DILFiano CW: morally grey age gap and power dynamics
Word count: 4.6k
Unsure what to do with yourself in anticipation for fall quarter, you began shopping for your dorm room. You watched high school graduates with their mothers debate whether a magenta or mint colored silicone ice cube tray was best. Your mom was permanently M.I.A. and dragging your dad along would just be torture for you both. So you go alone.
It was bullshit that all freshman had to live on campus. It also seemed ridiculous that there were so many dorm room necessities. As if the space wasn’t small enough already, now you can organize your socks by length into color-coded bins from Ikea that you had absolutely no room for. Realistically, you only got this cynical when you were hungry. So, you left the store playing an sonically insulting remix of another remix to get some food.
Past a block of fancy cafes was a taco truck usually open this time of day. You were walking so intently that you almost missed him, sitting alone on a patio. It was like some magnetic pull. He looked up even though you hadn’t called his name.
“Y/n!” There was a moment of uncertainty before he broke out in a full smile. “So wonderful to see you.”
“Hey, Damiano!” Your heart flutters embarrassingly.
“Oh, you don’t have to call me that,” he dismisses. He’s gotten some sun, beauty even more striking with a glowing tan. Slacks, black leather boots, a tank top, and his blazer hanging over the chair. He’s refined and so sexy. Damiano waves you over and you’re more than happy to abandon any future plans in exchange for his company. It's not like he didn’t occupy your every other thought anyway.
When you come to the edge of the table you notice three things. First, he’s wearing new cologne. Second, there's a small book under his right hand like he was reading. Third, he’s wearing new jewelry, which doesn’t include his wedding ring. You try your best not to be thrilled.
“What brings you here?” He looks exhausted, but happy.
“I was about to get some dinner, actually,” you answered, fingers crossed behind your back.
“Will you join me then?” Behind his closed lip smile there's a secret that lies just between the two of you. Buying your daughter’s long time friend lunch when you run into her at a cafe. How chivalrous and admirable, how appropriate. Fate had gifted both of you such an excellent ruse.
“I’m not interrupting anything?” you inquire, coy. What you mean is I’ll have you all to myself?
“I’m all yours.” Besides touch, there is nothing more intimate than having your mind read. Its electrifying to know that he can see through you. To be naked in front of Damiano was a thrill. He was looking, unabashedly, his expression revealing that he appreciated what he saw. It was such a filthy thing to do in front of other people.
He gestures to the chair across from him, reminding you to sit down. These were the moments when your youth caught up and embarrassed you. Damiano was looking at the menu, so you tried to make yourself more poised. Put your hair up, adjusted your blouse, and took off your jean jacket even though it was breezy. When you finally sat he was looking at you with his eyebrows raised, taking a sip of white wine.
“I thought you looked fine before.” There's not a hint of teasing in his expression and you don’t know what to do besides blush crimson. “But this will make it easier to sneak you wine.” He gives you a wry grin, wiggling his eyebrows to make the moment lighter. “Too bad there’s no vineyards nearby, I’d take you wine tasting.” We can’t ever talk about this again. You were branded by those words.
“You changed your mind?”
“I’ve decided to trust you transgression. I’d like for you to trust mine, but that's your choice.” Daminao sits back in the chair, folding his hands.
“I do.”
“That was a quick decision.”
“Well you have more to lose.”
“Ah ha! You trust the situation, not me.” He waves an accusatory finger.
“I suppose so,” you muse, drumming your fingers on the table for theatrical effect. “You’ll just have to earn it somehow.”
“And how am I to earn your trust?” he takes the bait and you’re thrilled.
“If I told you that, I’d have to kill you.” You repeat his words from your last discussion with a smirk instead of a laugh.
“That’s not a real answer!” He sits forward, totally engaged in your verbal sparring match.
“Oh really!? Pretty irritating huh?” You tilt your head to the side flirtatiously, resting your chin in your palm. Damiano gets the reference and throws his hands up in the air!
“Fine! I give up!” His body language is just the opposite, leaning towards you as much as the table will allow, smiling wide.
“So easily?” you taunt.
“How am I to make it up to you then?”
“Well there's plenty of things you can do to please me,” you venture. Even though you’re maintaining an enticing, confident exterior, internally you’re begging Damiano to meet you halfway. His chest heaves and he rolls his bottom lip under his teeth before biting it, like he’s trying to keep something at bay.
“You’re making this very difficult for me.”
“You already said that. I’m officially requiring a different excuse each time.” Damiano looks away and lets out a groan in the place of a response. That sound throbs in your cunt beyond what you can endure.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” you coax.
