to redirect the conversation, which apparently worked.
“Well, one of the guys, one of my main customers actually, ran into some trouble. You may have seen him at some of the poker games…Tony?” Your stomach dropped and you gripped the phone harder in your hand.
“Um, yeah, I think so. What happened?” you worked to even your voice.
“That’s the thing,” he replied, “I’m not quite sure. He, uh, was supposed to come to the game last night, but apparently hasn’t shown up to the last couple. None of the other guys seem to know anything. Did you see him the last time you worked?”
“Um, yeah,” you answered.
“He do or say anything odd?” Your dad was speaking casually, as though he didn’t expect you to have any information for him, so you gave him just that.
“No, not really.” You were picking at your cuticles as you spoke.
Your dad sighed then said, “Damn it. Okay. I’ll have to let his wife know I don’t have anything for her. Poor woman’s losing her damn mind.”
Your stomach twisted. “He has a wife?”
“Yeah, poor fucker’s gotta wife and two kids. I hope he didn’t run into any trouble. Ya never know with these assholes,” he muttered. “Anyway, kiddo. I’ll let you get back to your evening. Goodnight, honey.”
You said goodnight through a strained voice, rushing to the bathroom and dropping to your knees as soon as the phone clicked off.
After finishing your business, you washed your hands and brushed your teeth. The reality of the situation seemed to come crashing down again and you had to brace yourself on the bathroom counter as the dizziness worked through your body.
“Fuck,” you mumbled to yourself as you walked back to the couch to retrieve your phone, picking up the card that you’d left on the table.
The phone only rang twice before he answered. “Hello?” the deep voice vibrated through the phone.
“Hi,” you took a breath, “It’s-”
“I know who it is,” he said with a degree of arrogance that made you want to end the call then and there. “What do you need? Everything okay?”
You scoffed, “No, everything isn’t okay. I…I know what you did, Clint.”
There was a beat, and then he spoke quieter, “Let’s talk about this in person.”
You gave a real laugh this time. “No, absolutely not. Do you think I’m stupid? You’re a fuckin’ murderer, and I’m just going to meet you in some dark, creepy spot so you can-”
“Stop,” his voice stayed quiet but the severity of it shocked you. “I’m not discussin’ this over the damn phone. If you want answers, you meet me.”
“Fine,” you huffed out. “But you’ll have to come here. I’m not going to anywhere you tell me.”
“That works,” he answered coolly. “I’ll see you soon.”
“Wait- I have to give you my address. I’m at-” You were interrupted once again.
“I know where you live.” Click.
It was the stuff from nightmares, horror movies, so why had you just agreed to let this maniac of a man into your home?
Your brain started replaying events, trying to figure out what you could piece together on your own. The first thing you realized was that you’d played a part in Clint’s whole plan…When he asked you to go home and that he’d clean everything up after the fight with Tony, that was so that he could go after Tony. He didn’t want to leave you a witness to what he was going to do, so instead he ushered you out and watched you get in your car and drive away.
You also realized, sickeningly, that he must have been at that poker game just for you. You knew the men at that game, and while some of them were assholes (clearly), they were all in good standing with your dad. None of them would have owed any money. There was no reason for Clint to be there.
Your brain was rattling. Had he been waiting for you in that alleyway all along, and then approached when he saw all the other men left? Another wave of nausea hit you as you realized that you truly didn’t know this man or his intentions.
The events from the coffee shop replayed as well, did he follow you there, too? What were the odds that he had shown up at the same time as you did? You took a sip of water in an effort to not vomit again.
You even questioned Clint’s motives for killing Tony. Had he done that for you or did he have his own vendetta against the guy, and you just gave him a good opportunity?
Your heart started pounding and you looked over at your front door to see that you’d left it unlocked. You hurried across the room in a panic, realizing that you’d made a grave mistake by inviting him to your home.
Just as your hand reached for the lock, the doorknob turned and Clint appeared in front of you - large and looming, his broad shoulders pulling his jacket taught as he looked down at you. You couldn’t see his face because of the light shining behind him and the dimness of your apartment.
Stumbling backwards, you placed your hands in front of you, much like Tony had done just days prior. “I-I think you should go…” you managed to stammer.
Clint shut the door behind him and began stepping toward you. You could make out his features now, and he was smirking. “But I just got here,” he said with a subtle grin and low voice.
Your blood ran cold as you continued backing up, looking around your apartment for anything to protect yourself with.
“I knew it was only a matter of time…” Clint spoke firmly. “You were bound to invite me over at one point or another…” He was standing in front of you now, your back pressed against the far wall of your apartment. “Just didn’t know it’d be this soon.”
You kept your hands held in front of you. “Don’t-don’t come any closer, please…don’t hurt me…” You knew how pathetic you sounded, but you hoped that he might take some pity on your begging. You just needed to get over to your phone, call your dad.
“Hurt you?” Clint cocked his head slightly. “It’s not pain I wanna inflict on you, baby…”
Your breathing was so shallow and rapid that you were starting to feel faint. You brought one of your hands to your chest to try and calm yourself.
Clint stopped. “Look at me,” he commanded.
You looked up, trying to keep your tears at bay.
“I need you to know you’re safe. Say it.”
“Wh-what?” your voice shook.
“You’re safe. I’m not gonna hurt you. Say it.” His tone was sharper this time, less patient.
“I-I’m safe…you’re not going to hurt me.” You swallowed after you spoke.
Clint nodded, taking another step to close the gap and brushing his calloused thumb against your cheekbone. “Can I kiss you?”
You couldn’t make sense of what was happening. Your survival instincts were kicking in and you felt like pacifying him was the safest thing you could do, but why did this feel like more than just pacifying him? You shifted, and that’s when you felt the unmistakable wetness between your thighs.
You nodded your head slowly at him and he leaned down, pushing his lips against your own. You were taken aback at how soft they were, at how gentle the kiss was.
His hands stayed put, one of them still in his front pocket as the other was cradling your face. He continued kissing you, breathing you in and exhaling himself into your mouth. He tasted like cinnamon gum. A warmth started to spread in your chest and he deepened the kiss, licking slowly into your mouth until your tongue met his.
When he pulled back, you instinctively leaned forward, causing the corner of his mouth to lift. “Gonna make ya see stars, angel,” he said as he reached forward and picked you up, hoisting you off the ground easily and pressing his lips against you once more.
He carried you to the bedroom with your legs wrapped around his. You could feel the firmness of his cock through his jeans and without thinking, started to grind yourself against the bulge. It felt so good. Your brain was already starting to shut off just by feeling his strong arms wrapped around you and his thick heat where you needed him most.
He laid you on the bed, reaching forward and wrapping his thick fingers around the band of your sleep shorts. He paused, watching for your reaction.
You arched your back with a small whimper, and it was all he needed to continue. He yanked them down your legs, letting them drop to the floor behind him. You hadn’t been wearing underwear and you saw his throat bob at the realization. “Sit up,” he commanded in a soft voice.
You did as he said, and he pulled your shirt upwards, letting the soft material leave your skin to fall onto the floor. He stood there for a moment, just looking down and observing your naked body.
Your eyes moved to his bulge and you could see his cock throb, even through the thick denim. You scooted to the end of the bed, reaching forward and placing your fingers on his belt buckle. Looking up at him, you waited for his command.
He didn’t need to work hard to get you under his spell. One kiss had been all that it took. And he was mighty proud of himself for that. He’d anticipated that he’d need to work much harder.
He reached down to pick up one of your hands that was on his belt. Bringing your hand to his lips, he planted a soft kiss on the very top, giving you a smile and lowering your hand back to his belt buckle.
