Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

[Private Chat – BDSM Community Forum]
User: SouthernCross has entered the chat.
User: Imperator has entered the chat.

SouthernCross: Hey.
Imperator: Good evening. New here?
SouthernCross: That obvious?
Imperator: Let’s say it’s an educated guess. You were looking around for a while before sending a message. Reading profiles?
SouthernCross: Maybe.
Imperator: And mine gave you a reason to stop.

(Darren hesitates. The site’s chat interface is minimalist—white text on black, the anonymity both comforting and nerve-wracking. He taps his fingers against the keyboard, debating. He’s read a lot of profiles, but this one… this one stuck.)

SouthernCross: You seemed… straightforward. No bullshit.
Imperator: I try to be.
Imperator: What are you looking for?

(Darren exhales. It’s the question he’s been asking himself for months, maybe longer. He rolls his shoulders, still tight from this afternoon’s practice, and stares at the blinking cursor.)

SouthernCross: Not sure yet.
Imperator: An honest answer. I respect that.
Imperator: Are you looking to talk? Learn? Or do you already know?

(Darren hesitates again, fingers hovering. He knows what’s been in his head, what’s had him coming back to this site over and over, but saying it - typing it - makes it real. He swallows hard and starts slow.)

SouthernCross: Been thinking about giving up control.
SouthernCross: But not in a soft way. Want to be pushed.
Imperator: Ah. You don’t want to surrender. You want to be taken.
SouthernCross: …Yeah.

(His heart kicks up at seeing it spelled out so plainly. He shifts in his chair, suddenly too aware of himself, but the next message comes before he can overthink it.)

Imperator: Have you done this before?
SouthernCross: No.
Imperator: But you’ve thought about it.
SouthernCross: A lot.
Imperator: Restraints? Pain?
SouthernCross: Yeah.
Imperator: How much?

(Darren bites his lip. He’s thought about it in the abstract, but never had to quantify it. He types, then deletes. Tries again.)

SouthernCross: Not sure yet. But I like the idea of being handled. Of someone else deciding what I take.
Imperator: That’s a very good answer.
Imperator: And it tells me you need someone who won’t let you flounder. Who will decide for you, but not let you drown.
Imperator: You need a firm hand.

(Darren exhales sharply, pulse kicking. He wasn’t expecting the words to hit so directly. His fingers twitch against the keys, heat pooling low in his stomach.)

SouthernCross: I think so.
Imperator: Then we’ll see.

(Darren swallows. There’s something in those two words - we’ll see - that makes his breath catch. It’s not a promise, not yet, but it’s the kind of response that makes him want to prove himself.)

Imperator: You said you want to be handled.
Imperator: Tell me what that means to you.

(Darren hesitates, shifting in his chair. It’s hard to put into words, but he knows what’s in his head—knows how it feels. The weight, the pressure, the sharp edge of helplessness that shouldn’t make his pulse spike, but fuck, it does. His skin feels too tight, breath coming a little too fast. He presses his thighs together, exhaling slowly before he types.)

SouthernCross: Want to be restrained. Pinned.
SouthernCross: Like I can struggle, but it won’t matter. Like I can’t get away.
Imperator: Because you don’t want to.
SouthernCross: …Yeah.
Imperator: Do you want it rough? Or do you want to be kept there, helpless, until you break yourself on it?

(The air leaves Darren’s lungs in one sharp exhale. His fingers flex against the keys. Fuck.)

SouthernCross: The second one.
Imperator: Good.

(Darren swears he can feel the satisfaction in that response, even through a screen. It sends something sharp through him, like this stranger has a grip on him already - just with words.)

Imperator: You want to be restrained. How?
SouthernCross: Rope. Maybe leather. Nothing easy to slip out of.
Imperator: You want the struggle. You want to feel it hold you.
SouthernCross: …Yeah.
Imperator: Tell me something else.
Imperator: What’s got you thinking about all this, SouthernCross?

(The way the name sits there, deliberate, sends another jolt through Darren. He could lie. Say something vague. But he’s the one who started this. And something about the way this guy talks makes him want to answer.)

