Chapter Text
“Shit, shit, fuck—fucking shit,” Harry mutters under his breath in front of the mirrors in the staff bathroom. He tries to dry himself off somehow, failing miserably, using paper from the dispenser, which he eventually runs out of, left with nothing to help him dry the soaked mess he’s become.
After a few more seconds, he gives up. He decides that his mental health matters more than the fact that his entire body, clothes and hair included, is drenched. He takes a break. Closes his eyes, breathing deeply, feeling his heart pound with the knowing nerves crawling up his chest.
When all the distant sounds blur into white noise, he grips the edge of the sink tightly, holding on to something, to keep himself from crumbling, from having a breakdown before the day’s even begun. Then he opens his eyes and looks at himself in the mirror.
Thankfully, there’s no one else in the room, so he can cry and stomp his feet as much as he pleases, thank you very much. The only thing that could’ve made it worse was having his own students witness him break in the middle of class like a child at the exact moment the ceiling decided it couldn’t take it anymore, giving in to the pressure and unleashing a torrent of water from the third-floor bathroom pipes.
The truth is, it’s been a rough few days. And this, well, this was the last drop—no pun intended.
He looks ridiculous in the mirror, soaked curls clinging to his forehead, his outfit for the day completely wet. His expression wavers somewhere between shedding tears and biting his bottom lip in frustration until he tastes blood. His only consolation is that he doesn’t smell too bad, just like stagnant water. It could’ve been a disaster. It almost was. Could’ve been his last day as a professor at this place if that water had contained anything else.
Contemplating every life decision that led him to this very moment, Harry hears Liam’s voice drift into the bathroom, making him snap into composure as fast as humanly possible. The last thing he wants is for his friend and colleague to see him like this.
“H, you in here? I heard what happened.”
He hears the steps come to a halt, followed by a sharp inhale. Harry gives him a concise glance, just enough to acknowledge his presence, but not enough to invite conversation. He doesn’t want to talk about it. He really doesn’t.
“Jesus, what a mess.”
Harry lets out a bitter laugh, lifting his hands in theatrical surrender before tossing the damp, crumpled paper into the bin, harshly. “Oh, thank you, Liam. Just the encouragement I needed.”
“No—no, I didn’t mean—” his friend rushes to clarify, taking a few hesitant steps toward him, hands raised in apology. “I meant the situation. I don’t even know how something like this could happen.”
And Harry has to laugh, because his friend is trying, clearly, but at this moment, comfort is something he just can’t take.
“Oh, I do believe it. That leak’s been there for months, the pipes on the third floor fucking clogged. The department refusing to call maintenance—And now, I’ve got an entire class evacuated, laptops damaged, students drenched, and me—” he gestures to himself, voice cracking on the edge of hysteria, “—on the verge of a fucking panic attack.”
His friend, God bless him, winces. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
Forcing himself to calm down, Harry takes another breath, just like they taught him in those overpriced yoga classes. What was the name of the technique again? Nadi Sholana? Shodhana? Nad— whatever, doesn’t matter.
He waves a hand dismissively, brushing the whole thing off. “It’s fine. Could’ve been worse.”
There’s a beat of silence.
“Want me to tell everyone a pipe fell on your head and gave you a concussion?”
Harry laughs, a real one this time. He’s honestly grateful to have a friend like Liam at work, it makes everything a little more bearable. He brings a hand to his temple, pressing into that one spot that eases the pressure for just a few fleeting seconds, and says, “No, it’s fine. I’ll go check lost and found or something. See if I can find anything to use.”
“I’d give you a hug as an emotional support, but…” Liam doesn’t finish the sentence, grimacing in that way that’s half-disgust, half-trying-not-to-offend. But the rage in Harry’s chest has begun to subside, if only slightly, so he offers a tired smile. “If there’s anything else I can do, just say.”
Harry glances back at the mirror, fingers running through the wild curls in a hopeless attempt to tame them, to at least look halfway presentable before stepping out into the public eye again. “You could bring me a coffee. That’d make things a little better.”
He hears a noise of disapproval from his colleague and turns his way, just in time to see Liam wince with concern. Then, he hiss, “The coffee machine… may or may not have broken this morning.”
“Fucking great—”
“But I can run out and get you one from the cafe next door,” Liam says quickly, “I’m on my break anyway, so. What do you think?”
Harry clicks his tongue, torn between not wanting to be a burden and needing that coffee like it’s the only thing keeping him afloat right now. He sighs in surrender, then nods.