You were practically salivating as you pulled on the buckle, then watched him thread it through his jeans and drop it. He put his hands back at his sides and let you unbutton then unzip his dark jeans.
He helped you by pushing down the denim and fabric of his briefs, standing back up so you were eye level with his dripping cock. His eyes stayed on you as he shucked off his leather jacket then unbuttoned his shirt, shrugging it into the ground.
Leaning forward, you kissed the tip of his cock then opened your mouth, sucking the head onto your tongue. He exhaled deeply, moving his hands to your head and gently brushing the hair away from your face, looking down and watching as you began to take more of him into your mouth.
The silence between the two of you made the sounds of your sucking even louder. You hollowed your cheeks to suck harder, moving forward so that your nose was brushing his dark curls. He shuddered and you felt his cock throb in your mouth.
“Relax.” His voice caught you by surprise and your eyes shot up to look at him. He gave a single nod and you worked to relax your jaw.
He began moving in and out of your mouth in a sawing motion, his shoulders dropping as he exhaled in pleasure. He gripped your head just a little tighter as he began to use your mouth. You could feel every vein of his cock as he slid against your tongue. The tip of him nudged at the back of your throat, but he was being careful to not gag you. You were surprised by his level of self-control.
He withdrew slowly, tapping your thigh and motioning with his hand for you to stand. There was something about his silence that was even more arousing and you could feel your slick running down your inner thighs. You stood, clenching your legs together and feeling goosebumps rise on your skin.
Clint sat on the bed, legs spread slightly, his cock jutting out. “C’mere, sweetheart.” And this time it felt more like a request than a demand, one that you wanted so desperately to give into.
You straddled him, your knees pressed against the mattress on either side of his hips and your glistening pussy hovering right above his meaty cock. His hands came to your waist and bowed his head forward to kiss your breasts. His tongue swirled around one of your nipples and he groaned against the soft skin just to move his mouth to your other breast and give it the same treatment.
“Please,” you whimpered. You couldn’t take anymore of the teasing. You’d never felt so empty before, so untouched with someone still touching you.
He didn’t say anything, just pulled his mouth away from your chest, and looked into your eyes as he started to pull you down onto his cock. His grip on your sides was light, and he let you do most of the moving, looking down to watch his cock slowly disappear into your sinking cunt.
When he was fully inside you, your head fell against his shoulder. “Oh my god, Clint…” you gasped, staying still as your body acclimated to the intrusion. He began to rub circles onto your skin with his thumbs, letting you take the time you needed and soothing you through it.
You took a deep breath, then started to slowly rock your hips back and forth. Your clit brushed against his coarse hair with every grind and you threw your head back, enjoying the sensations that began to flow through you.
Clint hummed, just watching you take what you need. He felt you dripping down his cock, your arousal flowing to his balls. His eyes moved up and down, watching your pussy needily grind against him and also looking up to see your scrunched face and slack jaw as your coil started to tighten.
As the sensations continued building, you squeezed his shoulders and started to bounce up and down. Clint groaned as you picked up speed, your pussy sliding up and down his hard shaft. You lifted off of him halfway before dropping down again, creating wet slapping sounds in the dark room.
Clint’s hands came to your nipples, squeezing and gently twisting. The feelings quickly became overwhelming as you were nearing your peak. “Clint!” you called out, bouncing on him faster and faster. “I’m gonna-”
“You got it, you can do it, baby…come on, come for me, come on this cock.” His words of encouragement were all you needed to tip over the edge.
You slammed down onto him as you came, gripping his shoulders, head tossed back as you moaned and whimpered through the waves of pleasure. When your body began shaking, he brought you closer to him so your chests were pressed to each other. One arm wrapped around your waist while the other hand stroked soothing lines up and down your spine.
He stayed completely still as you came down from your high, letting you recuperate and steady your breathing.
He was still solid inside of you, filling you completely. You pulled back so you could see his face. He swallowed and took in a deep breath. You saw his jaw clench and knew that he was still holding back. Any of the fear you felt for him earlier seemed to dissipate as you looked him in the eyes and said, “Do what you need, Clint…Do whatever you need.”
You yelped as he flipped your bodies around, slamming you against the mattress and then bracing himself above you, panting like some sort of animal. His face was still stoic, mouth in a straight line as his eyes bore into yours. The scar on his cheek was accentuated by how the moonlight was streaming in through the window.
“Gimme a word,” he said.
You felt lightheaded and couldn’t make sense of what he was asking you. The room felt hot and cold at the same time, and all you knew was that you needed to feel him again, that the absence alone was overwhelming.
“What?” you replied breathily.
“I need a word,” he murmured, leaning down and nipping at your ear before pulling back again. “Y’know baby, a safe word.”
“I-I don’t…” You tried to think, but nothing was coming to you. No one had ever asked for a safeword before, but you’d also never had sex like this before.
“How ‘bout VHS?” he asked, leaning forward again to suck on your earlobe. It sent prickles throughout your body and you moaned, arching your back. “Need ya to answer me…”
“Yeah, yeah…” you trailed off, your head fuzzy.
He gave a soft chuckle and replied, “Can you say it for me, baby?”
You nodded while whispering, “VHS.”
As soon as the last syllable left your mouth, Clint was pressing his lips to yours and reaching down to line himself up with your neglected pussy. You could feel yourself fluttering before he even pushed all the way in.
He continued kissing you as he snaked himself inside you, inch by inch. You gasped as he pushed in all the way, followed by a groan of his own. He licked from your collarbone up your neck to your jaw, where he sucked a mark as he found his rhythm inside you.
It started steady, a rocking that moved you back and forth against the sheet underneath you. You wrapped your legs around his hips, your hands clasped around his neck as he made the occasional grunt, working within you.
The conservative pace increased to firmer thrusts and his hips snapping against the backs of your thighs. He was pushing your body into the mattress, deeper and deeper as the thrusts became more of a pounding, his pelvis seeking you over and over, chasing your wet warmth.
“Can’t get over how you feel.” He moved his lips to the shell of your ear, whispering lowly. “You feel so good around me, hugging me so tight, baby.”
Your hands were slipping around his neck, both of you too sweaty to get a proper grip. You reached instead up to his hair, feeling the sheen from his hair gel and the beads of sweat leaving his scalp. You tugged and he groaned deeper, slamming against you.
“Do that again,” he muttered with his lips against your cheek.
You tugged harder this time, and then he began railing into you impossibly fast. You screamed out as he shoved in fully, just to pull out and slam in again as deep as he could. Continuing to pull on his hair as he fucked into you, you both were moaning messes, utterly wrecked for the other.
“Where?” he panted, his rhythm now completely erratic as he neared his release.
“Inside me, please. I need it, Clint. Ohhhh,” you moaned louder as his thumb began swirling around your clit. “Please! Please!!”
“Gonna fill you, baby….” he groaned, lowering his head and pounding into you, his thumb still rubbing desperately on your bundle of nerves.
Your nails dug into his back as your orgasm built and then shattered over you. You became a quivering mess underneath him and then he stilled, shooting his load against your velvety walls. His groan was so deep and loud that you swore you felt it inside your body.
He landed another soft kiss on your lips before pulling out and rolling onto his back. Your mind started traveling back to an hour ago, before Clint arrived and you were piecing together the danger you were in.
You rolled onto your side, laying your head against his shoulder as he wrapped his arm around you and brought you in tight. He was warm, and surprisingly soft, his tenderness like a much-needed hug. And you decided that maybe some questions were better left unanswered.
Tag List: @untamedheart81 @shadowqueen2024 @shrewdreader @m3rdim @milla-frenchy @honey-moon-13 @time-for-my-weekly-spanking @mcthsman
Ok folks, we've had the first wave of fics for the #ppcunaughtyornicechallenge.
