August and the Brat. August Walker x Reader. Smut, spanking. Daddy August has had enough of your antics today. This is for certain friends who egged me on. You know who you are, and you have only yourselves to blame.
He’s just so goddamned busy these days. No time, no sweet little whispered nothings, just I did warn you and a certain weariness to the set of his moustache. Just him bare-assed on the balcony at sunrise, drinking coffee and idly scratching his balls as the world wakes up. He’s thickly furred all over and throwing enough heat for you to nearly see the steam rising from him. Pet. Come sit with me.
Not on his lap; he balances his cup on one massive thigh— so big, so good for riding, but wait, no. It’d be even better if you were bent over that thigh, wouldn’t it? Don’t you just desperately want to feel one of those callused hands coming down hard (but not too hard) on your ass? Yeah? He’s got the seeds of violence in him, anyone can see that, but to have all that power focused on you— to feel like you’re the only person in his world, his princess, his precious little—
—on the counter. Pet. Are you even listening?
I was— daydreaming. Not paying attention. What?
There’s cash on the counter, order yourself something for lunch. Stay inside. I’ll be working late when I get back, so no play today. Oh.
And he’s gone, just like that, slipping into his boring suit and his boring shoes and picking up his boring briefcase. He steps out the door and he must not have heard your Daddy, bring me chocolate because his steps don’t slow. That’s the way the morning starts. And here you are with the sun creeping across the rug, trying to pick the lock on his study door, leaving extra gouges when it isn’t quite obvious enough what you’ve done. He’ll have to spank you now. Right? Right?
Nope.
August comes home with wrinkles in his suit and his mustache drooping. He simply says clean it up when he sees the takeout boxes on the coffee table; it’s disappointing that he doesn’t slam you down and rake a plastic fork across your nipples or stuff your mouth full of cock while saying here’s your dessert, but there’s still plenty of time left in the day. He hasn’t even seen—
Pet. Come here. There’s the voice, the serious business about-to-be-punished voice, the one that’s pitched a little lower and stripped of inflection. Already you can feel the warm sting of his hand on your ass, the firmness of his thighs as he holds you over his lap.
Yes, Daddy? It’s a fine line between sweet and simpering, darling. Have you got it right?
What. Is. This. His fingers rasp over the gouges in the study door.
Wanted in. Are you going to punish me? That’s it. All his attention is locked on you now, all that coldly focused— well, well. What’s that in his hand? A composition book? It’s a little unusual for a spanking tool but maybe—
I shouldn’t have to tell you twice. The study is off limits. You’ll write me an essay, ten pages. I want to know that you understand the wrongness of what you did. An essay? Really? And critical thinking? All you wanted was a spanking. And he must see the displeasure on your face because
Fifteen pages now. And make them neat. And he disappears into the study.
That’s the way the afternoon goes, and your hand is cramping by suppertime. And when August emerges it’s to take the composition book from your outstretched hand; he glances through and must be satisfied for now because all he says is time to eat.
Eat pussy, maybe? Oh, that’s a splendid idea, isn’t it? He could just pick you up like it was nothing and deposit you on the kitchen table; he could pull up a chair and lick and suck and growl his appreciation into your depths. Maybe he could even slap your thighs a little, make them warm and sensitive for when his stubble scratches against them. He could get you wet and shivering and take you out somewhere nice.
Or not. All he says is please make the salad, and sets himself to cooking. It soothes him, calms him; whatever he’s been struggling with behind the study door is laid aside to make room for slicing vegetables and heating pans. He could be meditating, letting himself fall into the rhythm of knives and oil and the perfect blend of spices. And he is not paying attention to you.
Daddy. Nothing. Daddy. Still nothing. And if the salad bowl happens to jump right off the counter, well, you couldn’t have had anything to do with it. He turns then, and there’s that moment when you see him assessing, calculating; there’s a little flare of something fiery that he shoves down hard. And when he speaks it’s in that voice again.
To the corner. Oh. Oh no. This isn’t what you wanted at all, is it dear? He watches as you slink to that corner and press your nose against the wall; he crouches down and says I know what you’ve been up to. Did you think I’d read your mind and give you what you want? Oh, pet. You need to use your words. If you want a spanking, if you want a rough fuck, you have to ask. Stay here and think on that.
He goes to eat and leaves a plate beside you; the food is good but tinged with shame and disappointment. There are footsteps overhead; he’s gone back to work. He’s gone back to work and you are here, and you will stay here til he comes down to release you. Think on that.
Warning: Dark!August Walker, metions of kidnap and stuff
*ahem*
Imagine being kidnapped by this guy,
And then rather than being all angry or afraid, you're just into it. Like, "Yeah, why do you think I went to that really secluded area today?" "Pffft, I've noticed you for months, was just waiting for when you'd eventually do it." "Now, what do you want? Wanna tie me up in bed? Spank me? Edge me til I beg?"
Basically you're so chill / into it that he's like "what the fuck?"
