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Liam Gallagher had a talent for getting under your skin like no one else.

The rest of the band you managed could be exhausting too, sure. They were reckless, impulsive, and more than capable of landing themselves in trouble. But when the dust settled, they'd at least acknowledge that you were just doing your job. They'd offer a half-hearted apology after yet another drunken bar fight or an outrageously inappropriate public comment, and, for a little while, they'd make some effort to meet you halfway.

Liam never did.

Every time you called him out on his obstreperous behavior, he'd only dig his heels in deeper, pushing back with defiance and, more often than not, throwing an insult at your face for good measure.

One night, you finally snapped.

You slammed the dressing room door behind you both, the echo cutting through the thick silence. Liam was still buzzing from the fight—knuckles split, lip split, that smug little grin plastered across his face like he won something. He dropped onto the couch like he owned it, legs spread wide, blood on his shirt and zero remorse in his eyes.

"You're really gonna lecture me again?" he drawled, voice thick with alcohol and arrogance. "Save it. I handled myself fine."

You stepped right between his spread thighs, voice low and sharp, pointing a finger in his face. "You started a bar fight in front of half the industry. You could've gotten arrested. Again."

Liam laughed, short and mean. "Handled it. You're just pissed you can't control everything I do."

"I'm your manager, Liam. My job is to keep your career from burning down because you can't keep your fists to yourself."

He leaned back, eyes glittering with that familiar challenge. "Then maybe you're shit at your job. Incompetent manager."

The smirk that followed was the last straw.

You grabbed him by the collar and yanked him forward hard enough that he nearly fell off the couch. "You brat," you spat, voice ice-cold. "You don't get to talk to me like that."

Your hand shoved between his legs, palming the bulge already straining against his jeans. He might think he was subtle, but you noticed when he got hard from getting yelled at. It'd happened more than once.

Liam's breath hitched. He said nothing, but the smirk stayed—until you unzipped him, yanked his cock out, and wrapped your fist around it in one rough motion. He was half-hard already, and you started stroking him with quick, tight pulls, lending him no buildup.

"Fuck—" The word ripped out of him. His hips jerked forward into your grip.

You didn't slow down. You worked him fast and mean, thumb dragging over the head every time you reached the top, spreading the slick that was already leaking. Liam's head fell back against the couch, mouth open, breathing ragged.

Just when his thighs started to tense and his cock throbbed harder in your fist, you stopped. You let go completely.

His eyes snapped open, confused and furious. "What the fuck?"

"You don't come until I say so," you told him, already wrapping your hand around him again. You stroked him back up to the edge—fast, relentless—then stopped the second his breathing turned desperate. Again. And again.

Each time you brought him close, his hips chased your hand. Each time you pulled away, a broken sound clawed out of his throat. His cock was flushed dark, twitching, leaking steadily onto his own stomach. The arrogant rockstar was gone; in his place a shaking, panting mess.

"Please," he finally gasped, voice hoarse. The word tasted like shame on his tongue. "Fuck, please—"

"Please what?" you asked, cold and calm, already stroking him again, pushing him right back to the brink. He clawed at the couch cushions to ground himself, other hand fisting his own hair. He looked deliciously pathetic right then and there.

"Please lemme come," he begged, hips bucking helplessly. "I can't—fuck, I need it—"

You stopped again, hand hovering just above his throbbing cock. Liam whined, actually whined, face burning red with humiliation. Both his hands fisted in the couch cushions like he was trying not to grab you.

"Say it again," you ordered.

"Please," he choked out, voice cracking. "I'll do whatever you want, I'll behave. Just let me come."

You wrapped your hand around him one more time and stroked his cock—fast, tight, merciless—until he was about to cum with a broken moan. His whole body shook with the anticipation, thighs trembling, eyes squeezed shut.

And then you stopped.

You let go of him completely, wiped your hand on his shirt, and looked down at the wrecked, panting rockstar beneath you.

"Next time you misbehave," you said, already backing out of the room, "this is what happens."

That was how it worked.