“No.” He spoke through gritted teeth, hands balling into fists before releasing. His leg starts bouncing. Anyone watching could tell that Damiano was trying to hold back, fighting something that was almost stronger than his moral fiber.
“Why did that make you so nervous?” you push. He holds up a hand, signaling you to stop. The realization hits, that he has an entire life at stake: kids, a career, his whole reputation. He can’t be careless, so you can’t be careless. Verbally accosting him in public wasn’t the way to go.
“I’m sorry, let me find a waiter.” As you stand, your wet underwear rubs against your pussy uncomfortably. What took half an hour with other men, only required a conversation with Damiano.You walk towards the indoor portion of the restaurant, trying to salvage this meeting of happenstance. He catches you by the wrist.
“You’re okay,” he says emphatically, meaning you’ve done nothing unforgivable. He’s earnest wide-eyed to convey his point. You take a deep breath, and he mirrors you. One helping the other regulate. When you pull away to seek out a server you catch Dami’s hand in yours, stroke your thumb over the back of his hand for an inappropriate amount of time. Nail in the coffin, you brush your fingers over the tan line his wedding band left. It's totally self indulgent, but the hair stands up on his forearm in reaction. There's too many places you want to feel his touch. Not just between your legs, but cupping your stomach, playing with your nipples, around your throat, gripping your thigh, bruising your hips. The desire is dizzying and you have to take another breath together before letting go. There's nothing more compelling than lusting after someone so hard you can barely function, and feel them do the same for you.
By that point a waiter has noticed you standing and briskly walks over. You’re glad it's a man, with short red hair and porcelain skin marred by acne scars. Watching a woman gawk at Dami would be too painful of a reminder. He is not yours. He will never be.
“My apologies, I didn’t realize your date had arrived,” he stammered, as you sat down. Dami doesn’t correct him.
“We’d like the wine taster and another menu.”
“Oh, yes, sorry!” Foolish of you to assume that gender would keep anyone from fawning over Dami. His tone is patient, and you realize why. Damiano is so acclimated to people falling in love with him that he gives them a moment of grace to collect themselves.
The waiter places a single sheet of embossed paper in front of you, the type of menu only fancy restaurants have. The prices are exorbitant.
“Can I take your order in the meantime?”
“Give us a few minutes,” he answers curtly, ever the gentleman. The server realizes his blunder.
“Of course, my apologies,” he spluttered.
“I’ll just have whatever he’s having,” you interrupt, getting this awkward exchange over with for everyone’s sake. Damiano takes a beat to give you a sly smile, pausing the entire interaction to admire.
“You’re sure?” He says the words like it's something intimate, no insistence or condensation.
“Yeah, I trust your judgment.” Trust. Another bit of language carrying a secret only you two could decode. There was nothing in your life more riveting than having secrets with Damiano. Everything was boring to the point of obsoleteness in comparison.
“So what did you mean earlier, about your name?” You ask as a peace offering, when the waiter walks away.
“I just meant that, um,” he chuckles, and grimaces. Dami hangs his head like he regrets bringing it up because now he has to explain himself. “Damiano is very formal.”
“So what name should I use instead?” He's visibly relieved that you didn’t ask what it meant to be informal. “Dami is what your family,” and by that you mean wife, “calls you.”
“My friends call me Damia.” He answers with quiet confidence, but then his face changes. “Not that we’re necessarily friends and if it makes you uncomf -”
“We’re friends. Especially considering how much we’ve taken care of Icarus together, and all the dinner parties,” you trail off. Damia visibly finds your tact soothing. “Personally, I think the lack of intergenerational friendships is to blame for a significant portion of the world’s stupidity.” Damia chuckles, and the wine tasting tray arrives. Its four small glasses on a wooden board with indentations for the base of the glass so nothing goes sliding off and onto the floor. The restaurant is fancy enough to have a sommelier, and he stands at the head of the table. You try to mirror Damiano exactly, so no one will suspect that you’re actually 18.
“The first two are both cold soaks from the Bien Nacido Vinyard. All our wines are sourced in state. This glass on the far left is a 2008 Cabernet Sauvignon with light notes of oak and a velvety mouthfeel. It has been very successful in our local tastings and even won -” Despite your best efforts, you tune out the jargon in favor of observing Damiano. He’s nodding along, totally engaged with the sommelier’s lecture.
You use the opportunity to admire his profile, searching for little details no one had bothered to notice in years. There's a small scar halfway between his cheek and perfectly sculpted lips. Maybe a couple nearly imperceptible marks at the top of his cheekbone. A few eyebrow hairs were astray. Smile lines. It was entertaining to try to find imperfections on Damiano. Like Where’s Waldo, but way harder because this man in front of you was art of the finest caliber.