If you signed up and your fic is not ready yet please do not fret, this is a stress free challenge! When your fic is ready (whether that is tomorrow, next week, next month or next year), just tag me when you post and I will add you to the masterlist. If you have posted your fic and you don't see it below, please drop me a message and I will get it added!
Massive thanks to everyone who is taking part. The fics that have been posted so far have been incredible, you're all so wonderfully talented and I appreciate you all so much for sharing your stories.
Please heed all warnings on the fics before you read and please show your appreciation to the writers with comments and reblogs!
Nice 😇
This Never Happened - @rosharanfiction Marcus Acacius, dating your boss
Comfort Friend - @joelmillerpascal Dieter Bravo, one bed
Mine, All Mine - @time-for-my-weekly-spanking Joel Miller, grand gesture
Naughty 😈
Play Your Best Hand - @ess-evo Clint Flood, enemies to lovers.
Undisclosed Desires (also in Portuguese here) - @brookeswords1 Dieter Bravo, fake dating
Not A Lot, Just Forever - @baronessvonglitter Dave York, forced proximity
Office Meeting - @milla-frenchy Javier Peña, dating your boss.
Peccatum Dulce - @missadangel Marcus Acacius, fake identity
Divinize - @millermouth Frankie Morales, grand gesture
Ok folks, we've had the first wave of fics for the #ppcunaughtyornicechallenge.
If you signed up and your fic is not ready yet please do not fret, this is a stress free challenge! When your fic is ready (whether that is tomorrow, next week, next month or next year), just tag me when you post and I will add you to the masterlist. If you have posted your fic and you don't see it below, please drop me a message and I will get it added!
Massive thanks to everyone who is taking part. The fics that have been posted so far have been incredible, you're all so wonderfully talented and I appreciate you all so much for sharing your stories.
Please heed all warnings on the fics before you read and please show your appreciation to the writers with comments and reblogs!
Nice 😇
This Never Happened - @rosharanfiction Marcus Acacius, dating your boss
Comfort Friend - @joelmillerpascal Dieter Bravo, one bed
Mine, All Mine - @time-for-my-weekly-spanking Joel Miller, grand gesture
Naughty 😈
Play Your Best Hand - @ess-evo Clint Flood, enemies to lovers.
Undisclosed Desires (also in Portuguese here) - @brookeswords1 Dieter Bravo, fake dating
Not A Lot, Just Forever - @baronessvonglitter Dave York, forced proximity
Office Meeting - @milla-frenchy Javier Peña, dating your boss.
Peccatum Dulce - @missadangel Marcus Acacius, fake identity
Divinize - @millermouth Frankie Morales, grand gesture
The sex is great. It really is. Clint makes you come more than any man ever has, is attentive to your needs and makes you feel like a goddess, but… It's so sweet it swerves into the lane of boredom. And while Clint's loving nature is a very welcome change to what you're used to, you still feel like there's something amiss.
So, one late night on the phone with your best friend, you concoct a plan to get freaky.
read it on archiveofourown / click here for my main masterlist.
warnings: established relationship, reader is afab and goes by she/her, this takes place around six years after freaky tales, early 90s, you don't need to have seen the movie to understand the fic, no y/n, there's no physical description of reader, clint is very vanilla and then he isn't, mentions of food, hardcore porn vhs tapes, clint flood's huge cock, poor communication, smut (d/s dynamics, lil bit of brat!tamer clint, choking, belt spanking, creampie, face slapping, a lot of degradation, face-fucking, titty-fucking, dirty talk, unprotected piv).
rating: +18.
word count: 4.8k.
fox says: hello friends, thank you so much for reading! this is my first time writing for clint and i have to say it was kind of like pulling teeth lol i rewrote this twice and went back and forth a lot on how i wanted to go about the story and maybe put too much thought into the characters' relationship for something that was supposed to be just smut (and then i ended up removing most of the backstory anyway smksmkms) also i know clint's wife was named grace but i'm not sure if they ever named his daughter in the movie and i couldn't be assed to rewatch it to find out so i just named her myself sorry if its not canon it is now!! anyway enjoy the debauchery and pls let me know how we feel about it!
entry for the 2026 kinky challenge hosted by @time-for-my-weekly-spanking! my character was clint, obviously, and my kink was choking!
Clint is nothing like the people you've dated before. He's closed off and mean-looking, but he is the sweetest man you've ever met, caring and funny and he loves his daughter like your parents never did to you. For a man that makes a living out of hurting people, he is the least violent of your paramours, always being extra gentle with you and the people around him— The people he isn't being paid to kill or maim, that is.
The two of you meet at the record shop you work at, a frazzled single father of a young child that wouldn't sleep unless she could listen to the same Sesame Street LP every night, which Clint had lost during their move to Piedmont. You help him find the vinyl and, against your own better judgment, take the leap of asking him out that same day.
When Clint finally comes clean about what he did for a living, about two months after your first date, it doesn’t make you run like he seems to expect: It only makes you want him more, the thrill of a dangerous man that treats you like a queen, a man with violence in his eyes and bloodied fists like a dog guarding its sheep. That's not who Clint is, though— He is who he is despite the violence, not because of it; a quiet, soft man with a shy smile and warm brown eyes. A gentle giant, in every aspect of his life apart from his work.
There is, however, one more place you wish he would forgo such gentleness: Your bedroom. The sex is great. It really is. He makes you come more than any man ever has, is attentive to your needs and makes you feel like a goddess, but… It's so sweet it swerves into the lane of boredom. You're used to fast, rough fucks that leave you bruised and sore and, while the loving nature from Clint is a very welcome change to that, you still feel like there's something amiss.
You just don't know how to bring it up. It's not like you can just say his lovemaking is boring without offending him or, worse, suggesting something that will make him think you're disgusting.
You tell your best friend your plan over the phone one night while Clint is busy putting Lua to sleep, giving her all the nitty-gritty details of how you’re going to get your loving boyfriend to treat you like the whore you want to be while she giggles and tries to give you some sort of helpful advice. She’s the one that brings up the idea of nonchalantly trying to ease him into something kinkier like a crab in a cold water pot. Talk to him about what he likes, is her real advice, start simple and find some common ground first. But you like the analogy of the crab too much to pay any attention to the important part of what she says. You know there’s a certified freak hidden somewhere inside that giant soft man, he just needs the right push to get it out.
You and Clint have scheduled date nights— Between the awful hours of his work and the difficulty of finding a babysitter, setting specific day reserved just for the two of you is what works the best; it's not the most exciting thing in the world, but his baby needs a regular schedule, and you're fine with that. Gives you time to prepare yourself, shaving and scrubbing and moisturizing every part of your body, stomach thrumming with the knowledge of where the night is going. It also gives you time to get his house ready— You both agreed to go out for the evening, but you drop Lua off at the babysitter’s about an hour earlier than you’re supposed to, and then drive to his house. You have a whole plan: A cozy movie night, lots of wine and snacks before you make your move.
Even the movies you’ve chosen are carefully curated: Fright Night, because Clint has been saying he wants to watch it for almost a decade now, and Animal Instincts— Which was a recommendation from your friend, who swears it’s not porn despite the movie being in the triple x section at the video store. It seems like the perfect fit, getting his blood pumping from a scary movie only to bombard him with steamy sex scenes afterwards. Maybe, with that combination, he might be tempted to try something else other than missionary. You sneak into his house with your bag of goodies – Clint had given you a key about three weeks earlier, when he got caught up at work and needed someone to check on his kid, and this is the first time you show up unannounced – and set the snacks in the fridge, the popcorn on the stove ready to be popped, chocolates and candies and a small assortment of pretzels set on a pretty dish. You take your time with the pullout couch, going through Clint’s linen closet to set up a small nest with the softest blankets he owns, the toys scattered across the living room packed away back into Lua’s bedroom. You have the lighting set just right, soft and warm coming from the floor lamp next to the couch, all you have to do left is set up the movie in the VHS player.