SouthernCross: I keep thinking about how it would feel.
SouthernCross: Having to take whatever’s given.
Imperator: Ah. So you want to be used.

(Darren’s breath stutters. He shifts, rolling his shoulders, but there’s no escaping the heat curling tight in his stomach.)

SouthernCross: …Yes.

(The pause stretches. Darren watches the cursor blink. Then—)

Imperator: Good boy.

(His pulse kicks.)

Imperator: I think you’re going to be very fun to break in.

Chapter Text

SouthernCross: That supposed to scare me?

(Darren types it before he can think too hard about it. He’s not actually trying to provoke - not really - but something in him wants to see how Imperator responds. Wants to push, just a little.)

Imperator: No.
Imperator: It’s supposed to make you think.

(Darren exhales slowly, fingers hovering over the keys. He does think - about what it would mean to let someone take him apart, to let go completely. His cock twitches at the thought, heat pooling low, and he shifts in his seat, pressing his thighs together like that’s going to help.)

SouthernCross: …I am. Thinking about it.
Imperator: Good boy.

(Fuck. That again. It hits like a physical thing, heat curling sharp and insistent in his stomach. He should be embarrassed at how easily two words undo him, but he isn’t.)

Imperator: What else?
SouthernCross: You tell me.

(The pause stretches. Darren watches the cursor blink, breath tight in his chest, anticipation pulling taut. Then-)

Imperator: Restraints. We’ve established that. But how much control do you really want to give up?

(Darren swallows. He could play coy, skirt around it - but that’s not why he’s here.)

SouthernCross: All of it.

(His pulse kicks the second he sends it. The admission sits heavy in the chat window, a line drawn in the sand.)

Imperator: That’s a dangerous thing to say.
Imperator: You don’t even know me.

(Darren hesitates, then types-)

SouthernCross: I know enough.
SouthernCross: I know what you make me feel.

(The pause stretches, longer this time. Darren shifts, restless, waiting.)

Imperator: I think you’ll need to prove that.

(A shiver rolls down Darren’s spine. He exhales, steadying himself, but his hands are already moving - already typing - )

SouthernCross: How?

(The cursor blinks. The answer comes fast.)

Imperator: Take off your shirt.

(His breath catches. His fingers twitch. It’s ridiculous, really - he’s alone, sitting at his laptop in nothing but sweatpants and a t-shirt, the room dim and quiet. No one can see him.

But that’s not the point, is it?

He hesitates only a second before grabbing the hem of his shirt and pulling it over his head, heart pounding. The air feels cooler against his skin. He shifts, acutely aware of the way his body hums with anticipation.

SouthernCross: Done.

SouthernCross: Uh. So. I haven’t really done this before.

(The moment Darren hits send, he regrets it. It makes him sound like a rookie, like he has no clue what he’s doing - which, okay, he doesn’t, but he doesn’t need to make that obvious.)

(A beat passes. He half expects the chat to go silent, for Imperator to leave or tell him to find someone else. But then-)

Imperator: That’s good.

(Darren blinks at the screen, thrown.)

SouthernCross: Yeah?

Imperator: I like training someone new. Teaching them how to listen. How to obey.

(Darren’s breath catches. It shouldn’t affect him like that - just words, just a stranger on a BDSM site—but it does.)

SouthernCross: Okay. So… what now?

Imperator: Now, you follow instructions.

(Darren swallows, fingers hovering over the keyboard. He shifts in his seat, suddenly aware of how his body feels, how his pulse ticks a little faster. It’s ridiculous - he’s alone, screen brightness dimmed, nobody here to see him - but it feels like something’s already shifted.)

Imperator: Put your hands behind your back.

(Darren hesitates. It’s simple. He’s just sitting at his desk, laptop propped on his thighs - no ropes, no restraints, nothing stopping him from moving. But he’s supposed to type, right? If his hands are behind his back, then-?)

SouthernCross: How am I supposed to reply?

Imperator: You’ll figure it out. Do as you’re told.

(A prickle of heat crawls up Darren’s spine. He flexes his fingers once before sliding them behind his back, pressing them together at the base of his spine. It’s nothing. Just a position. But the moment he settles, something inside him clicks.)