“So,” he sighs, trying to hide his relief that the lecture is over and the sommelier has gone inside. “What's the first rule of tasting wine?” He places both elbows on the table and rests his chin on top of his folded hands. Every gesture is elegant. Even better, you’re the sole recipient of his attention which makes you feel feverish the same way a sunburn does.
“Don’t use it like mouthwash,” you quip, in reference to the other night. He snorts, unclasping his hands because you’ve provided an interruption he wasn’t prepared for. Now Damia is flustered by the memory and shaking his head, like he can’t recall his train of thought.
“Thats – thats, sure. Why the fuck not?” He dissolves into laughter placing his face in the crook of his arm. Everything is hidden but his smile, and there’s a weightlessness in it you’re unaccustomed too.
“Rule number one: don’t swig the wine,” he proclaimed, still grinning. “Which makes rule number two: swirl, sniff, sip.” He picks up the first glass, and you follow, picking up the second. You mirror him, swirling the wine languidly in a movement that comes from the wrist, trying to emulate his easy elegance. When Damia lowers his nose into the glass and breathes in deep, you do the same. When he sips, your gaze fixes the way his lips curl over the lip of the glass, caressing it. Even the way he pulls the wine into his mouth is sensual. You forget to drink for a moment.
It just tastes like the wine you’re used to consuming, but not gross. All the bitterness of alcohol is gone. What term goes with oak and velvety? You’ve already used lush.
“What do you think?”
“It’s well-balanced and…round,” you try. This is apparently an acceptable answer because Damia, hums, nodding.
“Switch.” You exchange glasses, and Damia keeps his eyes on you. Using both hands, he rotates the glass so your lipstick mark is facing him. Carefully, he puts his lips exactly where yours were and takes a long drink, all while holding your gaze. It’s sweet torture, and your hand shakes were it rests on the table. Damia is exacting his revenge.
Glancing down at the rim, there are no marks left from his mouth, and you’re at a loss. Damia isn’t even hiding his enjoyment while watching you squirm. He’s smug, biting his lip as he shamelessly looks you up and down. Unfortunately, you’ve got a competitive streak and no reputation to ruin by being obscene. Using just the tip of your tongue, you trace the rim of the wine glass, placing it back on the tray without taking a sip.
“Do you want to know how that one tasted?” you challenge. Sitting back, cocky, would be the easy way out. Instead, wipe your lipstick off on the back of your hand and take the third glass. Damia is perplexed but takes the fourth, and you sip at the same time. Only after you’re done drinking does he understand. With no lipstick, there are no marks for him to follow. Check mate.
You look at Damia expectantly, genuinely unsure of how he’ll react. You extend your glass to exchange, and with only a moment of hesitation, he takes it, swallowing hard. Feigning composure, you take sips of wine as he bargains with himself, probably giving away more than he’d like to in the process. Finally, Damia looks at you, passion aflame in his eyes, and licks the rim of the glass. Watching his tongue is better than actual sex you’ve had. You rub your legs together, trying to relieve some of the pressure in your cunt. When he sits back up you stare, each waiting for the other to make a move.
“What do you think?” There's a lot of ways you could go with this. The sexual tension in the air is so thick that you decide to give the both of you room to breath.
“They taste exactly the same,” you deadpan. Damia laughs with his head thrown back, taken by surprise that you’d interjected humor.
“They do not!”
“Yes they do! You’ve been lied to,” you dramatically insist, cackling. At one point in his life, Damia probably laughed easily, but that part of him was far from the surface. You were determined to coax it forth again. Eventually you both fall into an easy silence gazing at each other, lent forward against the table. In the most intimate of circumstances, words aren’t necessary. Kiss me for fucks sake. Kiss me, I dare you, and see if I don’t deliver my response tenfold. You stare at his lips, unabashed. How far you’ve come from that first spark.
“My eyes are up here.”
“I wasn’t looking at your eyes,” you tantalize, meeting his gaze. “But I wish I could do that more often.” It was a vulnerable omission.
“You’re too honest.”
“You want to lie?”
“Never lie to me,” he snaps, with so much heat behind his words that it's scary. You lean into that fear, excited by it. Damia is startled by your reaction, and you see you’ve finally made some leeway. He’s revealed something about himself that wasn’t polished and perfectly calibrated.
“Having dinner with you was a terrible idea. I won’t even make it to my entree before spontaneously combusting.” You don’t take offense, because of the mutual understanding of what it would take to ease the tension.