“Yeah? Great, I’ll head out now. You—go get changed or do whatever you need to do,” Liam says, steering Harry gently toward the exit by the shoulders. He lets himself be guided without protest. No fight left in him for now.
“Your students have been moved to another classroom, by the way. They’re drying off, gathering their things, doing alright. Nobody’s hurt. Just so you know.”
When they finally part ways, each heading off in different directions, Harry makes his way to the staff room, where the university keeps a collection of lost and found items. Just abandoned things no one ever comes back for. Maybe, with a bit of luck, he’ll find something that fits. Something dry. Something that doesn't cling to him like second skin.
As he walks through the halls, he feels the weight of countless glances from passing students; each one adding another layer of humiliation with every squelching step. Right now, all he wants is to be home, wrapped in his comfort blanket, curled up on the sofa watching trash TV or reading anything that isn’t a student essay. Maybe with a glass of wine. Or a whole bottle. That would definitely help with the feelings that currently drag along.
Thankfully, Mary, the janitor—bless her—a gem of a woman, all warmth and motherly concern, treats him with care and concern. She reminds him of her mother, with soothing hands, words that know exactly where to land, and a smile that reaches her eyes, making any situation seem less serious than it is. Somehow, she manages to dig out something decent for him to change into. Her kindness is so gentle, that it catches him off guard, making his eyes prickle as tears gather dangerously close to spilling.
Changed now, mostly dry, and finally beginning to feel something close to human again, he sits at the communal table, nursing the hot coffee Liam brought him. The warmth seeps through his hands. Around him, the staff room is quiet, most professors still in class, and the few present seem to understand that today is not the day to chat, joke, or intrude Harry. And he silently appreciates it.
It doesn’t take him long to get up again.
He’s been gone too long already, and he needs to see the damage for himself. Needs to check on his students, even if part of him dreads the moment their eyes land on him, guilt and embarrassment clearly on his face before he even says a word.
Even though, truthfully, Harry knows there was nothing he could’ve done to prevent any of it.
A120 hums with the chatter of his students, noise spilling into every corner of the room. No one quiets down when he enters. He tries not to let it shake him. Tries to look composed. In control. Not like someone who’d nearly crumbled in front of a mirror a few minutes ago.
“Sorry for disappearing, everyone. I’m back now,” he says in a breath as he walks between the tables, eyeing the scattered belongings. Some notebooks damaged and splotched with water, others miraculously spared. “First of all, everyone alright? I’m truly sorry this all happened. Took us all by surprise, to say the least...”
He’s met with a few soft replies. Some murmured reassurances, some quiet nods, but there are also a handful of sharp looks, brows furrowed molested. Understandable. Harry doesn’t take it personally, though the weight sits heavy in his chest.
He keeps his tone even, informative and calm.
“If any of your belongings—phones, laptops or anything important have been damaged, come speak to me after. I’ll talk to the department and make sure we sort it out,” he says, pausing just long enough to make eye contact with as many students as he can. Letting them know he means it.
“Again, I’m really sorry for all of this. We won’t be continuing with today’s class, so you’re free to take the time to do whatever you need.”
And with that, the class is officially over.
He stays where he is, leaning on the desk, watching as students filter out. Some of them linger to talk about what happened, and two girls stay behind to report a broken phone and a damaged laptop that won’t make sound anymore. He takes accountability, promising he’ll speak to the head of department and watches as the last of them finally leave, the door closing with a soft click. Leaving him alone in place.
He takes advantage of the silence and solitude, breathing deeply, eyes unfocused, staring at nothing in particular. Then he glances at his watch to check the time, confirming that it’s still early in the morning, that he still has the entire day left to get through.
With that, he tightens the grip of his hands over his crossed arms, tries to pull himself back together and continues with his day as if nothing had ever happened.
“Remind me why I have to go to work tomorrow,” Harry asks, taking a sip of his martini.
Liam, with a beer in hand, just grins. “Because we’re halfway through the term and you’re the teacher.”
He lets out a sound as the liquor goes down and nods. “Right. I forget I’m a thirty-one-year-old man with a job and responsibilities.”
His friend just laughs, taking a pull from his beer without bothering to respond. The pub is packed for a Thursday night, likely full of people escaping the drag of their workday. Though, maybe that’s exactly the reason it’s so full. After all, that's why Liam and Harry are here most days of the week.
It’s their go-to bar when they need a drink and a space to unload the weight of their day. Because, even though they work at the same university, both of them teaching, their days rarely align. Today was proof of that, misfortune had chosen Harry, and only him, as its personal punching bag.
