You’re already sweating by the time the front gate unlocks.

Big iron thing. Sensor barely responsive. The kind of place people inherit, not buy—too much stone, too much ivy, too many empty windows watching you as you pull your truck up the gravel drive. You half expect a groundskeeper to greet you. Maybe a housekeeper, maybe some assistant with a clipboard.

Instead, a man answers the door.

Pale. Sharp. Clean-cut in a starched button-up rolled just to the elbows, dark trousers pressed within an inch of their life. Hair parted and perfect despite the heat—though there’s a glint of sweat just behind his ear, right where it meets his jaw.

“Tom Riddle, sir?” you ask.

He doesn’t nod. Doesn’t speak. Just looks at you. Down, then up. Like he’s deciding whether you’re worth stepping around.

“…You’re early,” he says.

His voice is smooth, clipped. Oxford, maybe. Definitely private-school polished. The kind of tone used for commanding staff. Or ruining someone’s week.

You shrug and adjust the strap of your toolkit. “You said it was urgent.”

His mouth twitches. Not a smile. Something sharper.

“It’s intolerable.” He turns without waiting. “The central unit controls the main wing. It’s been pushing nothing but hot air since last night.”

You follow him inside, boots echoing over polished tile. The temperature hits like a wall—humid and close, heat baking through the high ceilings and museum-grade curtains. You catch a faint whiff of something earthy in the air. Almost metallic. He’s sweating. Not much. But just enough.

He gestures toward a vent in the wall like he’s offended by its existence.

“Here.”

You nod. Drop to a crouch. Toolkit hits the floor with a dull thud.

You’re half-unpacking when you feel it—his gaze, cutting through the back of your shirt. Lingering. Tracking the slope of your shoulders, the stretch of your sleeves. You ignore it. You’ve dealt with worse.

“Wouldn’t have thought a place this expensive would be running ancient ductwork,” you mutter, brushing dust off the casing.

He hums. “The bones are original.”

Of course they are.

You start working. Screws out. Panel off. The smell of overworked metal hits your nose—burned out motor, maybe a blown capacitor. Easy enough to fix, but the heat’s sticking to your spine already, sweat trickling low between your shoulder blades.

Behind you, the chair creaks. He’s sitting now. Legs crossed, arms draped over the sides like some vulture prince in exile. Watching.

“You don’t talk much,” he observes.

“I’m working.”

“Hm.”

A pause. You feel him shift. Hear the soft slide of fabric against leather as he adjusts his seat. When you glance back, his collar’s undone. Just one button. But his throat is flushed, the faintest sheen of sweat catching the light.

His eyes don’t leave your hands.

“You always work like that?” he asks.

You pause. “Like what?”

“Fixing things by beating the shit out of them?” 

You glance over your shoulder. He’s leaning forward now. Elbows on his knees. His gaze is fixed on your fingers wrapped around the wrench—knuckles flexing, wrist tense. His mouth is parted just slightly.

You smirk. “Would you rather I be gentle with it?”

The chair goes still.

Silence. Heavy. A breath caught between you.

He looks away first.

“Just fix it,” he says, too quiet.

You return to the panel. Smirk widening.

You get the fan spinning within five minutes. Cool air sputters, then hums, then flows—sweet and low through the vents. You feel it wash over your neck and exhale.

Behind you?

A sound.

Soft. Choked.

You glance back.

He’s still in the chair, but his knees have drifted open. His shirt’s clinging now, damp at the collarbone. His pupils—huge. His lashes flutter when the breeze hits him again, and his fingers tighten where they grip the arms of the chair.

Like it’s too good. Too much.

And just for a second?

His hips twitch.

You wipe your hands on your rag, slow. Deliberate.

“Better?”

He swallows. Nods once.

But he doesn’t say thank you.

He doesn’t even look at you.

He simply tilts his head back against the chair, throat exposed, breathing through his nose like it’s the only thing keeping him from coming apart.

You let the silence hang. Cool air rolling out of the vent. Tom’s shirt flutters slightly where it’s plastered to his skin, his body caught somewhere between relief and something more volatile.