“Should I get our food to go?” He sighs, but smiling softly like he's made a compromise within himself.
“Fine, but what you think is going to happen isn’t.”
“Okay,” you shrug your shoulders amicably. Even as you try to remain casual, getting your take out and the check from the waiter, your heart is pounding. The anticipation is so overwhelming that your reaction time is delayed, like you’re listening to everyone from underwater.
Getting out of the cafe and into the street is a relief. It's easy to just move with the crowd, everything feels less momentous. Damia is deep in thought, placing his feet carefully. You don’t want to interrupt, but the silence is both comfortable and totally suffocating.
“Where are we going?”
“Uh, I was gonna walk you to your car,” he murmured. Damia looks up for the first time, trying to place himself in the surroundings.
“Well we passed my car a couple blocks ago, so why don’t I walk you to your car?”
“Alright,” he chuckled, smile reappearing. He looked down at your hand, and you at his. You both thought so hard about what it might be to touch, for this to be allowed, that you could almost feel the warmth of his skin. In this crowded plaza, a dozen people could recognize you.
Damia threw his arm over your shoulders, in a way that could be misconstrued as comradery. He pulled you closer to him, and turned his head.
“I wish I could hold your hand, too,” he whispers. It nearly breaks you. Fending off the tears takes all your will power. It was the moment you knew that his affection went beyond your young figure and lively conversation. He felt tenderness for you.
“I’m in the parking garage,” he tilts his head towards the big cement structure. “So…”
“I’ll walk you to your car,” you confirm. Whatever may have been calmed from a stroll through the plaza was aflame again as you realized the privacy you’d have. The place was practically empty, and the light was soft as the sun set. A stroke of genius hit right as you passed the stairwell.
“Damia, come on!” You were already up one set of stairs when he responded.
“What? I’m not running up the stairs with takeout in my hands.”
“Be spontaneous for fucks sake!”
“Lemme put it in the car!”
“You’re gonna miss it,” you screech, running up another flight. When you hear Damia’s boots on the metal grating you smile so hard your cheeks hurt.
“What the fuck am I running up the stairs for, y/n?” You wrench open the steel door to find the top level of the parking garage empty. Perfect.
“What the – oh my god.” Damia interrupts himself in wonder. The colors of the sunset splay themselves across the sky, so over saturated that the world looks like a dream. You drop your stuff in the corner and run out into the center of the parking lot, arms open. Damia follows behind, huffs disbelief as he marvels at the sky.
“How did you know this was up here?” he shouts in awe. Orange and yellow hues hit his olive skin with a beauty to potent it ached.
“The sky?” you tease, the wind blowing your jacket open.
“‘The sky,’” he mocks, jogging towards you with a mischievous look in his eye. Damia grabs you by the waist, spinning in circles as you screech in delight. When he sets you down you’re left in a fit of giggles, trying to catch your breath.
“Rooftops have the best view,” you pant. “This is the only one that doesn’t get the cops called.”
“Ah, so you’ve found this out by trial and error then?” he retorts, playfully. Straightening up, you don’t let Damia create distance. Getting close enough to kiss was half the battle. You throw your arms around his waist and pull him in, so your abdomens are flush together.
“Kiss me,” you beg. “For fuck’s sake just kiss me.” Even as his hands are placed loosely on your back, he shakes his head.
“I can’t,” he chokes, with absolutely no conviction, not even enough to physically distance himself.
“Why? Because you’ll feel guilty?” His eye brows knit together in surprise.
“Well…yeah,” he puzzled.
“You already feel guilty. When we hadn’t even touched you felt guilty. So if you’re going to feel like shit no matter what, whats the fucking point of holding back?” Damia processes your words, then lets out a harsh breath and looks away. Steeling yourself, you pull back.
“Fine, I –” Something clicks inside him, or maybe something breaks, snaps clean in half after a crappy marriage and millions of people with a negative opinion. Damia wrenches you towards him, so forcefully you instinctively put your hands up to catch yourself. However, a millimeter away, his grip on your waist stops the collision. Your noses are pressed together, and he steps completely into your space. Damia is holding you so close that the only thing not touching is your lips. Forehead, sternum, chest, abdomen, and his arms coiled tightly around you.
He’s waiting for you to initiate the kiss, but there is so much sensory input so suddenly that your brain is effectively short circuiting. You could taste his breath, smell not just his cologne, but his body, feel the bridge of his Italian nose where he rubbed it against yours affectionately. His erection pressed into your thigh, such a contrast to how angelic he looked with his eyes closed.
