Jess: Me at Eloise Bridgerton type "feminist" characters in tv and film
If you can't tell, I'm girly as hell and any good feminist should NEVER look down on women who tend to vibe with feminine attributes.
It doesn't make them less than and shoe horning in "feminists" in period dramas who do nothing but rant, act holier than thou and look down on the more "girlier" characters is a complete disservice to women and girls who watch this and feel like they should rid themselves of femininity altogether in order to be taken seriously by others (case in point, Season 6-8 Sansa Stark)
Summary: Geta makes a great sacrifice for his reader, his beloved and empress of Roman.
Notes/Warnings: Angst, mentions of sacrifice (not in graphic detail…what happens is implied) , dates view of the Gods/Goddesses, squint mention of nudity. Pontifex (a word for priest) There will be a chapter 31 and more…the way it ends feels like an ending…its just to end that particular moment!
🌺Thank you so much for reading.🌺 💐Sorry once again for the delay but I wished to do this scene justice.💐
❤️s, reblogs, comments, & feedback are appreciated.
Sweat, clung to your features. Unease, filled him as he watched Aelia, tried to stop the struggle that had come over you. You twisted and turned and the words that came from you were incoherent.
He drew closer. “My petal, my beautiful petal I am here.” His voice cracked.
Your eyes were wild as they his, you reached and clung to him. He held you close, tightly against him. Reaching into your tightly twisted hair, finding the ribbons he gave them firm tugs and it was not long till your hair fell in soft waves down your back. The fragrance of the oils, the essences of flowers enveloped the two of you. You were warmer than he ever felt prior.
You continued to mumble incoherently. Though seeing that the tears had finally ceased gave a small respite. Whatever was ailing you perhaps was finally beginning to leave you.
He looked at Amina as she approached,
"Gather me a jug of fresh cool water, clean clothes.”
“Yes, is there anything se you wish to have?”
He chew the inside of his cheek, he gave a curt nod.
“Gather the Pontifex, along with the needed incense, grain and an array of lambs.”
Her eyes grew.
“Get them now. The cool water first, bring it to our chambers. We need to show Juno, that we are grateful and seek her to care, to look upon our empress and her unborn child."
"Yes, Geta." She kept her head low.
“Have the others begin to light candles, the lanterns. Several of them. With the pontifex at my side we will carry out her tribute; inform him that it is of grave importance as his emperor, husband to empress that I carry out this duty."
“As you wish.”
***********
His love, his care that he had for you made the task of bringing you the chambers easy. Once there he laid you on the bed. He undid the palla that was around your waist and loosened the stola. There had been a warm, even hot days since had been given the gift of the gods to have know you, and it was now with what had deemed to plague you that a sheen of an unhealthy sweat made these garments cling to you. It displeased him.
A sharp knock cracked through silent chambers.
“Enter.” He answered it.
Looking, he saw Amina with her head bowed. “The haste pleases me.” He gesture to the table near him. “Leave them here. And go forth and being haste to the rest of what is needed.”
“Shall I not attended to the empress?”
“Are you questioning me?”
“No, sire.”
“The go and bring haste to what else is needed then you may retrieve me.”
“As you wish.”
*******
He laid a ringed hand on the swell of your stomach. He drew close to it. Gently, he caressed it.
“Child, my child. Her child, Roman’s child. We love you.” He felt a soft flutter. “Yes, child rest. But we are here and we await your arrival with steady hearts.”
He closed his eyes, resting his forehead against the gentle swell, when another soft flutter reached him. He pressed a kiss.
“I shall attend to your mother.”
Another flutter reached him. He felt as if the child let him know it was in good spirits despite what was plaguing their mother.
“Be good in health and be good to her.” He whispered before sitting up.
The cloth darkened as it began to hold the water. He twisted it in his hands, the excess water falling and filling the bowl under it.
Gently, he grazed your brow, your crimson flushed cheeks and your lips that had grown a sickly pale pink; much like a flower petal about drop from its twisted and long since dried dead stem. The sight of you such as this twisted his heart like he had just done to the cloth.
Your murmurs finally faded, yet the breathes your body pulled to it, were deep.
He did this, not pausing not ceasing till saw your lashes flutter.
“Petal. It is I Geta, my lyrical Petal?”
He placed the cloth in the bowl, the heat that had been strong was beginning to fade.
Your brow furrowed.
“Petal?” He brushed some hair from your brow.
Your lashes fluttered once again, you blinked. Your eyes were calm, no anguish darkened them.
“Hello.” He said softly.
Your hand soft and cool found his cheek.
“What is it bothers you?”
He laid the cloth in the bowl, drawing your hand firmly against his cheek. He closed his eyes. A soft bubble of a chuckle came from his belly.
“I am well, my petal. It is you that had taken an ailment.” He squeezed his eyes.
“I am sorry.”
Your soft voice, reached his ears. A calmness fell over him like a shadow from a mighty tree. His anguish over seeing you as thus began to clear.
“No apologies needed. A cloud of eclipse came over you. You are better now. That pleases me.”
He opened his eyes. Your face as fresh as a blossom. You were here once again beside him. He pressed a kiss to your palm.
*******
He left you resting in the chambers you shared. As he drew closer, a strength began to fill him. He knew what he was about to undertake. Quietly he murmured the prayers, he wished to reach Juno flowed his lips. He reached into the depths of all he felt.
Since had returned to the royal domus, the night had turned cool. Had Juno come down on a cloud, to take witness of the tribute he wished to bestow upon her. He hoped for that to be the truth of it.