He’s entirely convinced someone’s put a curse on him, or maybe prayed to the universe for his days to unravel one by one. Because there’s no way this streak of bad luck has lasted two full months without some kind of cosmic interference. And it’s not just work anymore. It’s everything. His day-to-day. He’s clumsier, more on edge, shoulders knotted with stress, mood darker than usual, nerves closer to the surface. He’s more irritable, more sensitive. But then, of course, there’s the fact that he hasn’t had sex in six months. So maybe, just maybe, it’s all just pent-up sexual frustration.
But ever since Alan, he’s been more cautious about that. Less willing to let just anyone close.
“You could ask for leave once the semester ends,” Liam suggests, eyes soft with worry, as always.
He’s a good friend, and has been since day one at the university. He was the first friend Harry made at work, the one who made teachers meetings and endless seminars feel almost tolerable.
It hadn’t taken much to carry that friendship beyond office hours—grabbing drinks, long conversations, just enjoying each other’s company. Bit by bit, they’d started letting each other in, until Harry found himself thinking of him as his best friend. Not everyone can say they have someone like that in both their life and workplace.
“I don’t know,” Harry mutters.
“Think about it. Won’t cost you anything,” Liam pauses, deliberately, “You could visit your family, like you said. See Sophie...”
Ah. Sophie. His niece who he hasn’t seen in far too long. Along with his sister. And his mum. Maybe if he does take that time off and shows up out of the blue, they’ll throw him out on sight, disown him from the family tree altogether. A very real possibility.
“I’ll think about it,” he replies after a few seconds, rolling the empty glass between his hands, the lone olive sitting at the bottom untouched. Feeling a bit like him.
“Want another?” Liam asks, noticing they've both run out of reinforcements. He just nods without a word, watching as his friend rises from his seat, heading to the bar.
He lets his gaze drift slowly around the place, scanning for any familiar faces. But all he sees are strangers. Regardless, at the bar, there’s a man he makes eye contact with, just for a few seconds, but enough to register. He looks a little older than Harry, dark hair swept into a slick quiff, one loose curl falling over his forehead. Eyes a piercing blue, sharp and direct, gaze heavy with intention. He holds it.
Harry isn’t sure if he’s interested in anything tonight. He’s tired, and the idea of starting something he likely can’t finish feels like dragging himself through an empty desert without any water. The thought alone wears him out further.
And of course, there’s that thing. His last few encounters have all turned messy when it came to explaining his problem. Most didn’t get it. Some were confused, others offended. A few, predictably, had their egos bruised, and then tried to prove themselves with "mindblowing sex” like the macho and rugged men they imagine themselves to be. Failing miserably.
So, he doesn’t think he has the energy, or even the patience, to go through that kind of encounter again.
The man lifts his beer in Harry’s direction, a discreet toast, maybe a promise, maybe just a greeting. Harry can’t quite tell, and he’s not sure if it unsettles him or not.
He doesn’t get much time to dwell on it anyway, not with Liam returning, balancing another martini in hand and collapsing into the seat across from him with a theatrical groan.
“Your highness, as requested.”
“Thank you very much.”
Harry lets the man at the bar slip quietly into the background, turning his full attention to Liam, who’s already launching into something about a new project the anthropology department is working on.
Which, naturally, evolves into Elle—aka Liam’s terrible and hopeless crush of the past four months. Harry doesn’t mind. In fact, he loves it when he talks about her, because it gives him the perfect excuse to tease him.
Liam’s painfully shy by nature when it comes to relationships, or even the idea of getting to know someone new. And Harry, being the kind of friend he is, loves to make him even more flustered than he already gets whenever Elle comes up.
“You’ve got the perfect excuse now to talk to her,” Harry says with a teasing smile playing at his lips, watching Liam press his lips together, clearly wanting to change the matter completely. “You can talk about the social construction of love in modern times. Great icebreaker, right?”
“Stop teasing me. It’s not funny,” Liam snaps, giving him a playful punch on the bicep, his teacher mode voice switching on. “I’ve been trying to talk to her for nearly four months—”
Harry cuts him off, finger raised, “And also spitting coffee on yourself in the meantime… because really, Liam, who talks with a mouthful of coffee?”
“I told you, I didn’t know she was going to talk to me! What was I supposed to do?,” he exclaims embarrassedly, covering his head with his hands like trying to hide, as if reliving the moment.