SouthernCross: Done.

(He shifts awkwardly, stretching one hand toward the keyboard to hit send. It’s a small struggle, but it doesn’t matter. The moment the message goes through, something tightens in his chest - anticipation, maybe, or the way his skin feels hyperaware, waiting for whatever comes next.)

Imperator: How does it feel?

(Darren exhales, rolling his shoulders back. The position is easy enough to hold, but it feels different - like he’s open. Like he’s waiting.)

SouthernCross: Different. A little weird. But good.

Imperator: You like it.

SouthernCross: I think so.

Imperator: You do. I can tell.

(Darren’s stomach flips. It’s unnerving how certain Imperator sounds - like he’s already inside Darren’s head, reading him perfectly even through a screen.)

Imperator: Stay like that.

(Darren obeys. His back straightens, his breath slows. He feels watched, even though that’s impossible. But the weight of the command settles over him like a physical thing, grounding and heavy, prickling along his skin.)

Imperator: Good boy.

(A shudder wrecks through Darren, sharp and undeniable. His thighs clench together, breath stuttering. Jesus. He needs to get it together. It’s just words. Just a chat.)

Imperator: Keep breathing. Slow. Controlled.

(Darren exhales through his nose, steady and measured. His cock is already thickening in his sweatpants, arousal creeping up on him before he even realises.)

Imperator: Stay still. Don’t move.

(Darren stills. His body is hyperaware of every shift, every inhale. The temptation to twitch, to test the boundaries, simmers under his skin - but he resists, locking himself in place.)

Imperator: Good. You’re already learning.

(The praise hits harder than it should, warm and sharp, curling deep in his gut. He’s reacting too much, too fast, but he can’t help it.)

Imperator: You like being told what to do.

SouthernCross: Yeah.

(The word comes easier than it should. His fingers twitch behind his back, but he doesn’t move.)

Imperator: Then you’ll listen very carefully.

Imperator: Take your right hand and drag your fingertips down your chest. Slowly.

(Darren’s breath hitches. He obeys, lifting one hand, ghosting his fingers over his chest - barely a touch. It’s stupid how different it feels. His own touch, but somehow not his own, because it wasn’t his decision.)

Imperator: Lower. Over your stomach.

(Darren’s fingers skim down, his skin prickling at the light touch. His breath stutters as he brushes the waistband of his sweats, anticipation curling tight in his gut.)

Imperator: Stop.

(Darren freezes. His fingers twitch at the waistband of his pants, aching to move - but he holds still.)

Imperator: Good boy.

(Darren exhales sharply. The words land like a touch, like pressure. Pleasure hums through him, his cock straining against his sweats, and he hasn’t even touched himself.)

Imperator: You’ll wait. You won’t move until I say.

(He swears he can feel the satisfaction in those words, like Imperator already has a hand wrapped around him, squeezing just enough to make him want - just enough to drive him crazy.)

Imperator: Tell me. How badly do you want to obey?

(Darren’s fingers tremble where they rest on his stomach. His mind is stripped down to this - his breath, his body, and the words on the screen that seem to own him completely.)

SouthernCross: More than anything.

(The cursor blinks. A long pause. Darren waits, wound tight, aching for the next command.)

Imperator: I like the way you follow orders.

(Darren shivers. Tension coils deep, tight in his stomach. It’s absurd how easily Imperator gets under his skin, how a few simple words have him wound this tight.)

Imperator: But obedience isn’t just about doing what you’re told. It’s about trust. About knowing I can take you apart and put you back together however I please.

(A slow exhale leaves Darren’s lungs, heat licking through his veins. The words settle deep, a promise wrapped in steel. His cock throbs in his sweats, untouched and aching.)

SouthernCross: I want that.

Imperator: Do you?

Imperator: Want to be stripped down? Held open? Taught exactly how to serve?

(Darren swears he can feel the weight of it, like a hand between his shoulder blades, pressing him down. It should be ridiculous - he’s alone in his flat, laptop balanced on his knees—but the heat in his gut is real, the need curling through him undeniable.)

SouthernCross: Yeah.

SouthernCross: I do.

Imperator: Then I’ll teach you.