The bleating of the lambs reached him, greeted him before he was before them. Many still and even grew quieter upon his arrival. Relief filled him as he saw his most trusted of the guards stood close holding lanterns high so that light in expanse before him was not from the mighty Luna who had chosen to return this night.
The air was spicy as it swirled taking a hold of the incense that glowed from the sharp flames that ignited them. Amina remained at the entrance, a Pontifex with a bowed head, knelt before him. Ushering him to where he had to step to. It was there, he gave him a bowl that held grains of vivid and fresh golden yellow grains.
“Sire, it is first we offer them a plentiful meal of these grains. For a domus, is to nurture those who live and grow in one.”
“Yes.”
He took the bowl and with gentle steps, he sprinkled and held out open palms to all the lambs that had been gathered. He was comforted that none had been snipped or snappy at the hand that he had offered them.
The man that gave him a jug, worn but filled with a soft scarlet color of a mild wine.
“Here you shall offer wine, allowing Juno to fell welcome in this domus. That you are pleased to have her among you and to protect all that is in the domus.”
Careful, he gently poured some small offerings onto the head of the lambs before he returned a filled the final portion and knelt before the relief you had made in gratitude of her when he had become emperor. It was there he knelt, not only as the emperor of Rome but as a husband that truly felt and called out for care and protection of his wife and unborn child. He finished the wine never allowing his gaze to move from her.
He then took the bowl of the vividly colored petals, going to the alter he sprinkled them. May they grace the mighty, and strong Juno he prayed.
The Pontifex then unwrapped the unmarred, soilless fabric that covered the blade that would bring the lambs to the heavens. He swallowed. It had been many a year since such a sacrifice would be split upon his hands.
With each one he knelt before it, he murmured a prayer and the carried out the act. Splashed from their essences covered his hands, his face and the fabrics that were wrapped around him.
Standing, he once again went over to Juno’s relief. There he laid the blade as his own sacrifice to her.
Walking the few steps to the Pontifex, he swallowed. “May the bits of the entrails be laid there with the blade I laid there. The bones are to be burned to ash. And those are to be sprinkled upon the entrails and the blade.
Once again the man bowed. “Yes, my sire.”
He then continued. “You may carry to the temple in which you reside, half of the good meats that can be roasted and cooked.”
The Pontifex bowed humbly. “That shows and is a great kindness to bestow upon me. Thank you, my sire.”
He nodded. He walked up to Amina. “Divide the remaining portions to the guards and those in the kitchen. As a new dawn shall be upon us soon. We shall all feast upon it.”
******
He stripped himself of the cloths splattered during the sacrifice, with the residues of the ailment that had befallen you. Nude unashamed; he handed them to the servant who stood with the guard before the entrance of the bath.
“Have them burned and brought to the alter.”
“Yes, sire.”
*******
The water felt good. He just chose to sit there. Letting his body feel the cool water. He immersed himself before once again before simply sitting there. Not wanting the feel of others he used to oils. He used strigil. He wanted to be refreshed, cleansed to whatever had wanted to plague you, and him. When he returned to you the purity of the sacrifice would be complete.
Soft clothes, silently had been placed on a bench where the strigil laid. He was relieved they all knew to not to disturb him with all that was being taken care. With the guard some steps behind, he gave him a nod of respect. Then entered the champers and slid the lock into place.
Finding, you in a peaceful sleep. He pulled a blanket aside and finally climbed in. Settling in, he was about to pull you to him when with a soft sound you did so. He had never imagined wanting anything of the sort. But you with your words that were laced with poetry and a beauty and rivaled the art of the ancients; once again he allowed himself to feel grateful for what had been blessed upon, given to him from the gods.
The way I was just looking at the gifs and said out loud “the costume designer is a genius and god sent for picking the sweater that same as his eyes” and then read your comment made me CACKLE
Royal Decree: Prince Nick Fowler x Princess Reader
Summary: You're the eldest daughter of the kingdom and not yet married, given up as a spinster. But you catch the interest of Prince Nick, soon to be King of his realm, and he is smitten.
Royal Family: Prince Hal Carter x Royal Spy Reader
Summary: Your cousin's death leads to you marrying her brother-in-law for the good of your kingdoms and so you can find answers.
New Beginning;
Slow Down (Snippet); Watching (Snippet)
Royal Mess: Butler Jonathan Pine x Maid Reader
Jonathan takes great pride in his work. There is no palace better maintained than the one he runs. The only hiccup is a klutzy maid, you.
Almost Perfect; Rude Awakenings; Something Missing;
Royal Pain: Duke Ransom Drysdale x Gentlewoman Reader
After a verbal spat between you and Duke Drysdale, you're both surprised to find yourselves engaged to each other.
First Date; Announcements; Mistaken; Confessions; Choices; Honeymoon;
Noble Enough (Snippet)
Royal Portrait: Duke Andy Barber x Marquise Reader
Andy has worked hard to clean up his family's name and reputation from the damage inflicted by his father. He's currently at the stage where he needs a wife if he's to maintain his image of perfection.
Placement; Palette; Lighting; Gradation;
Scared (Snippet)
Royal Treatment: Prince Ari Levinson x Commoner Reader
Ari is grateful to no longer be heir to the throne as it means he's free to go wherever he pleases in the guise of diplomacy. He never wants to be tied down to anyone or anything. But after a weekend with you, he finds himself missing you.
A.N: Hi my loves! 🩷 Thank you so so much for your wonderful support, you've made me so happy! 🩷I hope you'll like this one as well, and please let me know what you think🩷 ILYSM, kisses! 🩷
Pairing: Robb Stark x F!Reader
Summary: Royal visitors can cause problems.