When Liam behaved, you rewarded him. When he didn't, you reminded him who was in charge by denying him whatever satisfaction he was after. Somewhere along the way, you'd begun to suspect he occasionally acted out just to provoke you into putting your hands on him—to earn the punishment rather than avoid it. Still, his behavior had ameliorated considerably over the past few months, so you were willing to overlook the occasional lapse.

Tonight wasn't one of those occasions.

Oasis had another show, and this one mattered. With the charged departure of their drummer officially announced and his replacement making his live debut, the venue was full of journalists eager for a headline.

The band already had more than enough controversies attached to its name. The last thing any of you needed was another scandal splashed across tomorrow's papers. You'd made that perfectly clear before they went onstage. Keep your heads down. Play the show. Don't give the press anything to feast on.

They'd all nodded in agreement.

Well—almost all of them.

Liam spent the entire set firing off crude remarks between songs, each one more inflammatory than the last. Even a subtle dig at his manager, making it clear to you what he was doing exactly.

You could practically see tomorrow's headlines writing themselves. Oasis Frontman Insults Crowd During Performance. Backlash Grows Over Liam Gallagher's Vulgar Onstage Comments.

And that was only the beginning. By the halfway point, you'd seriously considered marching onto the stage yourself and ripping the microphone out of his hands.

It wasn't exactly unprecedented. Liam—and his brother—had spent years cultivating a reputation for saying whatever crossed their minds. The press loved it, the boomers complained about it, and somehow the tickets still sold out every single time.

But you'd asked for one night. Just one. One show without another self-inflicted controversy.

And, true to form, Liam simply couldn't resist doing the exact opposite.

Fine, then. You'd give him exactly what he wanted, even if just to get out your own frustrations.

You cornered him in his dressing room after the show, the door clicking shut behind you as the distant roar of the crowd faded. He was still riding the high, chest heaving, sweat-slicked hair falling into his eyes, that cocky smirk already pulling at his lips.

"What's the problem now, boss?" he drawled, leaning back against the vanity like he owned the place. "I was bloody brilliant out there. Didn't even try to hit anyone."

You didn't answer with words. You shoved him harder against the counter, your hand sliding straight down the front of his tight leather pants. His smirk faltered the second your fingers wrapped around his half-hard cock through the fabric.

"Shut up," you told him, voice low and sharp. "You're going to stand there and take what I give you."

Liam swallowed, but the arrogance didn't vanish completely. "Yeah? Think ye can handle me?"

You yanked his pants open, shoving them down just far enough to free his cock, and started stroking him with quick, firm pulls. No teasing, no mercy. His hips jerked forward into your fist almost immediately.

"Fuck—" The word broke out of him, rough. His hands gripped the edge of the vanity behind him, knuckles white.

You tightened your grip, thumb dragging over the head on every upstroke, spreading the slick that was already leaking from him. "Look at you. Already dripping for it."

He tried to laugh, but it came out shaky. "Can't help it when you're this—ah—bossy."

"Bossy?" You sped up, wrist twisting just right. "You're the one humping my hand like a desperate dog."

The word hit him like a slap. His cock twitched hard in your hand, a fresh bead of precum spilling over your fingers. Liam's face flushed dark red, shame and heat warring in his expression. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again.

"I—fuck, don't—" he started, but his hips were thrusting harder into your fist now, chasing every stroke.

"You like that," you said, not a question. "Being called a dog while I milk your cock."

He shook his head once, but it was weak, and his body betrayed him completely. Every time you said it again, his cock pulsed, his breathing turned ragged, and his arrogant posture crumbled. His head tipped back against the mirror, eyes squeezed shut, but he didn't tell you to stop. A part of you—the biggest part—absolutely delighted in seeing him fall apart like this, all signs of backtalk vanished.

You kept your pace relentless, fist sliding wet and tight along his length. "You're going to come like this, aren't you? Like the filthy dog you are."

Liam's thighs trembled. A broken sound escaped him—half groan, half whimper. "Please—"

"Please what?" you pressed, cold and commanding.