There is a tape inside the player already— Bright red plastic, no name on the side, and you get far too curious about it to simply take it out and replace it with your copy of Fright Night, so you pop it back in and hit play.
Clint hadn’t rewinded it yet, and so the movie starts exactly where he left off: A woman on the ground on all fours, her hair soaked with sweat falling over her face as the man behind her pulls her backwards by a metal leash. They’re in a room with red velvet walls and carpeted in the same blood-like color, a messy bed behind them but they’re both on the ground, the man holding the leash tight with one hand while the other grips her ass so tightly his fingers dig into the flesh. The woman is still half dressed, her tits spilling out from a black leather corset and her legs covered by fishnet tights that have been ripped down her legs at some point, the flimsy fabric hanging off of her thighs; there’s remnants of cum of the back of the corset, the video already at the forty minutes mark.
The woman is getting absolutely railed, her entire body shaking as the man pulls her by the leash onto his cock over and over again, but all you can focus on is the other man, the one in front of her, one of his legs kneeling while the other is bent by her head. He’s big and burly, stomach jutting a little over his giant cock, his graying curls falling over his forehead and for a quick, ludicrous moment you think the man on the screen is Clint. It isn’t, though— The man has a big tattoo on his arm that you know Clint doesn’t have, and his cock despite how big it is, is still not as thick as your boyfriend’s. The woman has some trouble swallowing it whole, though, gagging for a moment before the other man yanks her head back by the leash. The man in front of her grabs her by the hair on the top of her head, tilting it so far back you think it might snap her neck.
“You like that, don’t you, slut?” The man that looks like Clint asks, his voice heavy with a distinctly Eastern European accent that you can’t properly place. He hits her face twice, slapping her cheek so hard the smacking sound reverberates through your body straight to your cunt. The man pulls her jaw open with his thumb, spitting inside her mouth before delivering yet another harsh slap to her face. “Getting fucked lik—”
You’re so engrossed in the movie you don’t even notice Clint’s car pulling up to the driveway until it’s too late, and you fumble with the remote to pause the video. You dive from the couch, but the front door opens before you can hit the eject button.
Clint pauses by the front door, one hand holding his leather jacket, the other still on the doorknob. There is a brief, heavy silence as he looks at the screen. You hit the eject button a second too late, kneeling on the floor too far away from the VCR, having to stretch yourself to reach it.
“You forgot to rewind it.” You say, mostly because you’re not certain what to do when getting caught watching the hardcore Eastern European porn your boyfriend had been watching in his living room TV. “I wasn’t sure what it was, so I just hit play and… Uh… I can go back to the part where you stopped if you want.”
“I was doing research.” Clint tells you. He closes the door behind him, but makes no move to leave the entryway. “Heard you on the phone the other night, gossiping with your friend. Naughty girl, telling someone else all about our business.”
His words send a thrill down your spine. “I’m sorry.” You say, but you’re anything but. “I know how private you are. I didn’t mean to—”
“I didn’t say you could talk.”
The rest of your sentence dies in your throat, and you have to fight off the smile that is trying to break through your apologetic façade. You stay silent, staring up at him from your position on the ground, Clint’s eyes flitting to the TV screen before falling back to you.
“Stand up.”
You do as you say, hands clasping behind your back as Clint approaches you slowly, his boots hitting the ground hard as he comes to stand in front of you, your head tilting backwards to stare at him in the face. You’re not certain what he’s about to do, you think he might kiss you or laugh it off or even tell you to start the tape again.
Instead, Clint’s hand sneaks underneath your skirt, his thick fingers pulling your underwear to the side as he dips a little into your core.
“You’re wet.” His voice is low but taunting, as if he’s making fun of you and you bristle, pulling back from his touch, arms crossing over your chest.
“Well, you’re the one that left porn playing on the TV. It’s quite a natu—”
Your words are cut off when his hand comes down onto your face, the sharp sound of his palm connecting to your cheek taking space over your voice. The slap is hard but not too painful, and you know he’s holding back.
“Didn’t I just say you weren’t allowed to speak, girl?”
You open your mouth to apologize, but one quirk of Clint’s eyebrow has you snapping your jaw shut. He hums in approval, his knuckles brushing carefully over the warm skin of your cheek.
“You’re going to go upstairs, take off your clothes and lie down.” He tells you, and you nod, jumping a little when he smacks your ass as you walk past him. “Keep the panties on.”
Clint takes so long to come upstairs that you decide to start by yourself — a small part of you hoping he’ll punish you for it —, your hand sneaking inside the red lace you bought especially for him, one hand toying with your clit while the other teases a nipple lazily. He’s removed his flannel, wearing nothing but his jeans and a gray shirt that you’re certain was black when he first bought it. He pads quietly into the room, stopping about halfway in when he finally notices the hand inside your underwear.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
“You took too long.” You say, giving him your cheekiest smile. “Figured I should start without you— If you took long enough I might’ve finished without you, too.”
That’s not exactly true; you’re still far away from an orgasm, but the look on his face makes you giggle. Clint grabs you by the ankle, tugging you harshly until your legs are dangling from the bed. You squeal, your heels coming up to rest on the mattress, fully opening yourself up to him.
“This pussy is mine.” Clint growls, pulling your underwear to the side. You spread your knees a little more, breath stuttering when his knuckles brush against your clit. “You don’t get to touch it unless I let ya, you hear me?”
“Yup.”
Clint pinches your clit, not hard enough to hurt but enough that you jolt. “None of that shit. You’re going to be polite, call me sir and mind your manners, or you won’t get to come.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Atta girl.” His words go straight to your cunt, a fresh wave of slick dampening the finger that is now toying with your entrance. “Now, you’re going to tell me exactly what you want me to do to you.”
“I want you to fuck me, sir.”
Clint tuts. “I need more than that. You were very specific with your friend on the phone.”
“I want you to fuck me like a whore. I want you to use me, get real’ rough.” You lick your lips, trying to remember what it was that you had said on the phone. “I want you to pull my hair and smack me around and choke me until I feel like I’m going to pass out.”
The hunger in Clint’s eyes could swallow you up whole. “Like the woman on the tape? You want to be my lil’ cumdump?”
“Yes, sir.”
Your legs move to snap together subconsciously at his words but Clint simply gives them a rough tug, spreading you even further than before; you’re certain your underwear is drenched by now even though it’s still pulled to the side, your wetness smearing all over your inner thighs and slowly dripping down to your ass. Clint runs a hand over your cunt for a moment as if he’s deciding what to do before stepping back.
“Turn around and raise that pretty ass for me. You’ve been real naughty, mouthing me off and touching yourself without permission. Gotta teach you a lesson first.”
You flip around with shaky legs, taking a deep breath as you settle on all fours, back arched as prettily as you can; you wish there was a mirror somewhere, anything that could make you see what Clint is doing. The sound of his belt buckle clicking open has you shuffling, cunt clenching around nothing; you almost think he’s going to fuck you like that, on all fours with your panties still on but instead you’re surprised at the snapping of his leather belt, the thin strip connecting with the back of your thighs in a striking blow; he hits you high enough that it catches on your pussy and you wail, body jolting forward as you cuss.
“God— Fuck.”