Word Count: 5k
Warnings: Explicit language, (canon) comments about weight, adult themes, suggestive themes. MDNI- Do not read if you're under 18.
Series Masterlist
It wasn’t that you weren’t good at holding grudges.
You were excellent at it, actually. Your very own sister-in-law was the proof of it, you hadn’t been able to get along well with her ever since you were a child.
So, it wasn’t that you lacked the ability to hold grudges, it was just that Robb made it very difficult.
Day by day, your resilience was chipped away. You were still angry at him for calling that lady “pleasant” but he kept claiming it was for Jon, and though you hated to admit it, he also had a way of…
Well.
Convincing you and quenching your anger at the same time.
You were trying to choose between two pairs of earrings when Robb walked into your bedchambers, and you had to do a double-take to realize it was not a stranger who barged in, but your husband. You gasped, your hands shooting up to cover your mouth.
“What happened to your beard?!”
“My mother made me shave it,” he grumbled while you gawked at him. “For the king’s arrival.”
You had never seen Robb without a beard; he always had either a stubble or a very short beard, so this was the first time you were seeing him clean-shaven. Though he was handsome as always with his sharp jawline which was even more prominent without a beard, the sight felt rather strange to you, and it took you a couple of seconds to understand the reason. A huff of laughter escaped you, muffled by your hands before you lowered them.
“You look like a Reach knight!”
The way his expression turned from annoyed to complete and utter betrayal could’ve made a simple observer think you had just insulted him. He let out a displeased exhale through his nose, then strode past you to approach your mirror like it could magically grow his beard back if he glared at his reflection hard enough.
“I do not understand why she insists so much,” he mumbled while you tilted your head, watching him in the mirror with your arms crossed. “A northman cannot be without his beard, it’s just not right.”
You covered your laughter by clearing your throat and plopped down on the bed, a grin curling your lips.
“Recite me a poem,” you demanded, and he turned around to scowl at you.
“I don’t know any.”
“You look like you do,” you said airily. “Can you sing, at least? Play any instruments? Almost every knight in the Reach can.”
“I’m no Reach knight,” he grumbled. “And it’ll grow back.”
“Are you saying that to me or yourself?”
He took another look at his reflection, running a hand over his face.
“I look like a boy.”
“A handsome Reach boy,” you chirped, earning an annoyed glare in return.
“Don’t.”
You held up your hands in a mock of surrender before you pushed yourself off the bed.
“Well, I must go,” you said. “Lady Stark needed me today, so I’ll leave you and my mirror alone.”
“Wait—” He caught up with you to grab your wrist so that he could pull you closer, drawing a giggle out of you. You playfully slipped your wrist out of his grasp with a gasp, feigning shock.
“I’m very offended by you daring to believe I’d kiss you,” you said with a hand on your chest. “As handsome as you are, I’ll have you know I’m very loyal to my husband.”
“I am your husband!”
You made a noise of disagreement.
“My husband has a beard,” you pointed out, taking a step back. “You appear to be one of the knights who used to follow me around in the ballroom begging for a dance.”
Well, that wasn’t entirely true; none of those knights were as handsome as Robb was, but he didn’t need to know that.
“Learn a poem in the meantime,” you told him, walking backwards to the door. “Or grow your beard back. Whichever is faster.”
With that, you walked out of the room and left him there, your laughter echoing in the hallway.
Though you both had very different trainings, it was times like these you could see that Lady Stark was in fact raised in the south.
Being the lady of the castle—especially when the said castle was Winterfell—came with so many responsibilities. Hosting guests was not only duty but also an art, which she pulled off flawlessly, even before the guests were there. The bedchambers, the feast, the entertainment, it was all ready the moment you got the news that the king would be arriving today. There were direwolf banners hanging in and outside the castle, and by the time you and the Starks gathered in the yard, you could already hear the sound of the horses approaching.
You had picked a pearly gray silk gown for the day, to blend in with the rest of the family, with your pelt thrown over your shoulders. Jon wasn’t allowed to stand with the family per Lady Stark’s orders, and it had put Robb in a rather sullen mood that he only snapped out of at the sight of Arya rushing to cross the yard with a helmet on her head. Lord Stark quickly pulled it off of her head and sent her to go stand between Sansa and Bran. You were right beside Robb, your hand in his while he caressed the back of your hand with his thumb almost absentmindedly, making you bite back a smile before you looked over your shoulder to steal a glance at your ladies-in-waiting in the crowd.
You hadn’t met the king or the queen before, and it had been on purpose, thanks to Silas and your father. The king’s many affairs with other women was not unheard of throughout the realm, and two years ago, around the time that title of yours started being thrown around, he and the queen had visited the Reach. A week before that, per Silas’ counsel and your father’s orders, you weren’t allowed to go outside so that when you missed the feast in King’s honor, the whole Reach thought you had been too sick to join any feast the whole week. The reason was simple; neither your father nor Silas wanted to risk the possibility of you catching the king’s interest, seeing that if you did, there would be so little that they could do except send you to Dorne to keep you safe and away from the most powerful man of the realm.
Though many families in the Reach would be delighted at the idea of their daughter catching the king’s eye and elevating their status, your family loved you way too much to put you in a situation where you would be forced to be a mistress.
But thankfully, you were safe now.
Not that the married women were safe in the southern court, especially from the king. However, you were Robb’s wife now, the future Lady of Winterfell, and nobody, not even the king, could risk the wrath of House Stark and the North by crossing a line.
You were probably the safest lady in the whole realm.