Damia is holding you closer, tighter than you’d ever fantasized, and you start trembling in his embrace. Your hands flutter from clavicle to shoulder, and end up with one palm on his cheek. He smiles and snuzzles into it enthusiastically, even though the contact was so innocent. Damiano is touch starved.
You kiss him as fiercely as you can without knocking teeth, keeping your mouth soft but demanding. The hand on his face moves to his hair as the wind tangles it around your fingers. You expect some tepidness after all that apprehension, but you get the opposite: the sensation that he’s finally let go. Damia pushes his hand under your coat and grips your waist. His other comes to the back of your neck and the base of your skull, guiding. He’s not kissing you like an inexperienced little girl. He’s kissing you so passionately that a hand has to support your head.
Trying to channel all those days of denial into the embrace results in you letting out a whine without meaning to. Shuddering with pleasure, you kitten lick his lips before each kiss. He responds by opening his mouth, and pushing his tongue against yours. Instead of searching your whole mouth, he slowly massages your tongue, not too forceful, but enough for it to be sensual. This is how experienced men, adult men, kiss, you realize. His grip is tighter than boys you age would dare, yet it's perfectly measured. The hand on the back of your head somehow doesn’t register as aggressive. It’s undoubtedly the best kiss of your life.
Your free hand frantically grabs at his blazer, trying to pull him infinitesimally closer. The words that beg for more come out as a whimper, and Damia rewards you with a moan of approval. Seeing how much you like tongue, he tilts his head to kiss you deeper. His clothes, the movement of his hands, even his smell is mature. This could never be mistaken for a kiss at prom, Damia had raw sexual energy like you’d never encountered before.
It wasn’t just your pussy that ached, pounded with arousal, but your entire groin and lower abdomen. Everywhere your bodies touched was burned by the heat of your chemistry, heartbeat thundering in your ears. You started shaking, aroused to the point of tears. When he felt the trembling worsen, Damia moved his hands as if to pull away. Desperately, you used your grip to hold him close, made a noise of approval and kissed with even more vigor to prove a point.
He made the kisses slower, sexier, less tongue and more passion. You took to stroking his hair with your hand, which he liked very much. Again Damia moved away, and again, you gave chase.
“Mm, air,” he said into the kiss.
“Shit, sorry,” you gasped, lips parting. His chest heaved and his mouth was red around the edges, your presence evidenced.
“Is that enough air?”
“You’re insatiable,” he chuckles, still breathing hard. “Sorry, this isn’t the stamina you’re used to.”
“You’re not giving yourself enough credit,” you huff. Admittedly, it is hard to catch your breath when there's no breathing room. You loosen your embrace, cursing the need for oxygen.
“That’s better,” he pants in relief. Damia takes a couple steps back and turns his body away from you, signaling that the makeout was over.
“Thank you.” This was far more than you’d anticipated, and even if it was over, you were so grateful. He turns back towards you, grinning wholeheartedly. Maybe you’d misread the situation. You try resuming the embrace, and Damia doesn’t outright reject you. But his kisses are conciliatory, oh so gently telling you no. Of course you listen, even though the loss in intimacy is brutal.
“Should we go back down? I can drive you to your car.” As you followed Damia back to the corner where your belongings were deposited, he held your hand. You appreciated the gesture, but wished your fingers were laced together. Meanwhile a wave of anguish overcame you. This couldn’t be over. He may never touch you again.
“Wait!” In a moment of desperation, you fall to your knees in front of him. He didn’t want kisses or sex, so you could give him this. Damia inhaled sharply, a hand hovering over your head, fingertips brushing your hair. He hadn’t decided yet, so you try to convince him. Pushing up Damia’s shirt, you kiss and lick above the waistband of his boxers. The muscles of his stomach react to your lips and his hard cock jumps.
“Sweetheart, please stand up,” he begged.
“Do you want me to stop?” You looked up, had never seen a face so conflicted. The vein in the middle of his forehead was prominent, and his mouth was set in a grimace.
“I need you to get up because if you start I won’t have the strength to stop you,” Damia confesses. I want you, but I don’t want to. You nod, wordlessly, and pull his shirt back down. He extends a hand to help you stand up, and pulls you into a hug. The wind feels so much colder.
“Thank you,” he whispers, voice laden with emotion.
“For what?” You keep your tone low, even though there's not a soul to overhear. Secrets are always told in whispers.
“No one’s kissed me like that in a decade.”
Notes: I think if you just take a deep breath the emotions will subside. Thanks for reading! Please tell me your favorite part! This is some of my favorite writing in weeks so I'm super excited to post it, but the next part won't be this long. Also extra reminder that the reader is a character I'm creating, not me.
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