"Please don't stop," he gasped, voice cracking under the weight of his own shame and the way his cock was throbbing in your hand. "Fuck, I'm—"

You didn't let up. You stroked him faster, grip punishing, until his whole body locked up and he came with a strangled moan, thick ropes of cum painting your fingers and the front of his own shirt. His knees nearly buckled, but you kept stroking him through it, milking every last pulse until he was shaking and oversensitive.

Only then did you release him. Liam slumped against the vanity, breathing hard, face still burning with humiliation even as his cock gave one last weak twitch.

You wiped your hand on his ruined shirt and met his dazed, glassy eyes.

"Clean yourself up," you said. "And don't forget who put you in your place."

You found him in his hotel room after a gig a few weeks later, but the energy felt different this time. Liam wasn't slouched and defiant—he was sitting up straighter, shirt still damp from the stage, eyes flicking to you from the double bed the second the door clicked shut. He'd been on his best behavior for weeks. No fights, no late arrivals, no smartass comments in interviews. You told him you'd reward him if he kept it up, and tonight you were making good on that promise.

"You've been good," you said, stepping between his knees. Your hand cupped his jaw, thumb brushing his lower lip. "Really good. I'm proud of you."

The words hit him harder than you expected. His cock twitched to life visibly in his pants, and a flush crept up his neck. He tried to play it off with a half-smirk, but it faltered when you unzipped him and pulled him out. He was already hard, leaking at the tip.

"Look at you," you murmured, wrapping your fingers around his length. "My good boy. So hard just from hearing that."

You stroked him slow and steady at first, watching his face. Every time you called him good, or told him how well he was doing, his hips jerked and a soft sound escaped his throat. He was trying not to moan too loud, but the praise was unraveling him faster than anything else ever had.

"You can take more," you told him when his breathing turned ragged, hands clutching the sheets like his life depended on it. "You're a big boy. You'll take whatever I give you."

You sped up, grip tightening, and he came suddenly, with a choked gasp—thick spurts painting his stomach and your hand. His thighs shook, eyes squeezed shut, but you didn't stop. You kept stroking him through it, thumb dragging over the sensitive head, spreading the mess.

"Fuck—too much—" he gasped, hips twitching away, but you held him in place with your other hand.

"No, you can take it," you cooed, voice soft but firm. "You're being so good for me. Such a good boy. Look how well you're doing."

Liam whined, head falling back, cock still twitching in your grip as you worked him through the overstimulation. Every stroke made his whole body jolt, but he didn't tell you to stop. He was hard again already, leaking steadily, face burning with a mix of abashedness and desperate need.

"Please," he breathed, voice cracking. "I—I'll be good, I promise—"

"I know you will," you said, leaning in to kiss the corner of his mouth while your hand kept moving. "Because you're my good boy. And good boys take what they're given."

You didn't let up until he was shaking and begging again, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes from how intense it felt. He came for the second time, whimpering softly as he made more of a mess on himself. Only then did you slow down, stroking him gently through the last tremors while murmuring how proud you were of him.

scary, silently brooding type of men who people gossip and speculate to be a total beast in bed. bonus points if he has muscles or just broad in physique, he looks like the ‘dom daddy’ type to the swooning people looking at him. the speculations only grows worse if they see you two walking together and you’re shorter than him, even by a single centimeter. he must treat you so roughly in bed, how does one even keep up with his monstrous stamina?

oh yes, how indeed..

“u-uuunngcc… sh-soowryy” whining in your ears, the so called ‘dom daddy’ was close to sobbing as his knees shook under his weight, strong arms wrapped deathly tight around your shoulders as he sniffles into your shirt like a pathetic mutt.

“m-missed yoouu.. guufck♡︎ pl-pleashe… lemme..” full on out sobbing now, your beefy boyfriend bucks his hips into your hand again, his earlier cum coating your palms that ended up squelching in a filthy manner as his legs shook. it was just one round, a few little tugs at his half hard cock and rubbing him over his pants and he had ended up cumming like an inexperienced teen. it was embarrassing, it should be embarrassing, but right now, your boyfriend was more happy being a cute needy little thing with you.