You snapped out of your thoughts when the horsemen passed the gates and entered the yard, a young boy that could only be a couple years older than Sansa—the prince, if you had to guess— at the front. Sansa sighed beside you, making Robb turn to her and then frown at the boy who gave Sansa a smirk, and you had to bite back your smile.
Of course Sansa would admire the prince.
The queen’s carriage entered the yard as well, followed by the Kingsguard and the king, whom you only recognized because of the crown. He was a heavy man with a serious look on his face, his eyes darting around the yard as his horse stopped and his squire rushed to help him dismount. Lord Stark bent a knee, the rest of the family and the whole yard following him suit, and it was only when the king motioned at him to rise that he stood up, all of you doing the same.
The king held Lord Stark’s gaze. “You got fat.”
You blinked a couple of times, holding your breath to see what Lord Stark would say, but he only lowered his eyes to the king’s stomach before raising his brows at him, as if returning the statement without so much as a word. The king burst into laughter, making Lord Stark smile as well before he pulled him into a hug.
…Gods, you were never going to understand men’s humor or their idea of friendship.
“Cat!” he greeted Lady Stark with a happy smile, hugging her as well. Sansa was still staring at the prince, and you leaned closer to her so that Robb couldn’t hear your whisper.
“You might want to pretend to be a little more nonchalant, my sweet.”
Sansa gave you an abashed smile while the king and Lord Stark exchanged words.
“Do you think he finds me beautiful?”
“Of course he does,” you whispered back, watching the queen step out of the carriage. She was beautiful, the displeasure on her face wasn’t enough to take away from it, and she looked around the yard before her eyes stopped on you.
“You must be Robb.” The king shook Robb’s hand before his eyes found you. “And the newest member of the family, I assume. The tales of your beauty weren’t lying, my lady.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” you accepted the compliment with a well-practiced graceful smile. The queen approached Lord Stark who kissed her hand, but everyone’s attention turned to the king in a second when he spoke:
“Take me to your crypt, I want to pay my respects.”
“We’ve been riding for a month, my love,” the queen said kindly, and you had to wonder for a second whether everyone else could hear just how forced it sounded or just you. “Surely the dead can wait.”
The king didn’t even spare her a glance.
“Ned,” he said curtly before he walked away, and Lord Stark followed him into the Keep.
…Ah.
The crypt.
Where Lord Stark’s sister who was also the king’s alleged true love laid in her eternal sleep.
The Queen looked like she wanted to argue, but her brother touched her arm as if signaling her to stop talking, and you averted your eyes, making yourself busy with your bracelet.
It was one of the many things you and Margaery were taught when you were little.
If someone above your rank was insulted or ignored in front of you, you never saw it.
Lord Stark and the king spent almost an hour in the crypts while the queen retired to her bedchambers to rest. It seemed that Lord Stark had much to speak with the king, because Robb had come to find you in the yard around an hour before the feast, clearly released from his father’s solar. You quickly dismissed your ladies-in-waiting so that you could speak freely at the far corner of the yard, and to be completely honest, the way you two sat was not appropriate at all; rather than sitting across from one another, you had your back against his chest, his arms wrapped around you while he nuzzled to your hair.
It had been rather peaceful, at least until a moment ago.
“A betrothal?” you repeated, craning your neck to look up at him. “Between Sansa and…”
“Prince Joffrey,” Robb finished your sentence for you, letting out a displeased noise as you pulled out of his arms to turn to see him better. “Don’t—”
“And Lord Stark said yes?”
“Sansa would cry for the rest of her life if he did not,” Robb said with a grimace. “She is in love already, and they haven’t even talked to each other yet. My mother talked my father into it, he will take the girls with him when he goes to King’s Landing to be the Hand.”
A frown pinched your forehead while Robb’s fingers drew shapes in your palm absentmindedly.
“Robb, I don’t think…”
Gods, how were you going to approach this?
You had to walk a very thin line here. You couldn’t risk anyone think you were trying to sabotage Sansa’s future, especially when the root of your worries was her future. Sansa was the sweetest girl ever, and you were certain she would grow up to be the loveliest lady and queen, but it was because of that you weren’t as excited as Lady Stark about this union.
Sansa was too sweet and naive for King’s Landing.
Not to mention, you knew nearly nothing about Prince Joffrey. There was a reason why it had taken Silas so much time to make a decision about your husband, marriage couldn’t be decided in a haste. Granted the king and Lord Stark were friends, but it didn’t mean their children would form a good union, and the moment they wed, Sansa would be bound to Prince Joffrey forever, regardless of how strong her house was.
And this was yet another time you were thankful to the gods for Silas and the rest of your family.
Those rules didn’t apply to you.
“What is it?” Robb asked, pulling you out of your thoughts. You opened your mouth and closed it again, then took a deep breath.
“Sansa is very young still.”
“Oh they won’t wed right away,” Robb said. “They’ll wait until my father deems it the right time. Sansa will just be in King’s Landing in the meantime, with Arya.”
You stole a look at the rest of the yard, deep in thought.
“Well, perhaps…” You paused. “Perhaps if they won’t wed right away, Sansa could stay here a bit longer so that I can teach her things.”
“Like what?”
“Like how to survive in the southern court.”
He huffed a laugh. “Oh come on.”
“Robb, I’m serious.”
“My father will be with her, she’ll be fine.”
“Your father cannot save her from everything,” you said. “Nor can he help her in everything, especially when it comes to the south. It’s a different world than here, and please don’t get me wrong, but Sansa still believes in fairytales. She must learn know how to—”
You stopped yourself and Robb pulled his brows together.
“How to what?”
Manipulate people.