(Darren’s pulse thrums at his throat. He barely has time to process before another message appears.)

Imperator: Slide your hand lower. Just the tips of your fingers, over your cock. Don’t grip. Just feel.

(Darren obeys, dragging his fingertips over himself through his sweats. The pressure is light, barely there, but it’s enough - just enough to make him crave more, to make him whine low in his throat.)

Imperator: How does it feel?

SouthernCross: Teasing.

Imperator: Good. You don’t get to rush.

(Darren grits his teeth, fighting the urge to press down harder, to take what he wants instead of waiting to be given.)

Imperator: I like making you wait.

Imperator: Like knowing you’ll sit there, aching, because I said so.

(A soft curse slips from Darren’s lips, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. He barely recognizes himself, the way he’s responding to this so easily.)

Imperator: Take your hand away.

(Darren exhales sharply, forcing himself to obey, even as his cock throbs in protest. The loss of even that teasing friction makes him ache.)

Imperator: Such a good boy.

(A helpless noise gets caught in Darren’s throat. He doesn’t know when it started affecting him like this, when the praise started sinking in so deep - but it does. It does.)

Imperator: I could make you wait longer. Until you’re desperate. Until you’re begging for it.

(Darren swallows hard, his body already betraying him. He wants that - wants to be pushed past what he thinks he can take, broken open and remade - but he’s never said it. Never admitted it, not even to himself.)

SouthernCross: I wouldn’t stop you.

(The pause is long this time. Darren almost worries he’s overstepped, said something wrong. But then-)

Imperator: I know.

(The certainty in those words sends something shuddering through Darren, like Imperator already knows him better than he knows himself. Like he’s already owned.)

Imperator: Keep your hands behind your back.

Imperator: Breathe.

(Darren obeys. His body is trembling, his skin too hot, too aware. His cock is leaking against his sweats, throbbing with need. And all he can do - all he wants to do - is wait for the next command.)

(Darren keeps his hands behind his back, shoulders tense, breathing hard through his nose. It’s harder than it should be - doing nothing. His body is begging for friction, for something to push against, but all he has is the heat of his own skin and the weight of Imperator’s words pressing down on him.)

Imperator: I bet you look beautiful like this.

(Darren’s breath catches. He shifts, rolling his shoulders back, his spine arching subtly - like he can somehow show himself to Imperator through the screen.)

SouthernCross: You can’t even see me.

Imperator: I don’t need to.

Imperator: I can feel you.

(Darren exhales, pulse hammering at his throat. He swears he can feel it too - this invisible line tying them together, winding tight.)

Imperator: Are you leaking?

(Darren’s ears burn. He swallows, shame and arousal tangling up inside him, making his cock throb in its own heat.)

SouthernCross: …Yeah.

Imperator: Good boy.

(The words hit like a pulse, sending a fresh wave of heat flooding through him. He squeezes his thighs together, shifting on the chair, but it does nothing to relieve the ache.)

Imperator: You want to be touched so badly, don’t you?

SouthernCross: Yes.

Imperator: Say it properly.

(Darren hesitates. It’s stupid - he’s alone, no one can hear him - but there’s something about putting it into words that makes it feel real.)

SouthernCross: Please.

Imperator: Please what?

(Darren clenches his jaw, frustration curling in his gut. He knows what Imperator wants. Knows that if he wants this, he has to give something of himself first.)

SouthernCross: Fuck. Please, sir, I-

(his fingers twitch)

I need to touch myself.

(There’s another pause. Darren holds his breath, waiting-)

Imperator: There’s my boy.

(Darren exhales shakily, his skin burning. He’s never felt owned before - never felt wanted like this, not for anything beyond what he can give. But this? This feels like something else entirely.)

Imperator: Undo your sweats. Just enough to free yourself.

(Darren doesn’t hesitate. His fingers tremble as he shoves the waistband down, just far enough to let his cock spring free, flushed and leaking against his stomach.)

Imperator: Hands back where they were.

(Darren groans, but he obeys - because of course he does, because his body is already falling into Imperator’s hands like it was built for this. He’s exposed now, aching, and he can’t do a damn thing about it.)