“Watch your mouth.” Clint says before delivering another hit, the belt this time hitting you on the fat of your ass. You bite down on your tongue, moan reverberating through your teeth and eyes shutting close at the sting that persists even after he pulls away. “Think you can take another one?” His voice is soft, slipping out of character and you smile through the pain.
“Yes, sir.”
The last one is harder than the first two, and this time as the belt hits your pussy you think he might’ve done it on purpose; you shudder, the pain mixed with a pleasure so strong you need to fist the sheets to stop yourself from touching your clit. Clint leans down, pressing a kiss to the welt that is already starting to form on the back of your thigh before he steps away; you hear the rustling of clothes as he undresses, and you need to hold yourself from looking over your shoulder, unsure if that is something he would allow. Clint brings his hand to your left hip, pulling harshly so you flip over, bouncing on the mattress with the power of his tug; you let yourself sprawl now that you’re on your back again, hands above your head as you stare at the man kneeling at the edge of the bed. He’s broad and strong, thick everywhere, muscles hidden underneath a healthy layer of fat— You love that about him, how he reminds you of the burly men from a decade ago rather than the gym rats you see now. His cock stands proud from a base of well-trimmed hair that is starting to gray, just as thick and big as the rest of him, the tip drooling and dark enough that you think it might be painful.
Clint pushes your legs closed, crawling up your body until he is hovering over your stomach. You open your mouth, thinking he might feed you his cock but instead Clint shoves two fingers inside your mouth; you close your lips around them, sucking as if they were his cock, head bobbing as you run your tongue over the pad of his fingers. Clint groans, and then pushes another finger inside your mouth, curling all three a little to the side, catching on your cheek. His pupils are blown wide by the time he takes them out of your mouth, using a mixture of your spit and his precum to wet his cock.
“Are you going to let me suck you off?” You ask, unable to stop yourself, and Clint pinches one of your nipples.
“Shut up.” He squeezes your tits, pushing them together and kneading at the flesh, his thumbs rolling over your nipples. “You don’t get to make demands. You’re going to lie here and take what I give you.”
“Yes, sir.” You say, watching mesmerized as Clint pushes his cock in the valley of your breasts, squeezing your tits as he starts to fuck them. Your hands take hold of his powerful thighs, grounding yourself as Clint grunts above you, his slick cock moving fast between your tits. Even though he told you not to, you can’t help but to stick your tongue out, head slightly bent, the head of his cock tapping on the flat of your tongue with every thrust. Clint moans at the sight, his hips stuttering long enough for the tip of his cock to push into your mouth; you lap at it, taking advantage of the moment.
“Fuck, you’re such a cockslut you can’t even follow simple orders, can you?” He barks out above you, letting go of your tits so he can pull you by the hair, setting you in the position he wants— half sitting up, head slightly turned as he mounted over you, pushing his cock into your mouth without preamble.
Clint has always been very well behaved when you go down on him. He doesn’t thrust into your mouth or push you by the head, sitting as still as he can and letting you take the reigns but this time he is brutal with it, hand still fisted in your hair, shoving his cock so far down your throat that your nose pushes into his pubic bone. Your hands flail back to his thighs, holding yourself steady as you panic for a brief moment but Clint just holds you there, the tip of his cock nudging down your throat, not moving and not letting you move as your throat clenches around him.
“Look at me.” He orders, and you look up through the tears, your lips stretched around him. “Breathe through your nose.” Clint tells you, his voice once again taking that soft tone you’re used to— His eyes burn bright, though, and he only starts moving after your breathy exhale. His thrusts are slow at first, careful despite the harshness of the first one and you can only take; you don’t even have time to properly suck him, just keeping your mouth open and drooling as he fucks into you, picking up speed as he seems to lose himself in it. “Such a good mouth. Maybe I should keep you like this— Good girl only when you’re stuffed full, huh? Fuck, you were made for this— Just takin’ my good down your throat like the perfect little slut you are.”
Clint stops abruptly, your nose once more smushed to his pubes and you don’t have to look to know he’s trying not to come, his breathing ragged and unsteady before he pulls out of your mouth. His cock is covered in your spit, dripping down his balls as he pulls back. Your jaw aches but you don’t remember the last time you’ve felt this relaxed, your head a little fuzzy as you wipe the drool from your chin. Clint kisses you, the first he’s done so this evening, both of his hands cradling your neck.
“Up the bed.” He tells you and you scramble backwards, laying down with your head on the pillow, hooded eyes staring at the man as he crawls after you. Clint tugs at your underwear, ripping it at the seams as he pulls it off of you. You open your mouth to protest but think better of it and he smiles at you, sharp and nasty. “Maybe I’ll gag you with it next time. Gon’ look damn pretty all tied up and gagged in my bed.”
Your entire body shivers at the thought, your cunt clenching around nothing and Clint notices it. “You like that, don’t you?” He runs a finger up your slit, collecting your wetness before he brings it to his mouth. “Don’t think you’ve ever been this wet before. If I knew I had such a dirty little whore, I would’ve fucked you like you deserve a long time ago.”
You whine, wanting to beg but knowing there will be consequences if you speak, your hips pushing up to chase him.
“Oh yeah, got all sorts of plans for my perfect little slut.” He says, lining up his cock with your entrance. You tense for a moment, knowing that despite how wet you are, you’re not nearly prepared to take someone as big as he is. “Gon’ have you naked and begging for me all the time, making you lick my come off the floor and having your ass black and blue from my belt. And you’ll take it, won’t you? My perfect cumdump, the tightest hole always there for me to use—”
He pushes inside of you at that, one brutal thrust that has you wailing, head thrown back against the pillow. It hurts, the stretch just on the side of too much, but Clint stays still and toys with your clit as he waits for you to adjust. “Holy shit, you’re so tight like this.” He pants. “Don’t think I’ll ever finger you open anymore. Just bend you over and shove my cock inside. Bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
You don’t answer, the pain quickly melting into pleasure, and Clint smacks you across the face. “I asked you a question, whore.”
“Yes.” You answer immediately. “Yes, sir. Want you to use me all the time. Whenever you want, I’m ready— Always ready for you.”
Clint starts moving slowly, half-thrusts that are more to get you used to him than actually pleasure but it soon has you keening, the wet squelches of your cunt drowning out the small noises you make.
“Please.” You whisper to him, your eyes glued to his face. “Please fuck me, sir. Like the girl— Like the girl from the movie—”
Clint pulls your legs up, your ankles by his shoulders as he slams into you in hard, long thrusts that have you jolting upwards on the bed.
“This what you want? For me to wreck this pussy?” He grits out, leaning over you, your body folded in a way you didn’t think was possible. “Calling me boring because I was trying to respect you, treat you like the lady I thought you were.”
All you can do is call his name, not a single coherent thought going through your head as he fucks you insanely hard, all of your focus on how big he felt inside of you, how his cock rubbed in the right spot inside of you with every brutal thrust. You’re wailing, tears polling around your eyes and drool collecting inside of your mouth, and all you can think of is him.
“Gonna ruin you for anyone else.” Clint said. His hand comes up, wrapping around your neck. He doesn’t squeeze, just holds you there so you don’t slide upwards on the bed. “Nobody is ever going to fuck you the way I do. Y’hear me? You’re mine, mine to fuck and use as I please.”
“Yes, sir.” You mewl, eyes rolling to the back of your head. “Just you, just you—”
“Fuck, I’m gonna come in this pussy, mark you as mine, fuck my own cum deep inside of you—” Clint squeezes your neck, cutting off the string of words you’re barely aware you’re repeating. You struggle to breathe, entirely forgetting that you could do it through your nose— Every single cell on your body feels like it’s on fire, pleasure and pain and adrenaline kicking in as your brain tries to fight for survival while you pussy spasms against Clint’s cock.