“let you what?” your hand tightens around the sensitive tip of his cock, making him blabber about how cruel you were unintelligibly. he couldn’t even bring his head up from where he had hidden them into your neck, shaky hands pawing at the material of your shirt to ground his melting brain. squeezing his cock head a bit tighter, you place your thumb over his weeping slit, feeling his cock twitch in your grasp, “let you what, my pretty boy?”

your boyfriend whines loudly at that, hearing that nickname that makes him melt like a puddy in your hands within seconds. he was a pretty boy, your pretty boy and you loved him. you loved your pretty boy. yours. only yours. he was always your pretty boy.

“let meengc..” trailing off, he found himself growing uncharacteristically shy as he swallows a moan. he had asked plenty of dirty requests from you before. sucking your strap under your table, getting fucked in an alley, even slipping up and calling you master during one of your anniversary sex nights.

“l-let me… cum.. on your hands..” he manages to whisper his requests after struggling to say it aloud, refusing to look you in the face in fear of cumming the moment he saw that hungry look in your eyes. feeling your thumb swipe harshly over his slit, he remembers his manners, adding in a squeaky, “p-please!” afterwards.

“good boy. my pretty boy is a good boy who knows his manners, ain’t that right?” you coo, unable to help yourself as you hear the shaky tone of his voice. look at him, a man bigger than you, who probably has some criminal record lying somewhere and yet he couldn’t even being himself to look you in the face to properly beg for attention, shaking and whining like some dog in heat.

“unnh—! uh-hhuuhh…” his hair tickles your neck as he nods, teeth nibbling on your collarbone as your hand starts to move again, squeezing at the tip and rolling your palm over his base to get his legs kicking.

“g-good… ‘m a good boyyy.. y-your! y-yours… your good boy, your prettyyynng..! ah! aanggh♡︎!!” blabbering against your skin, his legs occasionally kick under his weight as his back arches, pushing his heaving chest flush against yours. you could smell his sweat this close, but you didn’t care when he was crying so cutely in your ears.

rubbing the spot under his tip, occasionally smoothing your palm over his slit, it doesn’t take long for your sensitive boyfriend to be cumming on your hands just like he asked. digging his nails tightly into your shoulders over your shirt, his knees buckled under him as he sobbed your name. your hand was soiled in his cum now, and your shirt was stained as he cried into your stomach to ride out his high.

patting his soft hair, you feel how he preens under your touch like some needy cat, pushing his head into your palm. as much as you would like to fist his locks, he was just so cute today, you couldn’t bring yourself to act mean to him. at least, not now. instead, you push his head away from yours stomach just a bit, pushing your cum stained hand in front of his gasping mouth.

he didn’t needed to be told twice. opening his mouth bigger, taking your fingers into his mouth and sucking at them. lapping at your palms, looking up at you through tears stained lashes as he bobs his head against your fingers. such a pretty boyfriend. not a ‘dom daddy’ type at all.

Before long, the door shuts, and you’re left standing near his desk, awkwardly. Glancing at it, you notice the lack of any speck of dust or mess.

You watch as he silently sits, separating his folders and papers into different piles, and as much as the silence annoys you, you know better than to speak first.

Fortunately, he finishes quickly and glances at you with a small frown.

“Come here,” he says, but you can’t make out the tone in his words. Silently, you walk around his desk and up to him, noticing the furrow in his eyebrow.

“You were staring at the football players outside again, [Name].”

You have to force yourself not to roll your eyes. He’s fucking jealous, that’s what’s happening. If you didn’t know better, you would’ve thought that from that tone, he would be pouting right now.

However long ago, you and Nanami had been in a secret relationship where you two only showed feelings behind closed doors.

Not only is his career and reputation on the line, but so is your education.

Despite being older than you, you’ve come to realise just how much he acts like a child sometimes.

He must’ve seen the annoyance on your face because he quickly tries to correct himself.