Imperator: You’re learning so well.

(Darren shudders. He’s never felt this helpless, this open. The air on his skin makes everything sharper, more desperate. His cock twitches, leaking, and there’s nothing he can do but sit there and take it.)

Imperator: Tell me how it feels.

(Darren wets his lips, breath hitching. He shifts his hips, just a little, desperate for something - anything.)

SouthernCross: Frustrating.

Imperator: Good.

(Darren groans. He squeezes his eyes shut, willing himself to stay still, to stay good, but it’s hard.)

Imperator: You’re so easy to train. So desperate to please.

Imperator: I wonder how far I can push you.

(Darren barely swallows down a whimper. He wants to know too - wants to see just how much he can take.)

Imperator: You’re so good when you’re desperate.

(Darren swears his body is shaking, even as he tries to keep still, his chest heaving. He can feel the weight of those words like an invisible hand, pressing him further into submission.)

Imperator: Let me hear you.

(Darren’s breath hitches at the command, and for a moment, he hesitates - unsure of what Imperator really wants. But he doesn’t have to think for long.)

SouthernCross: Please...

(The words feel like they burn in his throat, like giving them up costs him something important. But it’s exactly what Imperator wants, and that makes Darren feel like he’s losing control - like it’s already slipping away.)

Imperator: Good boy.

(The praise hits him like a wave, and he can’t help but let out a soft, helpless whine. He’s so fucking wet, his body slick with desire, and he’s still barely been touched. The ache in his cock is unbearable now, the skin tight and sensitive.)

Imperator: Do you want me to use you?

(Darren’s breath catches. The question lingers in the air, heavy and thick. His hips twitch against nothing, and it’s like his whole body is vibrating with the need to answer. He wants it, wants to be used, wants to be taken in a way he can’t quite explain.)

SouthernCross: Yes.

Imperator: I’ll make you ready.

(There’s no explanation, no hint at what he means, just the certainty that Darren will be made ready, and the thought of it sends a rush of heat flooding his chest.)

Imperator: Get on your knees.

(Darren moves before the words are even fully processed, dropping to the floor as if he’s been trained for this, like the command was already in his bones. His cock is still painfully hard, leaking, but he doesn’t care. Not anymore.)

Imperator: You’re a good boy, aren’t you?

(The question comes low, and Darren doesn’t even hesitate this time.)

SouthernCross: Yes, sir.

(He feels it - imperceptible but there, the flicker of a shift in him. It’s not just about the words anymore. It’s something deeper, something real. He’s giving up pieces of himself to this stranger, this Dominant, and it’s intoxicating.)

Imperator: I could make you beg for it.

Imperator: Make you so desperate, you’d scream for me.

(The thought alone sends a shudder through Darren’s spine, his cock leaking harder than before, begging for friction, for something to hold onto.)

Imperator: But not yet.

(The denial is sharp, bitter-sweet. Darren exhales heavily, holding back a frustrated moan. He wants it so fucking badly, but it’s not his choice. Not anymore.)

Imperator: You’re going to wait. And I’m going to enjoy making you squirm.

Imperator: But not for long.

(Darren’s mouth is dry, his body begging for more. But still, he obeys. He remains where Imperator put him, like a puppet on a string, waiting for the next movement.)

Imperator: Take your time. I’m going to enjoy this.

(The last line is so soft, so full of promise, that it makes Darren’s stomach clench. He’s being played with, drawn out into something he doesn’t fully understand, but he doesn’t want it to stop. Not yet.)

Imperator: You’ll beg for me soon enough.

(The words land like a touch, dragging a groan from Darren’s throat. He’s so close, so close to breaking - but Imperator knows how to make him wait. It’s unbearable, and it’s perfect.)

Imperator: You’ve been patient, haven’t you, boy?

(Darren’s pulse skips. The words hang there, a promise. His body, still on its knees, feels like it’s vibrating with the weight of it, the tension in every muscle aching for release.)

SouthernCross: Yes, sir.

Imperator: You’ve earned it.

(Darren doesn’t dare move, doesn’t dare make a sound, even as his cock throbs painfully, the skin slick and sensitive. But Imperator doesn’t leave him in suspense for long.)