You black out for a moment, your orgasm ripping through you so powerfully that you’re not even aware of how your screams are dampened by the hand pressing down on the sides of your neck with enough power to bruise, or the way you gush around his cock and your body shakes underneath him.
When you come to, it is to Clint’s concerned face hovering over yours. He has a wet rag running down your neck, warm and fluffy as he wipes away your sweat.
“Are you okay?” He asks, concern laced in his rough voice. “I’m so sorry, honey, I went too hard on you, I—”
“Clint.” You say, your voice raspy, throat sore from all the screaming and the fucking. “I’m fucking perfect.”
“You passed out.” He says, the rag now down to your stomach. “That’s not normal. I shouldn’t have pushed it, I got too into it and I thought you—”
“I loved it.” You say, legs spreading a little as he wipes you clean of his spend. It makes you feel a little overexposed, embarrassed by your nakedness as if you hadn’t just let him twist and turn you into a fuck puppet. There is only affection in his eyes and care in his touch, which is light and brief in the parts where you feel the most sore. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”
He laughs then, relieved and embarrassed at the same time. “Neither did I.” Clint drops the rag, laying down next to you and pulling you to his chest. “I’ll go get you some water in a minute, just need to get my legs working again.”
“Did you…” You bite down your lip, fingertip drawing little patterns on the hair on his chest. “Did you enjoy it too?”
“I did. God, I did.” He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “Didn’t know all that stuff could be good. Wasn’t sure I was going to enjoy it, honestly.”
“Thank you for giving it a try.” You say. “And I’m sorry I spoke to someone else about it. You should’ve told me you heard it.”
“Kind of wanted to surprise you.” He replies. “And I wanted to do a lot of, uh, research on it first. Didn’t want to disappoint you again.”
You swivel, your forearm resting on his stomach and he oofs when you rest your weight on top of it. “You never disappointed me, Clint. Not once. You’re the best fucking boyfriend I’ve ever had.”
He runs his fingers over your throat, tracing the spots that are sore and you know will bruise in the morning. “Never thought I’d use my hands on you like that. Can’t be right.”
“It’s just a hand, Clint.” You bring his hand up to your face, pressing kisses to his knuckles, some of them swollen from years of being broken over and over again. “You didn’t do anything I didn’t want.”
“I love you.” He says, his fingers lingering on your bottom lip. “And I want to make you happy.”
“I love you too.” It’s the first time either of you have said those words, and the moment feels far more intimate than anything that has happened in the last hour or so. “You make me happy everyday. I’ll take an entire lifetime of missionary with you rather than freaky sex with anyone else.”
“Hopefully you can get both of them with me.” He smiles, a little shy, eyes squinting. “I had a really good time.”
You smile, and kiss him, and think about the tape still on the VCR downstairs, still unfinished.
A really good time indeed.
general taglist: @itsafullmoon @time-for-my-weekly-spanking @hopecomesbacktolife @amourflores @rosharanfiction @shadowqueen2024 (if you'd like to join, please let me know!)
also tagging peeps who showed interest in reading this: @shilohispunk @honey-moon-13
See Masterlist for story warnings. MAJOR TW THIS CHAPTER for past reflection of rape on MC. Spotify playlist.
authors note
I had to use y/n this chapter WHICH I HATED but it made sense im sorry. also, my babies. I love them so much. this story is so important to me. make sure to follow me on twitter for updates :) @elyispunk
Chapter Summary
You and Marcus continue to open up to each other
You and Antoine frequented often, but he had never directly invited you over at this hour. When he called for you so late, you panicked–perhaps he had caught you. You had managed to get information he gave to you about infiltrated cargo ships back to Austria, which resulted in the ships being struck. Perhaps Antoine traced back and realized it was you.
He was already standing when you slipped inside, leaning against the edge of his desk like he’d been waiting for you to arrive exactly when you did.
“Rosaline,” he said, slow and pleased. “You never actually knock.”
You closed the door behind you. “Men who invite women over at this hour don’t usually want politeness. They want confidence.”
His mouth curved into his usual smirk. “And you have plenty of that.”
You crossed the room at an unhurried pace, letting your skirt sway just enough to be distracting without looking intentional. You didn’t go to him first. You went to the sideboard, lifted the decanter, and poured yourself a glass.
Antoine watched every movement, not commenting on the fact that women do not often serve themselves.
“You make yourself very comfortable,” he remarked.
You took a sip and winced slightly. “Your liquor is too strong.”
“Most women don’t complain when they’re drinking a man’s liquor.”
“I think most women are afraid to.”
That earned you a soft, yet unsurprised laugh. He knew you spoke like this and he liked it. You turned then, finally giving him your full attention.
“Now,” you said, resting your hip against the table, “what did you really want to see me about, Monsieur Laurent?”
He stepped closer. “I like your company.”
“Then be a gentleman and invite me to dinner. Not to your chambers. What ever will Genevieve think?”
“Maybe I like honesty more than ceremony.”
You smiled faintly. “Then we have something in common.”
You moved not away from him, but past him, making sure to brush his sleeve with your arm as you did. His body tensed automatically. You felt it. You always felt it.
You were in the clear. He didn’t know you were the mole.
You circled the desk, letting your fingers trail over the edge where maps were stacked too neatly to be decorative. You had developed a keen eye for these things.
“Still working so late?” you asked.
“Always.”
“War makes men restless.”
“And it clearly makes women curious. That can be dangerous.”
You stopped at his side and looked up at him. Close, but not touching.
“Curious women are dangerous,” he repeated.
You tilted your head. “Only to men who lie.”
You saw it in his eyes–the brief, involuntary flicker of guilt before he smoothed it away.
“You assume I lie.”
“I assume everyone does,” you replied. “Until they forget to.”
You reached up and adjusted his collar as if you were fixing a crease. You made sure your fingers brushed his throat.
“Tell me,” you murmured, “what’s been keeping you so tense lately.”
He hesitated, so you leaned in closer. Not with your mouth, just your presence. Your voice lowered.
“You didn’t summon me here to talk about wine.”
His jaw tightened. “You always think you’re in control.”
“I don’t think,” you said. “I know.”
You stepped back just enough to make him want the space gone.
He exhaled. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” you smiled faintly, “you keep asking me here.”
Silence stretched. The fire cracked softly.
Then he spoke the way men did when they thought they were being impressive instead of exposed.
“The eastern passes won’t be guarded much longer,” he said. “The generals think winter makes them useless.”
You didn’t react. Not with your face. Not with your body. Only your eyes sharpened.
“Which passes?” you asked gently.
Antoine watched you too closely. “Saint-Rémy.”
You stepped nearer again. Like you were closing a door.
“And?”
He swallowed. “The Vale.”
You let out a soft breath.
“See?” you murmured. “That wasn’t painful at all. Sometimes it can be helpful to tell others things.”
He studied you now. Really studied you.
“You don’t just listen,” he said. “You collect.”
You smiled at him.
“Everyone collects something, Antoine. Some men collect power. Some collect secrets.”
“And you?”
You met his eyes. “I collect men who think they’re smarter than me.”
That made him laugh. “You’re going to get yourself killed one day.”
“Only if I stop being careful.”
You reached for your glass again, took another slow sip, then set it down.
“I should go,” you said. “You’ve given me plenty to think about.”
He moved, blocking your path to the door.
“You always leave before I’m finished with you.”
You looked up at him. “That’s why you keep wanting me back. You want someone who challenges you, not obeys you. Too many people obey you.”
Then he stepped aside. You opened the door, paused, and glanced over your shoulder.
“Sleep well, Antoine.”
His eyes followed you like he’d just realized he was the one being hunted.