It was beyond you how no one had given her the necessary training, especially if the southern court had been a possibility all along. You were rather sheltered and very much aware of it, but when it came to southern court games and wielding power, you and Margaery were given a very strict education.
Although you falling in love was unexpected, your husband falling in love with you had always been the plan.
“The southern court is an incredibly dangerous place,” you told him. “I fear she might not be ready for it just yet. If she stays here a little longer—”
“Nothing bad will happen to her in the southern court,” he assured you. “My father and the king are close as brothers.”
“Which is wonderful, but think about it,” you insisted. “Silas didn’t make our union happen because of my father and yours. He made it, because he approved you above all that. Does your father know Prince Joffrey? Do you? Beyond the fact that he will sit the Iron Throne once his father passes?”
“He can’t do anything to Sansa,” Robb brushed you off. “Sansa is a Stark.”
You caught the sight of the queen’s brother Jaime Lannister and Prince Joffrey stepping out of the keep into the yard, then huffed out.
“Can you please ask your father either way?” you asked. “If she can stay here for a moon or two?”
His eyes softened as he cupped your cheek gently, then dipped his head to give you the sweetest kiss, making your heart skip a beat. A giggle escaped you, your cheeks growing hot.
“We’re in public!”
“And we’re on our honeymoon,” he defended himself while you dragged your fingertip over the snarling wolf clasps on his doublet before you buried your face to his chest where his laugh rumbled deep. He pressed a kiss on top of your head, his hand still cradling your cheek.
“But you’ll ask?” you insisted and he heaved a sigh.
“I’ll ask,” he said. “Happy?”
“Very,” you chirped as you lifted your head to beam at him. “Thank you!”
He held your gaze in his, stroking your cheekbone with his thumb.
“I’ll never be able to tell you no, will I?” he asked and you scrunched up your nose, then grinned.
“Probably not,” you said airily. “But then again, why would you want to?”
That drew a chuckle out of him, and he shook his head as if he couldn’t believe himself.
“Aye,” he murmured, leaning in to kiss you again. “Why would I want to indeed?”
Thanks to Lady Stark, the feast was going perfectly.
And everyone was having fun. Sansa was over the moon with the news, and she had made you promise that you would lend her one of your gowns for her to wear in the King’s Landing, so that she could impress the ladies there. Though you wanted to say it would take more than a gown, you decided not to say anything until Robb asked Lord Stark, so instead you assured her that you would help her with choosing the perfect gown and jewelry so that she would make an impeccable first impression on the southern court. Just until a moment ago that you and Robb were sitting at one of the tables among your peers, drinking and laughing, but when Arya threw food at Sansa’s dress, Lady Stark had shot him a look that clearly said to step in, so that the royal family wouldn’t notice the chaos that was about to erupt. Robb heaved a sigh and kissed your temple before he made his way to Arya and lifted her out of her seat, telling her it was time for bed. Arya pouted, but one gentle push from Robb made her start walking, and they both left the Great Hall so that he could tuck her in.
Watching Robb take care of his siblings never failed to make your chest all warm. He knew how to handle all of them, adapting a softer approach with Sansa and Bran while roughhousing Arya and Rickon who loved it. For a moment, you couldn’t stop your mind from wandering off, so you found yourself imagining what a great father he would make one day, to your own kids.
You knew it was too early, you still couldn’t tell whether you were ready, especially with your mother’s fate, yet the simple image of him with a baby made you smile.
You wondered whether they would take after him or you. Or perhaps they would be the perfect combination of you both—
“My lady.” Alys’ voice snapped you out of your thoughts. “Lady Stark and the queen ask for you, I think.”
You turned your head to take a look at the High Table where only Lady Stark and the queen sat—everyone else had scattered around the Great Hall. Lady Stark nodded at you and you pushed your chair back.
“Thank you Alys,” you whispered and stood up, then made your way to the High Table. You swept a well-trained curtsy, then straightened up and smiled at them, clasping your hands in front of you.
“Your Grace,” you said. “Lady Stark.”
“Hello my dear.”
“I wanted to see the infamous Blossom of the Reach,” the queen said, making your smile wider. “Everyone sings your praises, even miles away.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
“Including your best friend,” she said, making your head whip up. “Margaery Tyrell. She is dazzling the capital as we speak.”
And judging by the tone of her voice, she was not happy about that.
You would’ve been lying if you said it was unexpected. Margaery never feared anyone, no matter their social standing.
“As she dazzled the Reach,” you said. “I’m sure she flourishes in King’s Landing.”
“Do remind me, who had more admirers in the Reach? You or her?”
The attempt was nearly pitiful, and you had to hold back your laughter. This wasn’t new, the way people would try to sow discord between you and Margaery so that you would turn against each other and become rivals for—
For what?
Attention?
The queen wasn’t the first, nor would she be the last to find out your and Margaery’s bond ran too deep to get harmed by such comments. Margaery could be crowned the most beautiful girl in the realm tomorrow—in your opinion, she deserved it—, and you would be cheering her at the top of your lungs. She could be the queen, and you would be the first to bow down; there was no possibility of you turning bitter for her accomplishments and happiness, you loved her way too much for that.
And it was mutual too. Margaery never held contempt for you even when that title started being thrown around in the Reach, instead she fueled it, so that even more people would talk about it.
There was nothing anyone could do to make you and Margaery turn into enemies, no matter how much they tried.
“Oh, one stops counting after a while,” you said with a laugh. “It was rather hard for us to keep track of it, but the last I remember she had poems and I had songs. You would have to ask her though.”