Imperator: Take your cock in your hand.

(Darren’s breath stutters, but he obeys—reaching down slowly, fingers trembling, as he wraps them around himself. It’s enough to send a spark of pleasure flooding through him, but it’s not enough. Not yet.)

Imperator: Slowly.

(The command comes with a velvet edge, soft but still demanding. Darren’s hand moves, slow and measured, pumping once - then again, each stroke tight and deliberate. He can feel the slickness on his cock as he moves his hand, the tension in his body shifting with every motion.)

Imperator: Good boy. You’re learning how to be patient. How to please me.

(Darren can barely hold back the sound that wants to break free - he’s so close. But he doesn’t dare rush it, doesn’t dare try to chase the feeling too soon.)

Imperator: Now, when I tell you, I want you to come for me.

(The words cut through Darren’s restraint like a hot knife. He can feel his release pulling at the edges of his control. But he’s waiting. Waiting for Imperator to give him the command.)

Imperator: On my command.

(It’s torture. Every fiber of Darren’s being is straining for that release, the slickness of his hand, the desperate ache in his cock, and Imperator’s calm, commanding presence hovering just beyond the screen.)

Imperator: You’re mine to control. I decide when you come.

(The weight of those words settles deep into Darren’s chest, making him feel both owned and wanted. He’s waiting, obedient, desperate, but he won’t break without permission.)

Imperator: Come for me, boy.

(The command is sharp, like a snap of a whip, and it’s the last thread of restraint Darren’s been holding onto, unraveling in a split second. He’s coming with a groan, his body shaking, his cock pulsing as the pleasure bursts through him in waves. He can’t even contain the sound, the desperate moan that slips from his mouth as he spills over his hand.)

Imperator: Good.

(Darren stays where he is, still trembling, breathing heavily, riding the aftershocks of his orgasm. His hand is still around himself, but the pressure has gone, replaced with the sweetness of release. He’s been good. He’s been rewarded. And he feels something crack open in him - something that’s both terrifying and liberating.)

Imperator: You did well, boy.

(Darren can’t help but let out a soft sigh, eyes closed, his body still humming with the intensity of it all.)

SouthernCross: Thank you, sir.

(It feels like a vow, somehow. A promise that this isn’t over. That Imperator will be back. Darren’s already anticipating the next moment, the next command. He’s learned how to submit, how to give in - and the craving for it is already building again.)

(The screen flickers for a moment, and Darren’s body is still trembling from the aftermath of his orgasm. He’s breathing deeply, still on his knees, the weight of the session pressing down on him, but there’s a softness in the air now. The immediate urgency has faded, replaced by a quiet sense of satisfaction, but also an ache that lingers.)

Imperator: You did well.

(The words come slowly, Darren’s still on his knees, trembling slightly, as he processes everything - his body still humming with aftershocks. He’s trying to collect his breath, to find his center again, but it’s hard when every inch of him feels like it’s alive. The intensity is still lingering in his veins, pulsing, throbbing.)

(The silence stretches on, and Darren doesn’t immediately answer. He’s lost in his own headspace, feeling the weight of the experience, the heaviness of submission still hanging around him like a cloak. His chest rises and falls in a slow, measured rhythm, but he can’t quite bring himself to respond just yet.)

Imperator: Are you okay, boy?

(Darren’s breath catches at the question. It’s so different from the commands that came before—simple, direct, but carrying something unexpected beneath it. Care. It almost breaks something inside him, makes him realize how much he’s needed that. His throat tightens, and his fingers hesitate over the keyboard, the weight of the moment settling over him. He swallows hard and forces himself to respond, his thoughts still raw, breathless in a way that has nothing to do with exertion.)

SouthernCross: I’m still here, sir. Just... tired. Wired. Wow.

(His words feel like an exhale, a release of everything that’s built up over the session. Just typing them out settles something in him - a quiet acknowledgment that he’s been through something intense, and now he’s just… processing. The tension lingers in his body, but there’s a calm beneath it, a sense of something shifting inside him.)

Imperator: Good. Rest for now.