Harry laughs, “Maybe swallow the coffee? Wait until you don't have any liquid in your mouth before speaking? Don’t splash it in her direction?” He pauses, raising his eyebrows with a knowing look, his hand making a little gesture, “Though now that I think about it, you’ve already shared saliva fluids, that’s progress.”
“Harry!”
He’s awful.
“You’re awful!”
The martinis make him feel bold and daring, catch him if you dare. As Liam’s cheeks return to their usual shade, fingers running through his hair, or rather messing it up, he picks up where he left off.
“Anyway, I was gonna say before you rudely interrupted me—” he emphasizes the last word with raised eyebrows, “that tomorrow a friend of mine is coming to the faculty to give a talk.”
“Oh, is he a professor as well?”
Liam shakes his head, “He’s a psychologist. We studied together—but then, I switched degrees, you remember, right?” When Harry nods in return, recalling that indeed happened, Liam goes on, “Well, he’s back from Boston, staying here temporarily, I think. I asked him as a favor to give a talk about ethnopediatrics.”
He blinks a few times, “I’ll pretend I know what you’re talking about.”
Liam lets out a low chuckle, “It’s so he can talk from his psychologist’s point of view about different education and parenting models and how they influence child-rearing and development… That sort of thing.”
“Cool.”
He fixes his gaze on Liam, the silence hanging between them.
“Are you telling me this for a reason…?” Harry asks, sensing a second, clearer intention behind the words, though Liam is holding back from saying it outright.
“Tomorrow, I want you to meet him,” Liam takes a sip of his beer, swallows, then continues, “He just got here, doesn’t know anyone…”
Harry already knows where this is headed.
“You want to include him in our boys night out?” Harry teases, pulling Liam’s leg about their meetups.
His friend ignores the sarcastic tone. “I’m sure you’d get along. Besides, it’s always just the two of us—it’d be good to have someone else, yeah?”
“Expanding the group…” Harry muses, letting out a thoughtful ‘hmm’. “I’ll have to check with the others.”
Liam laughs, “You idiot, it’s just the two of us.”
That’s true. It’s always just been the two of them since they met. Not because they don’t want to include anyone else, but because they’re a couple of antisocial weirdos who scare people off with their kind of humor. Harry thinks for a moment about whether adding someone new would change the dynamic they have. He even feels a little jealous at the mere thought that Liam might leave him behind for this friend. But of course, that’s nonsense. Still, he clearly doesn’t want to lose Liam.
“What’s his name?”
He smiles brightly, pleased to see him interested. “Louis. He’s a little older than you—just three years. But you two are really similar.”
Now, he’s intrigued.
He takes a sip of his drink, eyes narrowing at his friend, and as the liquor slides down his throat, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and says, “Can’t wait.”
The thing is, Harry’s alone at home. As usual. But tonight, he happens to be a little bit tipsy, and a little bit horny.
He left Liam behind two hours ago, parting ways with a lazy goodbye, walking off in opposite directions. Harry made it home just fine, with no twisted ankles, no throwing up in dimly lit alleyways.
That, in itself, is a success.
He’s not sure why, but the moment he stepped through the door, he craved popcorn. Before the shoes came off, before he shrugged out of his jacket, he was already in the kitchen, tearing open a bag and tossing it in the microwave, watching it spin slowly on the turntable. Of course, with popcorn comes a film, and despite the hour, and the fact that he has to wake up early, Harry decides he deserves a little indulgence.
The indulgence being a mint-scented sheet mask that barely fits his face—part of it slipping into his mouth when he opens it—and a pair of mismatched pyjamas, his laptop propped up on the duvet, a bowl of popcorn nestled at his side.
No more alcohol, though. He works tomorrow. But still, he’s well on his way.
He settles on Four Weddings and a Funeral, because really, who doesn’t love a young Hugh Grant? Harry certainly does. He watches the film as best he can, though he dozes off during a few scenes, drifting in and out of the dialogue, the soundtrack filling the room like white noise.
But he wakes just in time for that scene. Charles, breathless and rambling, chasing after Carrie to tell her that he loves her. It really has to be one of the worst, or maybe best, love confessions in a film. However, Harry’s a sucker for it. He falls for it every time. He can’t help it. Which is quite contradictory, really, because he’s never been in love.
It’s not something that’s always bothered him, or that he’s particularly missed. Nothing haunting in the back of his mind on those lonely nights. He had his first boyfriend when he was a teenager, and while it was sweet, it didn’t last long. First loves never really do. And well, the others weren’t exactly relationships, maybe just his way of not feeling so alone while he tried to figure out what he wanted to do with his life. Coping as he usually does.