“The Reach does love its songs, does it not?” the queen asked. “Just as singers love their embellishments, I’d say.”
…Ah.
Well, alright then.
There were only three people in this hall who could tell what that veiled comment really meant; the queen herself, Lady Stark, and you, seeing that you were all quite fluent in the language of the southern court and how it held insults behind compliments, or simple statements.
Like that one.
“Such admirers can affect a lady in a certain way,” the queen added. “Like excess pride. You and your friend should be careful.”
So now not only were your looks exaggerated, but you and Margaery were both arrogant.
Very well.
If she came all this way to your home to insult you and your best friend, you could play the game.
“Both my best friend and I look up to you as the pinnacle of humility, we grew up with the tales of your beauty, Your Grace,” you said airily. “Back when we were little girls, that was all we would hear from King’s Landing. To this day, I still remember how many admirers you used to have back in the day. I’m sure you’re delighted that his majesty relieved you of them, even after so many years!”
The tiny twitch of her lips reminded you of a snarl, but it was gone as fast as it came.
“Well,” she said after a beat. “I hope that you and your husband will be as happy as me and the king have been.”
The same king who had spent the majority of the feast drunk with another woman in his lap.
Sure.
She could keep hoping, Robb would never do that to you.
“I’m sure it would please you, Your Grace,” you said with a bright smile and she held your gaze in hers, then gave you a curt nod, signaling you could leave. You dropped a curtsy straight down with your head held high, then walked away from the High Table to join your ladies-in-waiting.
“The queen does not look happy,” Lyra murmured and Jorelle raised her brows, stealing a look at the table.
“Would you be?” she asked. “If my husband humiliated me like that…”
“I will never wed.”
“You might have to,” Barbrey said and Lyra shrugged her shoulders.
“Not really. I’m not the heir, I have no such responsibilities. One of my sisters has two children, she was never wed.”
“Bear Island has different customs than the rest of the North,” Wylla said. “If my father tried to wed me to someone like the king, I’d run away.”
“She’s still the queen,” Barbrey said and Wylla shook her head.
“I’m too northern to accept such disrespect.”
“By the way, have any of you talked to her ladies-in-waiting?”
“I’ve been avoiding them like the plague.”
“Well, I’ve talked to them, and…”
The rest of Alys’ words disappeared into a buzz when the familiar feeling hit you, making you frown slightly. Your theory was that it was instinct for ladies of the court, you just learned to notice when men were looking at you even without a glance in their direction. Perhaps it was habit, perhaps it was a way to survive, but you knew when they were watching.
And sure enough, when you turned your head, you found Robb, Lord Stark, the king and Prince Joffrey all looking in your direction. Robb did not look happy for some reason, he had his jaw clenched while he listened to the king, and Prince Joffrey scowled before his eyes found mother and his frown deepened, as if she had done something of great offense. You let a lovesick smile light up your face as you waved at Robb without sparing the rest of them a glance, and that seemed to snap him out of his mood, that familiar soft light appearing in his gaze as he lifted his cup a little to greet you. The king said something and smacked him on the back, letting out a boisterous laugh and you lingered there for a moment, then rolled your shoulders back.
“If you’ll excuse me for a moment,” you said and walked away from your ladies to approach the men on the other side of the hall.
“Your Graces, my lord,” you greeted the king, the prince and Lord Stark, then beamed at Robb and turned to them. “May I please borrow my lord husband for a minute if you don’t mind?”
The king laughed.
“Oh he stopped listening to us the moment you looked his way,” he said. “But that’s how a newlywed must be, huh Robb? Your father used to have the same look on his face whenever you looked at your mother.”
“Robert, come on now,” Lord Stark said and the king grinned.
“You did,” he insisted while you laced your fingers through Robb’s. “The same tortured look, even when I dragged you to hunts! That’s how you know it’s a good match.”
“Speaking of matches, I’ve heard the happy news,” you told Prince Joffrey with a smile. “I’m certain you and our beautiful Sansa will be as happy as we are, Your Grace.”
Prince Joffrey didn’t seem delighted at all, his eyes finding his mother again before forcing himself to smile.
“Thank you, my lady.”
“Anyway, as I was saying, the whole North is talking of that duel! The future Warden of the North is a great fighter just like his father!”
A shadow crossed Prince Joffrey’s face but you paid him no mind.
“I’m glad the whole North is entertained, but I was rather terrified,” you said, leaning sideways to Robb’s arm and he pressed a kiss on top of your head as if trying to soothe you at the mention of the duel.
“You had nothing to worry about, I told you that,” Robb muttered into your hair and you shot him a mischievous look.
“The love of my life putting himself in danger scares me, that’s no crime,” you said, earning a chuckle from the king. “Is it, Your Grace?”
“Not at all,” the king said. “Even the strongest men are defeated by love more than sword, my boy. Great warrior or not, you might want to keep that in mind.”
“I will, Your Grace.”
“If you’ll excuse us please.”
Robb followed you as you both crossed the Great Hall, still holding your hand tight until you stopped and turned to him. He seemed rather tense, frowning at Prince Joffrey who had just approached the queen to mutter something to her ear with a sour expression. You raised your brows, watching Robb grab a cup from one of the servants before he took a sip, still glaring at the High Table.
“Is everything alright?”
His attention snapped back to you. “Mm hm.”
“Are you certain?” you asked. “What were you all talking about before I approached?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
Though you wanted to insist, you decided otherwise. “Have you had the chance to talk to your father yet?”
“About?”
“About Sansa!” you whispered. “If she can stay a bit longer.”