(The command is gentle, almost like a whisper, but it carries with it the weight of authority that Darren’s come to crave. As he reads Imperator's words, the weight of them settles in.)

Imperator: You were patient. I’ll make sure it’s worth your while again.

(The words land with a sense of finality, but also with a promise - a promise that there’s more. And the thought of it sends a jolt of excitement straight to Darren’s core. He’s already anticipating what’s next.)

SouthernCross: Can’t wait, sir.

(The words are breathless, eager, and genuine. It’s clear now - this connection is just beginning, and Darren is hungry for what comes next.)

Imperator: Until then, boy.

(The screen goes dark, leaving Darren sitting there, still on his knees, his heart pounding, his body still thrumming with the after-effects of the session. He can’t quite put into words what he’s feeling, but he knows one thing for sure - this is just the start.)

Chapter Text

He should’ve forgotten about him by now. Usually, by this point, the novelty wore off - especially with newbies. Eagerness burned bright, brief. A few messages, maybe a second round if the chemistry held, and then it fizzled. Most were all bark and fantasy, a temporary distraction. Fun, sure. Fleeting, always.

But SouthernCross?

SouthernCross had lingered

He sat back in his chair, fingers idle on the keyboard, the last half-written message to someone else blinking back at him, ignored. The beer beside him was half-warm, long since abandoned in the slow slide from intention to distraction. His cat – sleek, smoke-grey, with a glare that suggested he'd claw him if he so much as moved the wrong way - purred softly, content, settled in the crook of his arm.

The screen glowed dimly in the quiet apartment, casting pale light over his fingers where they hovered above the keyboard. One hand absently scratched behind twitching ears; the other remained still. The cursor blinked in a different chat - half-written message, forgotten mid-sentence.

A few new notifications had come in. Photos from someone. A message from a name he didn’t remember. A couple of new requests. He didn’t open any of them.

He was staring at a different thread entirely.

SouthernCross

SouthernCross had been… refreshing.

It had been his first time - awkward pacing, hesitant phrasing. A little unsure of how to balance need and nerves. But it was a good kind of awkward. Honest. Polite but not passive. Curious without being cloying. He’d followed direction like someone who actually wanted to understand, not just perform.

There was something charming in the way he’d fumbled at first. Like he hadn’t entirely known what he was asking for but he’d wanted it anyway. Wanted him, or at least what he offered.

Imperator wasn’t sentimental about this shit. He liked control. The quiet unravelling. The precision of it. Of making someone come apart with only a line, a pause, a carefully timed silence. But this one... this one had stayed in his head.

Not just the responses, the tight, breathless typing, pauses he could feel even through a screen. But the way SouthernCross had kept thinking. Processing. Reflecting.

Afterwards, he’d messaged:

Thanks for being patient.
Didn't think it would hit me that hard.
I keep replaying it.

So was he.

It was strange. How it had stayed with him. Not the act itself, but the connection. The kind that slips in through the cracks, under the door, and gets into your bloodstream before you even notice the draft.

He shifted slightly, the cat making a soft sound of protest. He soothed it with a gentle stroke, reached for the beer, held it without drinking. Just something to do with his hand.

He didn’t know much about the man behind the screen. Time zones put him a few hours ahead. His tone had that clipped kind of roughness, like someone used to speaking plainly, saying less and meaning more. And when things had hit their peak, when that edge of vulnerability had shown, he hadn’t tapped out. Hadn’t postured either.

He’d paused. Breathed. Trusted.

That trust had felt good in his hands.

He leaned forward and opened the thread.

Still unread. SouthernCross’ message from yesterday sat waiting, quiet and low-stakes:

Hey. Hope your week's going okay. Still thinking about Monday. Thanks again.

No pressure. No ask. Just… there.

His fingers hovered.

Still thinking about you, too.

He didn’t type it. But the words were there. Sitting in his chest like heat.

Maybe he was trying to stay detached. Keep the boundaries clean.

Maybe he was lying to himself.

“Merda,” he muttered under his breath.

The cat blinked at him, tail twitching.

“Yeah, yeah,” he added, voice low. “You’ve got opinions.”

He scratched behind his ears again. The cat settled again, its purring rhythmic against his ribs.