He’s still trying to pretend he’s unaffected.

Still got that chin tilted, lips pressed into something unreadable—but his pulse is jumping in his throat. You can see it.

You reach down and snap your toolkit shut.

The sound makes him flinch.

“I’ll need to come back in a week,” you say, standing. “The motor’s halfway fried. This fix won’t hold forever.”

His fingers twitch on the armrest. Still not looking at you.

“Fine,” he mutters, but his voice isn’t as crisp this time. The heat softened him. Made him pliant.

You step forward—slowly. Boots heavy on marble. Cross the space between you with deliberate weight until you’re standing just in front of the chair. The cool air follows you. Tom’s jaw tightens.

He still doesn’t look up.

“You gonna say thank you?” you ask.

He meets your eyes at last. Calm and unreadable. But there’s heat behind it—like he’s daring you to make it worse.

“I paid for the service.”

You click your tongue. “Didn’t pay for the extra attention. Or the fast response. Or the fact I didn’t walk back out the second you opened your mouth.”

A beat.

He swallows. The tendon in his neck flexes.

“And yet,” he murmurs, “you’re still standing here.”

You take him in. Carefully, now. Like a puzzle that needs prying open instead of solving.

His shirt’s sticking to his chest now, heat-slick. One button undone at the top, like he got desperate enough to loosen it but not enough to be obvious. His slacks are creased, but you can see the faintest tension in his thighs. He’s holding himself together through sheer force of will—and his scent, underneath it all, is a mess of soap, sweat, and something utterly feral.

You lean forward. Plant a hand on the arm of the chair. Right beside his.

He doesn’t move.

“You’re ovulating,” you say quietly.

His pupils flare.

You feel it—that crack in the air. Like something pulled too tight finally splitting.

Still, he scoffs. A dry little thing.

“Bold of you to assume I’d want you.”

You grin.

Then you grab him by the throat.

Not hard. Just firm enough to tilt his chin back, thumb brushing his jawline, the heat of his skin pulsing under your fingers. He inhales, sharp. Entire body tensing like a plucked string.

You feel it. The way his thighs twitch. The way his hands grip the chair.

“You called me,” you murmur. “You sat there watching me work. Breathing heavy. Legs open. Shirt clinging like you wanted someone to rip it off.”

He exhales through his nose. Shudders.

“You want me.”

“I don’t,” he hisses—but his hips shift. His chest rises too fast.

Your grip doesn’t tighten, but you don’t pull away either.

His voice breaks. “I don’t—”

You lean in. Close enough that your breath ghosts over the sweat on his cheek.

“You want someone dirty,” you say. “Someone who doesn’t ask. Who doesn’t care how pretty your house is. You want to be bent over in this chair and ruined, Tom.”

He whimpers.

It’s soft. Desperate. Unintentional.

And the way he looks at you now? Eyes wide, lip caught between his teeth, pulse pounding like a war drum—you know he’s soaked.

So ready.

So close to falling apart.

Your hand slips down from his throat to his chest, where his shirt’s damp and clinging. You smear a stripe of grease over the fabric, just above his sternum. He gasps. Stares down at it.

“What are you doing—”

“Marking you,” you murmur. “Like you asked for.”

He doesn’t argue.

He just watches your fingers as they leave another print. And another. His chest rising and falling faster now, mouth slightly open.

When your other hand starts unbuttoning his shirt, he doesn’t stop you.

He just leans back into the leather, heat-flushed and shame-drunk, letting you peel him open inch by inch—until he’s breathless beneath you, trembling, and smeared with sweat and grease like a ruined little canvas.

The shirt comes apart easily once he lets you in. Slick fabric peeled down his arms, clinging in spots, already stained at the collar where your hand held him by the throat.

Tom stares at your fingers as you smear another streak of grease across his chest, just under the collarbone. He jolts when you do it, but he doesn’t stop you. He’s panting now, hands gripping the chair arms like they’re the only thing keeping him upright.

“Look at you,” you murmur. “Sweaty little mess. All that money and still dripping like a bitch in heat.”

His jaw flexes. “Don’t—”

You spit on his chest.