His romantic interest remained just the same. Like some kind of routine. Predictable. Until James. That’s when something inside him shifted, like he had awakened a different part of himself.
But he doesn’t feel like he can say he’s ever been in love the way his sister is with her husband, or the way Charles is with Carrie in the film. Sometimes he just feels a little out of place because of it, like he’s missing some piece everyone else seems to have figured out.
Just as his eyes begin to drift shut again, his face mask dry and probably sucking the life out of his skin, a notification pops up on his laptop screen, making him jolt upright. When he sees the message appear on the right-hand corner, his heart skips a beat. He could’ve sworn he’d turned off notifications for that app.
FindMyDom: You have a new like on your profile!
It makes him pause the film, because truthfully, it's been a long time since he’s seen that message. Especially since he’d muted his account, too weak to even delete it entirely.
Suddenly, he’s wide awake.
He gets out of bed and heads to the bathroom, peels off the mask, splashes cold water on his face, and takes a few steadying breaths. The popcorn isn’t sitting well in his stomach. He catches his reflection in the mirror and can’t help but feel a flicker of embarrassment. Not because of the app itself, but because he’s actually considering opening it again and checking those messages that, no doubt, have been waiting on him.
The thing is, Harry is part of the BDSM community—or, well, was. But it is something he really doesn’t want to think about right now, especially when the night was supposed to end on such a good note. Nevertheless, he can’t help but walk back to the bedroom, standing there for a moment, staring at the screen—thinking, really thinking, what harm could it do to just take a look at the messages?
Blame it on his horny ass, and the chain of shitty days, months, even, he’s been dragging behind. He’s a weak man, painfully weak. But what can you do. It’s not like he’s going to do anything. Just a peek. Just to feel that thrill again, that electric tingle shooting through his body like it used to. Besides, there’s no one here to scold him for it, or stop him.
So, he clicks on the notification without further thought, and it takes him straight to the website: BDSM, Find Your Perfect Dom or Sub. The layout’s a bit off on the laptop, clunky and stretched, but he manages to find his profile. His inbox is full of likes and messages, which is surprising, considering his face isn’t visible anywhere on the page. But apparently, the tattoos do half the talking.
Still, he skips past all of that. Eyes going straight to the most recent message, the one that triggered the notification. He clicks on the chat, heart ticking just a little faster as he reads what it says.
Twenty8Knuckles: hi there, just genuinely curious, are those ferns just decoration or an invitation?
The message clearly refers to the photo on his profile, showing off his bare torso: soft skin, with the moth resting on his stomach. The tattoo that usually draws the most attention. But near his pelvis, the inked laurels almost seem to stir, as if a gentle breeze is about to set their leaves in motion. Harry can’t deny the laurels that curve down are one of his personal favourites.
He gives the message another quick read, then clicks on Twenty8Knuckles’ profile, curiosity officially piqued. He scrolls through the photos one by one, mouth watering a little at the teasing flashes of skin. Tanned, with what must be a beard—hints of it along his neck and jawline—and a cigarette tucked between his lips, though his features are mostly hidden by the smoke. His chest is bare, covered in several tattoos, and there’s a large scar running from his shoulder down to his bicep. He doesn’t know why, but that only makes him more attractive.
Without even meaning to, Harry licks his lips. Catches himself zooming in on a few explicit photos, which is what makes him stop in his tracks. Because he’s not interested in going that road. But then again… maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing. To blow off some steam. To feel like himself again.
It’s not like he’s addicted to sex, but he does think about it. A lot.
And the message doesn’t have to mean anything. It doesn’t mean they’re going to meet up or that it’s going to turn into something. It’s not a commitment, no more, no less. Or at least that’s what he tells himself to keep from feeling guilty about how quickly he’s about to reply.
With fingers hovering over the keyboard, he thinks about what to write, wanting to catch his interest without sounding too forward. The glow of the screen lights up his face in the dark room, his eyes stinging a little from the day’s accumulated exhaustion.
Softcheeks123: A bit of both…adds to the element of surprise. You like them?
He puts his phone aside, not wanting to see whether it gets read or not. Feeling suddenly restless, he gets out of bed and heads to the kitchen for a glass of water, spilling half of it on himself, the liquid sliding down his jaw and neck. He sets the glass on the counter and stands there in silence, staring at the floor, thinking.