He let the cursor blink. Let the message sit, unopened a little longer.

He didn’t reply.

But he would.

Eventually.

Probably.

Chapter Text

He wasn’t checking his phone.

Not really.

It was just habit. The kind that crept in when he wasn’t paying attention - like double-knotting his laces or tapping the handle of his coffee cup twice before taking a sip. Tap the screen. Glance. Lock it again.

It just happened to sit there on the bench beside his towel, the screen angled toward him. Every time he sat for water or stretched his calves, his eyes slid to it. The black glass stared back, blank.

No message.

He thumbed it dark again, face down on the bench beside him, but it didn’t matter. The thought had already taken up residence in his chest, hollow and humming.

Three days.

Not that he was counting. Not like that.

Across the court, Jannik was moving well - shifting into crosscourt returns, clean footwork, intensity dialled in just below match-level. He looked solid. Coachable. Settled.

Darren should’ve been watching more closely. He was, technically, but the kind of watching where your eyes tracked movement and your mind drifted elsewhere. Backwards. Sideways. Monday night.

He could still hear it. That rush of nerves and heat, his fingers fumbling on the keyboard like every letter mattered, every breath was going to get read between the lines. Careful, measured, unflinching.

He hadn’t meant to need that kind of structure. Hadn’t expected it to feel good, to surrender a little piece of himself and be met with calm, controlled presence.

But Imperator had known exactly how to handle him.

Until the silence.

Darren shook it off like sweat and stood, trying to focus on the court again.

“His hip’s dropping early,” Simone said beside him, matter-of-fact. “You see that?”

Darren startled. “What?”

Simone didn’t look at him. Just nodded toward Jannik. “Crosscourt. His weight’s wrong. He’s compensating.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Darren nodded quickly. “I’ll mention it later.”

There was a beat too long between them. Simone’s sunglasses masked any suspicion, but Darren could feel the weight of that stillness. It made the hairs on the back of his neck lift. Darren forced his shoulders loose, made a show of sipping from his bottle. Nothing to see here, mate.

It didn’t work. Later, as they packed up cones and fed balls back into the hopper, Simone came over. Not with any performance critique, just:

“You alright?”

The question was too simple, too easy to misread. Darren heard it for what it was - a crack in the veneer. He nodded quickly, too quickly. “Yeah, all good.” His smile felt stiff. “Didn’t sleep great.”

Simone just hummed, then turned his attention back to the court like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t just peeled back the edge of something Darren was trying not to acknowledge.

Later, in the hotel, the silence was louder.

He kicked off his shoes and didn’t bother with the light, sitting on the edge of the bed in the soft glow of his phone screen. The hotel room was exactly like every other on tour - muted beige, folded towels, the hum of the minibar - but somehow it felt too close around him.

He hadn’t messaged again.

He’d typed something the night before. Deleted it. Typed another. Backspaced that too.

It was fine. He didn’t need to chase it. Maybe it had been a one-off - kindness extended to a newbie, nothing more. It had felt like more at the time, but maybe that was just adrenaline. Just his own voice in the dark, echoing.

The thing that stuck with him - more than the rush, more than the orgasm, more than the calm, strict words guiding him through it - was how seen he’d felt.

And how afterward, Imperator had said:
You did well.

He clung to that harder than he meant to.

The phone screen flared bright in his hand.

One notification.

His heart jerked before his brain caught up.

Imperator: You did well. You’re still on my mind.

Darren froze.

It was simple. Four lines. No emojis. No questions. No hint of obligation. Just calm, like everything inside him hadn’t been tipping sideways all day.

He stared at it.

Read it again.

Still on my mind.

That shouldn’t have hit as hard as it did.

He wanted to reply. Immediately. His fingers twitched toward the message bubble, thumb brushing the screen like muscle memory.

But what would he even say? Thanks? You too? Please don’t disappear again?

Pathetic.

He dropped the phone onto the duvet beside him and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. Breathed in. Breathed out. Scrubbed his hands through his hair.

Don’t get attached. You don’t even know him.

It didn’t matter.

It already felt like something had hooked in, and the line was still pulling.