“I mentioned it, he said no.” Robb shrugged his shoulders. “And I’ve told you, he’ll keep an eye on her. She’ll be safe.”
You pursed your lips before taking a deep breath.
“Alright, then I’ll send a letter to Margaery first thing in the morning,” you said. “She’s in King’s Landing, she should be able to help Sansa.”
He tilted his head.
“Margaery Tyrell?”
“Do you know another Margaery?”
“Your best friend whom you’re angry at?”
“It doesn’t matter whether I’m angry at her or not,” you said. “At the end of the day, I trust her with my life. We both know what’s important and when to put aside disagreements, she’s never going to deny me if I ask her for a favor.”
“Even after what happened?”
“Don’t underestimate her loyalty to me, or mine to her,” you said. “Trust me. If I need help, she’ll help.”
“I’ll never understand you two,” he muttered. “And I still think you’re worrying for nothing and Sansa will be fine, but very well. Write to her if it’ll put your heart at ease.”
“Hey.” Jon’s voice reached you and you looked over your shoulder to find him smiling. The sight seemed to have taken Robb by surprise as much as you, because he scoffed a laugh.
“Did Theon get maimed?” he asked. “How come you’re smiling?”
“Uncle Benjen is here.”
Robb’s eyes widened. “Really?”
“Wait, Benjen Stark does exist?” you asked, looking between him and Jon, and Robb nodded fervently.
“Our uncle. He’s the First Ranger of the Night’s Watch.”
You were guessing that was an impressive title in the North, from the proud tone of Robb’s voice.
“Come,” Robb added. “I must introduce you to him, he’s amazing.”
“I mean to be honest, I doubt introductions are needed,” you pointed out, drawing chuckles out of both brothers. “I feel like I know him already.”
synopsis: Baelor Targarayen’s sweet wife finds herself tangled between Lyseni silk, and her husband.
word count: 2,392
trope: husband x wife
warnings: smut (eventually), (unprotected) p in v, reader is shy and sweet, gentle reader, slightly possessive baelor, female reader, no use of Y/N, nudity, no reader looks described, reader is a legal adult. READ AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION!!! REMEMBER - YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR THE CONTENT AND MEDIA THAT YOU CHOOSE TO CONSUME
DISCLAIMER: All themes, plot, images used and characters from A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms + elsewhere belong to the rightful owners, I hold not rights to the original media - but my writing belongs to me.
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“Sweet girl you are causing me far too many problems today. The books I will overlook, you enjoy reading. But all the coin on Lyseni silk and near fifty gold dragons on different golden wine goblets from Dorne, this is near insanity.” Baelor’s hand pinched the bridge of his nose tightly, looking up from his papers as his eyes fell to you in your sapphire encrusted gown. The neckline all too low and adorned scandalously in said gemstones, azure blue layered the fabric elsewhere as it hugged to your body and loosened at the foot and wrists. It was very beautiful, and very you. “But they are for your name-day feast.” Baelor stilled “The goblets I will let pass as my Father has desired more, but I am failing to see how thirty gold dragons worth of Lyseni silk relates to my name day?” Your cheeks flushed hot as you gnawed at your lip, “Is there something you’d like to tell me, my girl?” The twinkle of amusement in his eye did not escape you. Turning on your heel you escaped the heat on the room throwing a quick “No!” over your shoulder before swiftly exiting, leaving your husband to chuckle quietly to himself.
You were far from an outspoken woman, often flustered when in large social circles or having sole attention from anyone seemed to make your cheeks grow flushed and your teeth gnaw at your lower lip. It’s not that you were timid, nor scared of those that surrounded you, it was just a lightly humiliating bodily reaction that Baelor seemed to get amusement out of playing off of. He found it endearing after near four years of marriage now you still got so flustered when he addressed you publicly. You were his second wife, a political alliance from your lavish house of the Reach, and a Prince of the Realm who was also heir to the Iron Throne. A unique pairing, yet one that had grown into something far beyond just fondness of companionship.
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Baelor’s name-day feast was long, and grand. The heirs day of birth was always an affluent affair, the King had always made it so for each of his sons, yet it was almost the right as the first born son for Baelor’s to be the fairest of all. Not that he ever desired such a thing to be held in his honour, which is how he found himself seated between yourself and his father at the head table watching his guests dance. He was utterly bored in truth, the music was pleasant and the atmosphere was comfortable. But none of these people were here for him. They didn’t care for him like you did. They were here for drink and dinner, nothing celebratory about it, just an honourable reason to get drunk on the Kings coin. You wore a gallant dress of crimson and black, to match his own house colours that adorned his doublet. The three headed dragon across your breasts caught his eye more than he wished to admit, watching them heave with every quiet breath that swelled inside of your chest. Clearing his throat, arm around the back of your chair, he leant closer to your ear so that he could speak more comfortably to you, body angled so effortlessly toward your own it was painfully natural.
“You see that man there, flirting with half of your handmaidens. He is Leo Tyrell, his son is a pain in the arse to the crown. He’s broken more betrothals and upset more Lord’s daughters than my own nephew has.” His voice was low, it kissed your ears only, your teeth moved to bite the inside of your lip as you leant closer to your husband. “And him there, Abelar Hightower. He’s only loyal to us for our supposed faith in the Seven, you know. They supply the Tyrell bannermen when called to war. And I’m sure you can never forget the face of Tybolt Lannister. He danced with you during our wedding feast do you remember? My brother near threatened to break both his legs if he spun you one more time.” You nodded subtly yet intently, a small giggle escaping your lips at the memory of your own wedding feast. You often heard much of many houses and their heads from your husband, when he had been overworked and was in need to just tell someone something. Yet you did not know many faces of the court, or other houses of the realm. You had preferred a quiet life away from the drama of it all, which was why it had been such a shock to the realm when the great Baelor Breakspear chose you for a wife. Many people here had not known you or even known of your existence before the royal announcement of your betrothal to your now husband, and Baelor had made sure it was abundantly clear all knew just who you were, and who you were to him. Even now the only time you saw half of the drunkards that filled the hall was at pointless events hosted by the King, where all only attended because it did favours for alliances, and having the funding of the crown behind them.