And by the time dawn came, every word he’d given you would already be on its way to your father’s war room.
The way Marcus spoke about his family made you smile.
You could tell he was hesitant to open up at first, when you asked to hear about his sister. But after he started and saw how interested you were, it flew out of him like he was waiting to tell someone about the people who meant so much to him.
He paused and smirked a little.
“Why are you smiling at me?”
“I’m not.”
“You most certainly are. Your cheeks are red,” his hand cupped your cheek, “Ah…your warm. Either you’re blushing or you’re feverish. I hope not feverish–”
You couldn’t stifle your giggle.
“Fine! I think it’s cute how happy you get talking about your loved ones. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so happy.”
He raised an eyebrow, still smiling.
“That can not be true. I was very happy when I was touching your–”
“--Marcus!”
He laughed loudly, not caring about the world outside of the two of you. You flicked his shoulder.
“Fine, fine. Yes, my sister and I are very close. She’ll always be my baby sister to me even if she’s 37 now and has her own baby.”
“Well you basically raised her. That makes sense. You’re a protector.”
He sighed.
“I like to protect people who don’t have anyone else to. We lost my parents really young, when she was 9, so if it wasn’t me…who would it have been? Not that I have regrets about taking care of her, but I don’t know if her and I would have the same relationship if my parents were still alive.”
You thought about it for a moment–you wanted to tell him you understood, but you couldn’t bring yourself to lie to him. Your brother did not protect you even though your parents preferred to be political figures rather than parents. You were almost cerain that if your parents were dead, he would not have taken on that role.
“You don’t give yourself enough credit,” you finally said, “Most people don’t make the considerate decision. Most people would choose the easier path and focus on themselves. You did something good Marcus…it’s okay to admit it.”
He chewed on his cheek.
“I wonder how my life would have gone if I never got enlisted. I know there’s the 3 year mandatory enlistment…but like, would I have spent more time with Elise? Would her and I have left Austria? Would I–”
His voice cracked slightly and he looked down. He was a man who reflected on everything bad that’s ever happened to him. A man who has done horrible things and has never once felt justified in what he did. You scooched closer to him on the bed, so close your noses were practically touching.
“Constantly spending your days thinking about all the bad things you did to survive is not a way to live.”
You were such a hypocrite for trying to give advice like that. All you ever thought about was what happened to you and what you did to others. You always thought about Genevieve…how you encouraged a man to cheat on his wife so that you could get information out of him and save your own life. You thought about the guard you shot in self defense–not really the guard, but more so his family.
“It’s very hard not to. Easier said than done.”
You gave a soft smile.
“I know. I’m a hypocrite. I do it all the time and the stuff that I think about is no where near as horrible as some of the stuff you think about I’m sure.”
“Don’t say that. Don’t diminish what you’ve been through because it does not meet the ridiculous standards of deserved trauma. Just because you haven’t killed a man doesn’t mean your feelings aren’t valid.”
He exhaled a laugh and you plastered one on as well. He was mostly right. Except you had killed someone. You killed someone who deserved it, but you killed someone none-the-less.
“I killed a guard,” you blurted out, and you immediately watched the lines of his face harden. But he did not interrupt.
“There were guards in France who would periodically come by to check on me or find some method of hurting me–mostly the latter. Except for this one. I never knew his name, and it only ever happened in the dark, so I never figured out who he was. He was probably one of the guards that would come by and check on me throughout the day, and I wanted to figure out so badly who he was, but once it started happening, I just…I just…”
Your voice cracked a little and you felt your cheeks redden. Why was this so difficult to talk about?
Marcus’s hand that was tucked under his cheek reached out and threaded through your hair.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he whispered, not taking his eyes off of you, “You don’t have to tell me everything right now sweet girl.”
“I don’t want to yet, but we only have right now, Marcus. This is all we have. Just…” you squeezed your eyes shut, “...tell me something else about yourself. I’ll tell you after. About the guard.”
He leaned in and kissed each of your eyelids and you subconsciously melted even closer to him, legs tangled over each other.
Take your time.
He let you sit for a moment in his warmth before speaking.
“There was only one woman in the world I ever loved before–” he stopped himself before continuing again, “--she was my, um…my childhood bestfriend.”
He looked at you with eyes that were pleading you not to be jealous, but you weren’t. Well. You were jealous that he could openly admit that he loved another woman, but you weren’t jealous that another woman received his love. Now that he had expressed how he felt about you, you felt less insecure about what his other relationships meant and more insecure about the fact that they could exist publicly.
This Johanna was not your employee either, which helped.
“She was everything to me. Just beautiful too…she had long long hair that she always braided over her shoulder and these deep brown eyes that were a delicacy to look at. And she smelled like vanilla, but that was so expensive then, so I’m not sure why she did, but it was delicious. It was so hard for me to explain it at the time, because I was just a stupid kid when her father arranged her marriage to a man in Germany. I begged and begged for her to stay, for us to run away together, but she said it wouldn’t work. And I think about that a lot.”
“Think about her going to Germany?”
He gave as much of a shrug as he could lying on his side, “Yeah, that among everything else. We ended up reconnecting years later and getting…together. Never married, but we practically lived together. We spent every hour together to make up for our lost time. I was just…an idiot. I always prioritized my work, and most of the time she was so understanding, which I adored. But the very last time I saw her, she pleaded with me to just pick her for once. That she needed me, just like I begged for her when we were kids.”
You sighed.
“And you picked the army.”
“I picked the army. Of course I did. I was nothing without it. And I thought when I came back, she would still be there and we could patch things up. I used her like a bandaid to repair our problems. She would always be there when I came back, so I never took her frustrations seriously enough,” his lips were in a thin line, “I came back and her son from her first marriage informed me that she took a shotgun and blew her head off after I left.”
You couldn’t hide the gasp that left you. Suicide was not a new issue in Austria, especially among soldiers who were either trying to avoid mandatory service or had seen so much in service that they didn’t want to live anymore knowing that something so horrible could be done to people. It was rarely talked about when it happened, a private funeral and then…nothing; no more political recognition, a shamed bloodline, rapid spreading rumors.
It was unheard of, to your knowledge, for women to commit suicide. Why excactly? You had no idea. The issues women dealt with were always told to be lesser than a man's issues, but after your experience in France, that idea made you angry. How dare someone's person struggles be considered less than because of the gender with which they were born?
“She didn’t…”
“Leave a note?” his voice squeaked slightly, “No. And I think about her every waking second, not in a way that is happy of our time together, but like she’s haunting me. Cursing me for my mistakes, for being selfish and prioritizing myself over our relationship. That’s why I…I got closer with Augusta.”
You raised an eyebrow, not in a judgemental way, just confused by the connection. What does the servant girl have to do with Johanna?
“It won’t make sense if you did not know Jo,” he quickly continued, “By my love…they look identical. I have seen two people look similar, but this was far different. When I talked to Augusta for the first time, I felt myself transported back to that first big argument I had with Jo when we were teenagers and she was leaving for Germany. Augusta was panicking about–”
He caught himself quickly.
“--She was panicking and had this bruise on her eye. It felt like by helping her, I would be able to avenge Johanna in a way. It sounds ridiculous, I mean. Johanna’s been dead for years, and I know she’s dead. But I have so much guilt in me that I would do anything if it means getting rid of some of it. Because all the men I killed? All the boys I killed? I can’t avenge any of them. I’m not in the army anymore…it’s not like I can try and train the current soldiers to try and save them to make up for the ones I killed. So I sit on that every night–I go through the names of my fellow soldiers who died and the faces of those who were on the opposing side, the ones whose names I never knew. I killed men with wives, men who spent their lives alone and only found purpose serving their country, I killed…”
His voice caught and he wept. You didn’t even have to think about it–you wrapped his broad body into your chest, his face to your sternum. One of your hands ran up and down his back, your fingers lightly grazing the grooves and lines of his muscles.