“You know I don’t like it when you stare at them during their practice, not when I’m up here teaching. Why stare at a bunch of foolish football players when your dear professor is right in front of you?”

When he still sees the annoyance on your face, his face slowly turns to slight panic.

“[Name], talk to me. Why are you being so quiet?”

“What was that earlier?” You mutter, your jaw slightly tense from replaying the embarrassing scene over and over again in your head. The confusion on his face only spurs the anger in you.

“You embarrassed me back there, in front of all my classmates.” You practically scowl, fists clenching when you realise that now your peers may think of you as some air-headed dreamer who doesn’t care to pay attention during class.

Realisation dawns on his face, but instead of apologising, he only smirks.

“You’re mad about that, [Name]?” He lets out a chuckle, almost as if he couldn’t believe your words. “I did it for your own good; there were rumours going around about us. Would you have wanted that on your reputation?”

There’s a small smirk on his face that makes you want to slap it right off. Does he think it's funny that you just endured public embarrassment?

“I practically helped you. You know, instead of getting mad at me like this, I feel like you should owe me an apology for—”

Suddenly, you grab his tie and tug it sharply towards you and slightly into the air. His breath gets knocked out of his lungs as his hands reach for your waist to steady himself.

The scene is the total opposite of what was happening just seconds earlier. With his tie gripped tightly in your grasp, and anger and annoyance written clearly on your face, he can only stay seated at his desk, face lifted up as he reveals his neck for you.

You swear you hear him let out a small groan and a quiet curse.

“Owe you an apology? Don’t make me fucking laugh, Nanami.” Watching as his Adam’s apple bobs, your grip on his tie only tightens.

“What? You got jealous that I wasn’t paying attention to you, and you decided to embarrass me?” Annoyance laces your tongue, and Nanami only watches you with widened eyes as you continue to practically scold him.

You don’t notice how he’s gone quiet and how you’re now right up in front of him until you hear his breath hitch in his throat, which makes you pause.

Breathing heavily, you can only stare at him and his now flushed face.

“That’s honestly embarrassing for you, Nanami, getting jealous of guys younger than you.” You raise an eyebrow as you spit out more than what you were planning to.

“Now my classmates think I’m fucking stupid because you decided that you wanted to bitch and be a brat. You think that’s amusing?”

You finally register his silence, and your hand wrapped around his tie loosens as you try to slow down your quickened breath. Tensing your jaw, you eye him up and down in annoyance and displeasure before it lands on a particular spot on his pants.

Fucking hell.

“Don’t you dare tell me you’re seriously hard right now, Nanami,” you sneer, nose scrunching up as your eyes stay put staring at the tent in his pants.

Nanami widens his eyes before trying to cover his crotch with his hands, but it's too late, you’ve already seen it, and you’re not about to let it go.

You glance back up at his face as he tries to avoid eye contact, the cogwheels turning in your mind as you try to make sense of this situation.

“You got hard from me yelling at you.” It’s not a question, it’s a statement. You know he did, of course, he would.

And you swear you see something twitch inside his pants, and you quickly grab his chin to force him to face you.

“Say it, say you got hard from my yelling, Nanami.”

By this point, Nanami is bright red as a shiver runs down his spine. Is it fear? Pleasure? He doesn’t even know himself, but shit, does it feel good when you use that tone on him.

The tone that makes his knees weak, mind fuzzy, mouth dry, but his dick throb in his pants, knowing that he’ll do whatever you say if you order him around like that.

His tongue darts out of his lips to lick them wet, and he almost groans when he sees your eyes follow the movement.

“I-I got hard from your yelling,” he mumbles, but your grip on his chin tightens, and he winces before repeating it clearly.

A moment of silence passes by, and Nanami wonders if he had truly messed up.

“Take your pants off and get on the desk.” Nanami clenches his jaw before immediately following your order, standing up and getting rid of his tailored pants.

Leaving the rest of his clothes on, he quickly sits on the edge of his desk facing you. Immediately, embarrassment hits him because he knows you can see the wet stain on his boxers, exactly where the tip of his dick is. The thought only makes him spread his legs wider for you, and you notice.