He gasps—chokes on it. Shoulders jerk, hands twitch—but he doesn’t pull away. He just stares—like he can’t decide whether to wipe it off, or drag your fingers through it and lick them clean.

You smear it in with your palm. Mix it with the sweat. The grease. The pink flush blooming down his sternum.

“You don’t want me,” you echo. “But you’re shaking.”

“I—” His voice breaks. “I’m—”

“Hot?” You lean in. Bite his earlobe. “Wet? Needy?”

He groans. Low and helpless. His hips twitch in the seat.

Your hand trails down his stomach. You watch his muscles jump under your palm, watch his thighs press together—but you shove them open again with a knee between his legs, and he lets you.

“Take it off,” you mutter.

He blinks.

“Your trousers, Tom. Take. Them. Off.”

He fumbles with the buttons. Not because he doesn’t want to—because he’s too far gone to unfasten them right. The fabric sticks to his thighs. You help, yanking them down hard, and he gasps as the cool air hits his skin.

No underwear.

Of course there isn’t.

You laugh under your breath. “You were waiting for this.”

“Shut up—”

You slap the inside of his thigh.

The sound echoes like a gunshot. His head snaps back against the leather with a whine.

“Try that again,” you growl.

He breathes hard. His lip trembles.

“…Please,” he whispers.

Better.

You run two fingers down the seam of his cunt. He’s soaked—slippery, slick, and pulsing. The heat has him swollen and flushed, sensitive like he’s days into ovulating and desperate for friction. You circle his clit once and he bucks into your hand like it’s instinct.

“Fucking hell,” you mutter. “You’re soaked through.”

“Just—do it—” he gasps.

You grip his jaw. Force his face up.

“Say what you want, or you get nothing.”

He looks like he might fight it. Just for a second.

Then he shudders. Chest heaving.

“Fuck me,” he croaks. “I want you to fuck me.”

You grin. “Where?”

He blinks. Flushed deeper.

You stroke two fingers through his folds, teasing his entrance, and he moans before he can stop himself.

“There?” you ask. “Want me to spread you open right here? In daddy’s chair?”

He nods, eyes wet.

You push two fingers in.

The sound he makes is ruined—high and guttural, like it’s been ripped from his lungs. He claws at the chair arms, legs twitching, grinding down on your hand like he’s been waiting for this all goddamn day.

“More,” he gasps. “I can take more—fuck, I need it—”

You curl your fingers. Hit just right. His whole body jerks.

“Good little mess,” you murmur. “All that attitude, and now you’re soaking my wrist.”

You start fucking him harder—deep and fast, thumb working his clit, and he’s coming undone fast. Squirming, whining, panting so loud you’re sure it’s echoing off the chandelier. You reach up and press your greasy hand over his mouth.

“Be quiet.”

He moans into it. Loud.

And when he comes—god, he screams into your palm.

Spasming around your fingers, legs shaking, cunt gushing slick down your knuckles. You feel it run down to your wrist. His whole body trembling like the AC kicked in just to cool him off.

You pull your hand away. His mouth stays open, tongue slick and pink, eyes dazed.

You shove your fingers in.

He chokes. Sucks on them like he’s starving.

Then he gasps—

And you’re lifting him. Just like that. Out of the chair, over your shoulder, like he weighs nothing. He yelps, grabs your shirt, claws at it.

“What—what are you doing—”

“Taking you somewhere with fewer antiques.”

You kick open the nearest door. Marble bathroom. Gold fixtures. Steam already beading on the mirror.

You drop him on the counter with a thud—the kind that echoes off stone and glass and expensive tile. His palms slide back, bracing himself behind him, legs falling open without thought.

He’s flushed everywhere. Collarbone down to the hips. Damp with sweat, gleaming under the bathroom lights. The chill of the AC brushes his skin now, making him shiver, but you’re already unfastening your belt, and his eyes are glued to your hands like he’s watching something sacred.

“You good?” you ask, casual, even as you fist your cock and stroke once, twice—coating it in the slick from your wrist, still sticky with him.

He blinks up at you, lips parted, chest heaving.

“Please,” he says.