He should be in bed, asleep, focused on his work, on his students, and nothing else. Not flirting online, let alone engaging in anything remotely tied to BDSM. Something that could risk his reputation as a teacher.
He’s always kept this side of him a secret, because, well, why would have the need to tell anyone? It’s his thing. It’s part of who he is. But he can’t help the slight tremble in his hands at the thought that one of his ex-doms could talk, could say something, could expose and brand him as a deviant or something even worse.
But that’s only in his head.
He lets out a sigh, shaking his head, maybe in an attempt to rid himself of the thoughts that had made him quit it in the first place, and heads back to the bedroom, his heart beating a little faster at the anticipation of finding a message waiting for him.
And sure enough, there it is. A new message.
Twenty8Knuckles: hang them in the Louvre.
Twenty8Knuckles: you’d outdo the art in there.
He can’t help the soft chuckle that escapes him, a smile tugging at his lips, because, even if the line is a little lame, it works. There’s a flicker of humour threaded into the message, and that’s exactly what gets a reaction out of him.
Softcheeks123: How romantic of you.
Harry doesn’t even have time to click out of the chat, the typing bubbles appear in the bottom left corner, showing he’s active. His heart flutters unintentionally. A few seconds later, the message pops up, making him smile in the dark. He settles down on the bed, leaning back against the pillows that shelter him, waiting for him to fall asleep.
Twenty8Knuckles: gotta keep some manners, I’m a gentleman after all.
Softcheeks123: A gentleman? I see…And what’s a gentleman like you doing awake at this time of the night?
The typing bubbles appear again, flickering and tentative. Then, another message comes.
Twenty8Knuckles: even a gentleman gets lonely sometimes. not a crime in that.
That pulls out a laugh that bursts too loudly into the quiet of his room, an intruding sound that echoes off the walls and startles even him. It feels out of place somehow.
Softcheeks123: This sounds like the beginning of a porn film.
Twenty8Knuckles: you’re funny, i like it.
Softcheeks123: I’m more than just fun…
Twenty8Knuckles: oh yeah? like what?
Softcheeks123: Too many questions for one night. I’ve got to keep my mysterious reputation intact.
He doesn’t know if it’s the alcohol, the fact that he’s texting with complete freedom and zero expectations, or maybe a mix of both… but he’s killing this. Or at least it feels that way. Maybe he’s just too tired and thinks he’s being charming and flirtatious, only to wake up tomorrow, reread the messages, and realize it was all quite the opposite.
Twenty8Knuckles: can you believe my luck?…just download the app and you’re the first one I see. I feel like I should thank HIM out loud or something.
Softcheeks123: You’re new here??
Twenty8Knuckles: fresh out the womb.
He reads the message and lets out another laugh. He feels relaxed. It’s been a while since he’s had a conversation this flirty and easygoing with someone. It feels good. And Twenty8Knuckles is funny, goes along with his banter. Definitely his type.
Softcheeks123: And as a dom?
Twenty8Knuckles: yeah, that too.
And fuck, there goes his good luck. Something had to be off.
His smile suddenly disappears.
He feels disappointment ripple through his body, clicks his tongue, already poised to leave the chat and leave the man on read. Because he’s really not interested in someone new to all this. It feels like delicate territory, and Harry doesn’t want to be the one to deal with it. As selfish as it may sound, it’s too much responsibility. He prefers someone who knows what they’re doing, who’s comfortable in their skin and doesn’t hesitate when they’re in control.
Just as he’s about to exit the chat, a new message pops up in the dark,
Twenty8Knuckles: btw that was a joke. not new, been a dom for years, fyi.
Softcheeks123: I was just about to abandon you for that joke, fyi.
Twenty8Knuckles: sorry…
He stares at the conversation, a playful smile tugging at his lips. He doesn’t know what it is exactly, but something about it makes him want to keep talking to him. Which is unusual, considering most people here are just in it for one thing. Maybe the fact that he’s new to the app is what makes him seem different, which awakes something inside of him.
He glances at the clock— 1a.m. —silently judging him for still being awake and texting instead of getting his beauty sleep. But then, the new notification pulls his attention back to the screen.
Twenty8Knuckles: can you forgive me??
Twenty8Knuckles: :(
He bites his lower lip, feeling a sudden rush of control in the conversation. It’s a little exciting, he won’t deny that. So, he decides to reply, then immediately turns off his phone without checking for a response, settling into bed and hoping the alarm miraculously won’t go off in the morning so he’ll have an excuse to stay wrapped in the warmth of his sheets a little longer.
Softcheeks123: We’ll see.