What a whore.

Standing between his legs, your hands land on his upper thighs, rubbing circles on the inside, and he has to bite back a low groan. Suddenly, your hand on his crotch has him moan out loud, and his hand quickly slaps to his mouth in horror.

But you only grin in amusement as your hand continues to squeeze and rub the spot, your thumb rubbing circles on the wet spot as you feel his tip underneath.

“F-Fuckk w-wait shit! [Name]!” Nanami cries out in pleasure when you squeeze firmer, and you feel his thighs start to shake, his hips bucking up to your hand. Eyes glazing over and drool already escaping at the side of his mouth, the sight only drives you to want to ruin him even more.

Having been busy recently due to your other classes, you know Nanami hasn’t been getting as much attention and touch from you, and it’s only gotten him pent up. You also know that because of that, he’ll be quick to cum, and the way his whimpers continue to rise in pitch only proves your point. However, you can’t help but tease him.

“Don’t tell me you’re close already, Nanami.” He opens his mouth to reply, but only lets out a moan when you tug his boxers down and expose the sticky mess of his dick to you.

With his dick already slick with pre cum, you wrap your hand around it, and the most sinful, wet sound you’ve ever heard is made when you start to pump slowly. Along with the sound of his whines and whimpers, the wet sounds of your hand on his dick fill the room.

“O-Oh fuckkk mngh i-im gonna- ima-” But before Nanami can moan out whatever words he was going to say next, your hand already leaves his dick and your free hand reaches up to tug his hair backwards. The pricks of pain on his scalp paired with the pain of his hard dick only make him cry out in both pain and pleasure. His eyes roll back to his skull as he babbles out pleas and other words too slurred for you to understand most of it.

Though what you can make out are whiny “no’s” and curses as you watch more beads of pre-cum leak out from the tip of his dick to slide down to drip on his desk. There’s now a small puddle of his pre-cum on the desk underneath his dick, and you can only bite your lip in satisfaction as you watch it grow larger.

Your finger reaches down to swipe some of the mess on your fingers before lifting it to his lips and shoving two fingers in his mouth, watching as he gags lightly at the sudden intrusion. His eyes water slightly as you feel his tongue slide against your fingers and start to lick the pre-cum off your fingers.

You coo as he almost instinctively sucks on your fingers as he gazes at you with glossy eyes and a flushed face. Slowly, you pull your fingers out, and he whines as he watches his saliva connect them with his lips.

You swear you see his dick twitch hard at that.

“Ah, I-I was so close, [Name],” he whines out, and you almost take pity on him. Almost. But you know you don’t have much time left anyway, not when students may be coming back for other classes.

“How about this, I’ll make you cum as long as you don’t make too much noise. Wouldn’t want someone to pass by and hear how much of a slut you are, do you?”

Your hand returns to his dick and wraps around it, though you don’t start moving it yet.

“What if someone were to walk in here? A student, one of your coworkers?” Raising your eyebrow, a grin slowly makes its way onto your face as you see him remember how his door isn’t even locked.

But he doesn’t even care about that anymore. He’s too focused on the need to cum and the fact that the pain in his dick is too much to bear.

He only nods eagerly, and his Adam’s apple bobs as he eyes your hand when it starts moving again.

This time, the speed you choose is absolute torture. Too fast, too firm, that it knocks the breath out of his lungs and makes him groan in pleasure as his hands fly to your shoulders.

“F-fuck fuck nghh f-feels good,” he pants out, hips bucking into your hand eagerly, clearly too fucked out by the pleasure already.

Though clearly still pent up from your lack of attention combined with the earlier edge, he quickly feels the heat rush to his dick as he feels himself getting closer.

Grabbing his tie firmly again, you tug him closer to you as you pump even faster, wanting to hear all his pretty, lewd noises.

“Close, I-I’m close fuck! C-Can I cum, p-please?”

“Go on, make a mess of yourself,” you order, and seconds later, you hear him moan even louder as he throws his head back, eyes rolling back as he cums hard.