“I…k-killed kids, Y/N. Kids. Teen–,” he gasped for air, “--Teenagers who must have been barely 15! When I was in the field it was like my brain went elsewhere, and I would j-just shoot. Didn’t even think about who I was killing until the massacre was over. What kind of monster kills kids without even thinking?”
You shook your head.
“You are not a monster.”
He chuckled sarcastically against his chest, tears still falling.
“Please, don’t lie just to make me feel better. Your honesty is one of the traits I admire the most about you.”
It was true. What you believed to be your fatal flaw was your honesty. Even if it meant saving your life, you could not bring yourself not tell the truth, which often got you into some nasty situations. As some would say, you tend to run your mouth.
“That’s exactly it. I don’t lie. I mean it,” you paused, trying to figure out your thoughts, “I think everybody has their own side of things; why they act the way that they do. You didn’t just kill those people because you woke up and felt like it. You were doing your job under the guise of protecting your country. You felt that your job defined you and that you couldn’t escape it, and part of that job was killing people. And if you didn’t kill them, they would have killed you.”
You counted his breaths as they slowed against your body, his hand pressed against your spine. His index finger traced the length of your back.
“But are you only saying that because you know my story? What about all of the men who tortured you in France? The men who beat you, I…do you really view them like that? As men who have their own stories that made them act that way? Or your father? Or your brother?”
Your movements froze at the question, startled by the honesty in the question.
No.
You did not consider those men redeemable in any way. You wouldn’t even entertain that thought. The men who beat you, assaulted you, scarred you, and tried to drown you. How could men who did that so shamelessly not be monsters?
“They did what they did without shame. You had shame. Humility.”
“But how do you know that? How do you know that they weren’t forced to do it by an outside force, a boss who threatened their families if they didn’t? To the men I killed, how did they know I had shame?”
Your lips parted, wanting to comfort him so badly. You wanted to hold him and rock him and tell him that he wasn’t a bad man…he was good. He was so good. But you knew he was right.
So instead of sitting in your discomfort, you leaned in and pressed a slow kiss to his lips, which were still slightly puffy from your making out earlier. He inhaled sharply at your touch, his eyes fluttering shut. He had full lips for a man–the few men you had kissed prior had thin lips that disappeared into their faces and made you feel like you were kissing paper. His were soft and not abnormally wet like your past experiences.
But most important of all was the heat that built within you every time you touched him. The warm tingling that started from your lips and winded down like a snake to your toes was a sensation you had never felt before, and you never wanted to lose that feeling. The euphoria that came with it was like nothing you had ever experienced.
When you finally leaned back to get more air, you kept your forehead on his, thumb brushing over his lips.
He blushed and smiled.
“Now, is that your attempt to make me stop wallowing in pity?”
You chuckled lightly.
“It’s me saying I forgive you. I forgive you for hurting people, even if it wasn’t me. I forgive you for all of the bad things you did, because I know it wasn’t you. I know good people do bad things and bad people do bad things, but you are certainly not bad Marcus Acacius. You are kind,” you kissed his nose, “You are brave,” you kissed his forehead, “You are smart,” you kissed his cheek, “and you are the only person who has ever treated me like a human being. That counts for something.”
You opened your eyes and took in the silent tears falling down his cheeks. You brushed them away and let the silence hang for a moment. Then, your voice went to a dull whisper:
“The guard would rape me several nights a week.”
Marcus’s eyes flung open, his pupils turning into slits. His jaw clenched so tightly, the muscles in his jaw pulsing against his skin, and his arm went completely rigid.
“What?”
The tone in his voice startled you. You had heard him upset with you, or frustrated, but he sounded angry. The same anger he felt before he shot dozens of men at a time.
“I-I killed him,” you stuttered to explain to try and calm him down, “He came in one night, and I was just so…done. It had been months of this at this point, my body was so worn down. But you know how grief can manifest as sadness and acceptance? Sometimes anger? That whole week I remember being so…so angry. Furious. No one had come to save me yet and I had to sit with my thoughts all day knowing that I was so unimportant to my family. Every time he would…he would insult me. Talk down on me, about how unlovable I was, how I was a whore. I just had enough. It was such a blinding rage that consumed me that I grabbed the knife on his belt and slit him in the throat before he could know what was happening.”
You paused and continuing to stroke his lips with your thumb.
“I was surprised I never got pregnant. Or maybe I did and I lost it. I wouldn’t have been able to tell. There was always some sort of blood on me and my stomach always hurt. I noticed that was their go to place to beat on me–that’s not important. No…maybe it is. I remember after I woke up after I was rescued, they were doing all sorts of tests on me to see the full extent of the damage. One of the tests was a vaginal exam to see if I had been assaulted–I couldn’t speak the first few days, I don’t know if you knew that. The doctor said the scarring they saw was so bad that chances are practcially nonexistent that I will ever have an heir.”
You couldn’t stifle the laugh of disbelief that escaped you. Saying it all outloud just reminded you of how ridiculous your life was. You became keenly aware at how uncomfortable you were at the honesty.
“That’s my dark truth,” you smiled slightly, “Now we can both wallow in pity.”
You expected him to say something, angry or sad or just…anything.
Instead, he grabbed you.
He grasped onto your wrist, tight, a terrifying fire in his eyes.
“Stop speaking about something horrific that happened to you like a joke,” he said sternly, “Stop brushing off your pain.”
His grip softened immediately when he saw the flicker of fear in your eyes, but not fear of him,--fear of what you had unleashed.
“I’m not angry at you,” he said quickly, “I will never be angry at you.”
He released your wrists and cupped your face instead, hands cradling you like he could make up for the torment.
“I am angry at the fact that you were alone.”
His voice cracked like he was going to cry again.
“Alone,” he repeated, quieter now. “With no one. No one to protect you.”
You felt his hands trembling against your face.
“I should have been there,” he whispered, the words sounding ripped from him. “I should have–”
“You didn’t know,” you said.
“That does not matter.”
The ferocity in his eyes made your chest tighten.
“It does not matter,” he said again, slower, as if convincing himself. “You should never have been in a position where you had to save yourself like that. You should never have had to carry a knife in the dark and pray your rage was stronger than his body.”
His forehead dropped to yours, but it wasn’t tender this time like it was earlier. It was desperate.
“I have killed men for less than that,” he admitted, voice breaking. “For less.”
You swallowed, eyes refusing to leave his.
“I know exactly what I would have done to him,” he continued, and there was something terrifyingly calm in his tone now. “I would not have been quick. I would not have been merciful. And I would not have regretted it.”
His thumb brushed the faint line near your collarbone. It was one of the scars you rarely let anyone see. Most of them were hidden beneath your clothes.
“And you were there alone,” he repeated.
Your hands slid up his arms, gripping at his biceps.
“I was alone, but I managed to survive. I did it myself. I survived.”
“That is not the same thing.”
Knock knock knock
Both of you froze, eyes staring into each other, praying that whoever it was would not open the door.
“Princess?”
Karoline.
You opened your mouth, letting out a bunch of sputtering. What was wrong with you?
“The Duke requested I come help you with your dress? Was it too tight–”
The door knob squeaked and you and Marcus went flying upright, Marucs protecting you with his body. He gripped your hand and made sure you were sitting behind him so his body would take the first blow. He was muttering something under his breath that sounded like, “I love you, I love you, I love you.”
Karoline entered, still talking about the Duke before turning to face you, dressed, but in bed with your guard.