That’s enough.

You grab him by the hips and drag him to the edge. He slides easy—slick thighs catching on marble, hair sticking to his forehead. When the head of your cock presses to his entrance, he shudders so hard his legs kick out.

“Still want it rough?” you ask.

His voice breaks.

“Don’t be gentle. Please. I don’t want gentle.”

You push in.

Not slow. Not gentle.

You slide in all the way to the base in one thick, relentless thrust—and he screams.

Fists slamming back against the mirror, spine arched off the counter, eyes wide and wet and stunned.

“Fuck—” he sobs. “I—god—god, you’re—”

“Too much?” you growl.

He shakes his head violently. “No— don’t stop—don’t—fuck, it’s perfect—”

You grip his hips and pull out almost all the way—then slam back in, hard enough to rattle the sink.

The sound he makes isn’t human.

You set a pace that’s brutal, punishing. Every thrust slaps skin to skin, echoing in the wide tiled space. The counter’s creaking beneath him. His thighs are spread so far he can’t even brace, just flails a little with every snap of your hips. He’s soaked and throbbing, clit slick and untouched, twitching every time your cock drags over that spot that makes him sob.

“Look at you,” you grit. “Clenching around me like a needy little slut. You act so high and mighty, and now you’re just—taking it.”

He cries out—shakes—his mouth open and panting. His lashes stick to his cheeks.

“You are a slut, aren’t you?” you snarl. “Needed a working man to come in and fuck you open while you dripped all over daddy’s furniture.”

His legs jerk.

“Say it.”

He whimpers. Tries to form words and fails.

You wrap your hand around his throat and squeeze just enough.

“Say it.”

“I—I’m a slut— I needed it, I needed you to fuck me—”

“That’s what I thought.”

You lean over him. His knees come up around your waist, and you grab under one to spread him wider. He gasps. The shift angles you deeper, and he wails when your next thrust slams in. You feel him clench, flutter, suck you in like he doesn’t want to let go.

You spit in his mouth without warning.

He chokes on it. Moans.

“Swallow.”

He does.

You grab a fistful of his hair, yanking his head back so you can suck bruises into his throat. Big, messy ones—marks he won’t be able to hide for days. He claws at your arms, your back, sobbing now with every thrust.

“Breed me,” he gasps. “Please—please, fill me up—make me yours—”

You slam into him harder. Hips pistoning. Your balls slap against the curve of his ass, his cunt tight and sucking and so wet you swear it sounds like he’s drowning on your cock.

“You want that?” you growl. “Want me to fuck a baby into you right here on the counter?”

“Yes—” He’s nearly screaming. “Please—please—you’re so deep, I can feel it, I can—fuck—”

His eyes roll back.

You don’t stop.

Not when he cums—legs locking, toes curling, cunt squeezing you like a vice. Not when he sobs through it, trembling under you, so overstimulated he’s twitching, drooling a little down his chin.

You keep going.

Keep pounding into him like the fucking air conditioning isn’t even on. Like your only goal is to fuck him through the wall.

He’s babbling now. Nonsense. Broken pleads.

“Can’t— can’t think—feels so good—so full—y’gonna break me—gonna—fuck—fuck—”

You growl against his throat. “You’re mine now.”

He shatters.

You feel him spasm around you again, cunt pulsing, body wracked with aftershocks.

You slam in one last time and come undone—a filthy, full-body groan tearing out of your throat as you grind in, burying it all. You stay there. Deep. Buried to the hilt as your cock throbs, thick spurts spilling into him until it leaks out around you and drips down onto the bathroom tile.

He’s not moving.

Just blinking slowly, gasping, covered in spit, sweat, and come, shaking like his brain short-circuited somewhere between the first orgasm and the third.

You pull out slowly.

He moans. Hazy. Destroyed.

Your cum spills out of him and onto the counter in thick streaks. He’s a wreck. Flushed, slick, ruined. Hair a mess, legs still open.

You stroke his thigh gently.

“Next time,” you say, breathing hard, “try saying please before I walk in.”

He laughs once.

Then slumps against the mirror.

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time, and I take genuine effort to do them.