Cum shoots out of his dick and onto your hand and drips onto the desk underneath him as you slow down your pace to prolong his pleasure.

Ironically, the very same desk that was so pristine and clean at the beginning of your class beforehand is now stained and covered in his cum.

Soon enough, his breath slows down, and he leans onto you for support, his hands tightening on your shoulder. The sight of your usual stern, stoic, and serious professor, leaning on you after you pumped him dry and turned him into a whining mess, makes you bite back a laugh.

When your hand grazes back against his dick, he whines out pitifully. “Round two, Nanami?”

He only groans at you, his breath shaky. “Oh fuck me,” he mutters under his breath.

“Dont tempt me with a good time, professor.”

ty for reading to the end! ❤ - chaepink

You knew about the money, or lack there of, before Ben ever brought it up. Which, to be fair, he never actually did. You had overheard your father talking about it in the kitchen late one night with a drink in hand and disdain in his voice. Something about Soldier Boy hemorrhaging money on parties, pills, pointless flexes, defaulting on obligations, still thinking he could throw his weight around while sitting on a financial crater.

“The prick acts like he runs the damn place,” your father said, and you remember the way he scoffed. “And he’s too dumb to realize we’re all watching him drown.”

You made a mental note. You didn’t judge him for it—you just filed it away as leverage. Something to keep in your back pocket. A crack in the armor that you could oh-so-easily wiggle your fingers into.

And you see it play out exactly as expected.

He’s not poor—not really. He’s still a legend. Still a name that gets doors opened, drinks comped, rooms silenced. But he can’t keep up anymore. Not with the way he used to live. Not with the lifestyle he built, not with the image he sells. He used to throw money at problems and crawl out of the wreckage with a scar and a story. Now he just throws the stories and hopes no one asks to see the receipts.

You don’t take him out—you let him take you. He picks the places. He makes the reservations for swanky booth where you sit with your back to the dining room so he can sit facing out, broad shoulders sprawled, thumb tracing circles on your thigh.

Big man. Bigger ego.

He “pays” too. Hands the waiter the black card with a grunt and a smirk and a look like he just did something worth praising. He’ll say things like, “don’t skimp on the wine, my girl’s got a taste for the expensive stuff.”

It’s the very same card you refill every week.

You don’t say a word. You never do. You let him order the bottle, sign the check, carry the leftovers out like he’s a provider. Like he earned this. And when he slips that card back into his wallet like a badge of honor, you only smile—sweet, slow, satisfied.

He used to argue. Used to fight you for the check, used to mutter about pride and independence and not being some goddamn chick. That fizzled fast. You didn’t scream or correct or roll your eyes. You just let him throw his little tantrums, let him puff his chest, and then paid it anyway because someone had to. Because he couldn’t. And worse? He knew you knew it.

And that’s what unhinged him the most. Not that you paid. That you never held it over him. Never looked at him like he owed you. Never said what he knew was true. You just let him pretend, let him act like the man, let him sweat and sulk and strut his way through the illusion while you sat across from him with your legs crossed and your power wrapped in velvet.

Now? He thinks this charade is the balance. And of course, you let him. You nod when he says he’s got it. You kiss him when he opens the door for you. You tell him he’s “so good to you” and let him fuck you after.

And in bed, it’s worse.

So much fucking worse. Or better, depending how you look at it.

Some nights, you lean back on the bed, legs spread, lazy and half-dressed, you watch him hesitate just a beat before he drops to his knees. Still cocky, still mouthing off.

“What, you just expect me to crawl to it now?” he smirks, licking his lips like he thinks he’s dangerous.

You tilt your head, reach out, curl your fingers through his hair. His whole body reacts. And when you pull him closer—just a little—his hands are already on your thighs and his mouth is already open.

“Don’t pretend you don’t love it down there,” you murmur, barely above a whisper, and he groans. Burying himself between your legs like it’s instinct. Just like you’ve trained him to.

You guide his pace with your hands. Little tugs. A quiet word. A sharp sigh when he gets it right. And he responds to every signal like he’s tuned to you, like he needs you to tell him he’s doing good. You don’t say good boy. Not yet. You keep it just out of reach—because you know what it’ll do to him when you finally give it.

Tonight, he talks a big game like it’s his second language. Growls in your ear about how wet you are, how tight you are, how no one fucks you like he does. He brags like he’s got something to prove and the stamina to back it up. He keeps one hand locked around your hip and the other braced on the headboard and you’re fairly certain it’s all for show. Buy you let him have his fun. You moan for him. You take it like you’re desperate until you aren’t.

You grab him—really grab him—fingers locking tight at the base of his skull, nails digging just enough to sting. You tug his head back and he chokes on the sound he was about to make, thrust faltering, hips jerking like his body forgot the plan.

“Don’t stop,” you murmur, breath hot in his ear. “You were doing so good.”

It ruins him.

He groans, long and broken, cock twitching inside you, rhythm going sloppy as hell. He keeps fucking you, but it’s not confident anymore—it’s needy. Like he’s chasing something he just lost. Like every thrust is him asking please without saying the word.

You tighten your grip, control his pace, make him feel every inch of it. You whisper his name like it belongs in your mouth, like you picked it out special. And fuck—he folds. His breath goes uneven, his grip on the sheets desperate, mouth falling open like he forgot how to talk.

You press your mouth to his jaw, whisper something filthy about how good he feels, how pretty he sounds when he pants for you, and his whole body shakes. He thrusts deeper, slower, and for a moment, he forgets to talk. Just breathes. Just feels.

You roll him without warning, shove him onto his back and climb on top of him like you’ve done this a thousand times. He blinks up at you, stunned for half a second—then grins, cocky even now.

You sink down on him slowly, deliberately, watching his face fall apart.

He swears. Loud. Tries to buck up into you, tries to grab your hips and take over—but you plant a hand flat on his chest and grind down hard, sharp enough to steal the breath right out of him.

“No,” you say, low and firm. “Stay.”

And he fucking does.

Like it’s instinct. Like his body heard it before his brain could argue.

You ride him messy and relentless, chasing your own pleasure, not caring how wrecked he looks under you. He’s sweating, flushed, hands flexing uselessly at his sides because every time he tries to touch you, you pin his wrists or move just enough to remind him he doesn’t get to rush this.

He starts begging without realizing it. Broken phrases.

“Fuck—please—don’t stop—”

“You’re killing me—”

“I’m so close—”

You lean down, bite his jaw, suck marks into his skin like you’re branding him. “Don’t you dare,” you whisper. “You don’t get to finish until I say so.”

He whines. Actually whines. It punches something ugly and hot straight through your chest.

You stop moving entirely.

He gasps, hips jerking up in reflex, eyes wild. “Jesus Christ—don’t be mean—don’t do that—”

You squeeze around him, slow and cruel, smiling when he nearly comes undone right there. You keep him right on the edge until he’s shaking, until his pride is gone and there’s nothing left but want.

When you finally start moving again, it’s merciless. Fast. Deep. All control and hunger. You grab his throat—not tightly, just enough to feel his pulse—and when he looks at you like that, wrecked and open and desperate for your approval, you know you’ve got him.

“Come for me,” you say.

He breaks.

He comes hard and loud, body jerking under you, voice tearing out of his chest like he couldn’t stop it if he tried. He’s ruined—utterly wrecked—hands clutching at you like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.

You stay on top of him while he comes down, breath shaky, eyes glassy, mouth still open like he’s stunned it happened at all.

You brush your thumb over his cheek, slow and possessive, then lean down and murmur, “Good job, baby.”

That does more damage than anything else.

He groans, wrecked, boneless, pulling you against him like he needs you close or he might fall apart. He doesn’t joke. Doesn’t posture. Doesn’t say a damn word.

Next time, you’ll do it all again.

And again

And again

Because he thinks he’s the one taking what he wants.

And you’ll let him believe it for now, it’s so much easier to keep him happy that way.

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