“Would you like to retire for the evening sweet wife? I think all here are too drunk to note our absence.” His words rung true as he allowed his fingers to toy with the end of your hair. “If you wish it, husband.” You smiled politely yet he raised an eyebrow, “If you wish to leave I suggest you say your truth, not just what you think that it is I wish to hear.” Your eyes found that of your now near empty plate, a few odd vegetables that you still could not bring yourself to eat for childish reasons. “Look at my face, not your plate. It is not going to speak for you now, is it?” You did as instructed, feeling the prickle of heat begin to taint you silently. You watched the subtle smirk grow on his face as he took in the reaction your body was giving him, he was not outright when he teased you, he enjoyed picking you apart so quietly others failed to notice- even in such a crowded room as you were. “We could retire?” You proposed, eyes meeting his fleetingly. “Now without the question.” He was a patient man, you’d give him that. He liked the game of it, the fact you knew he was listening to your every word, the way your tone changed, the flicker of your eyes or the fidget of your fingers. He saw it all, and there was no escaping him, not that you even wanted to, because you adored him all the same. To be loved, is to be seen. And Baelor never let you go unnoticed, in his eyes all of you was always worth seeing. Understanding. Cherishing. Because Baelor Targaryen did not ever half do anything, if it was being done it was being done right. Loving his sweet wife? That was a matter he took in deep levels of devotion, making sure you truly knew and acknowledged your worth.
“We could retire.” Your voice soft, eyes fulling locking to his own mismatched ones as he granted you an approving nod. He informed his father quietly before rising, taking your hand within his own and leading you from the hall, the noises of clattering feet and drunken song falling far behind you as the stone walls tried their best to carry its word.
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Baelor had taken his time washing his face in the bathroom basin, not intentionally, yet his distracted state had given you enough time to slip out of your Targaryen dragon-headed gown and into an equally daring cerise Lyseni silk gown. It wrapped across your breasts in a band, wrapping over and under each shoulder yet it flowed freely down your arms as loose fabric. Across from your left breast across to your right hip another wave of it encased you, allowing the final wrap to spin around your waist until it hit the floor softly, covering from your hips all the way to your toes.
Baelor exited the bathroom yet stopped entirely to take in the sight of you stood before the mirror, he did not know if he wished to touch you raw or preserve you for his own selfish pleasures. “Aren’t you just enamouring, sweet girl.” His lips latched onto your neck from behind, yet his eyes never left the sight reflecting back at him through the light of the mirror. “Do you like it, husband?” The teeth that grazed your skin could have spoken but a thousand words. “You will have to forgive my ignorance the other afternoon, I did not know I would be blessed with such a sight of my wife when I criticised your spendings.” A trail of heavy purple marks had begun to bloom from your exposed shoulder up to the cut of your jaw, courtesy of his rough lips. “It’s a shame really, I fear it may not last the night, sweet girl.” The heat that radiated from his bare chest against your back was like a furnace, his hands caging around you to lift you to the bed. You did not fall to your back, you instead propped yourself up onto your knees. Baelor’s hands tangled themself within your hair, pulling you in for a suffocating kiss, a groan escaping him as you parted your lips and allowed his tongue passage into your mouth. Your hands untied his breeches, pulling them down only for his hand to grasp both of your wrists in one tight movement. “Do not.” His voice was hoarse, a hunger overtaking his eyes. “Baelor?” You questioned, not daring to try pull from his grip as he forced you to lie back, releasing his grip and pulling you towards the end of the bed by your ankles. “Lift the dress and I promise I will not tear it.” You complied swiftly, bunching the fabric up above your hips so that your expensive gift was not so easily ruined.
Baelor wasted no time in delving his head between your parted thighs, like a starved man he tasted you, tongue splitting your folds as he begun his descent. He was not shy in his praise as he unravelled you, words slipping from his tongue like honey as you writhed with pleasure beneath him. He drew you close to your peak, too close, before withdrawing from your skin entirely. A whine escaped you, “Baelor- what are you-”
“I lied, I’m sorry sweet girl.” His cock bullied it’s way into your tight heat, your eyes squeezing shut upon impulse, your senses being so overwhelmed they were unable to register Baelor had near ripped the expensive silk gown it two, prying it from your slick skin. When he rested inside of you, not willing to move until you spoke, you realised he had torn the dress. A pout embraced your plump lips, still damn from his earlier kisses, “You promised.”
“I did, but I suppose I will have to buy you another. Perhaps with less fabric.” He smirked, lowering his lips back to your collarbone, the coarse grey hairs of his beard scratching at your soft skin beneath him as he kept you caged under the weight of his own body. Another whimper escaped you as he shifted, not enough to bring immense pleasure only to remind you that he was in fact so deep inside of you. “If you want something, sweet girl, you’re going to have to use your words and ask for it.” The smugness of his tone so close to your ear sent shivers across you, hands coming up to press into his chest and the greying hairs that adorned it. “I want you to fuck me.” The gentleness in which you asked brought him great satisfaction, teeth nibbling at your earlobe before the heat of his breath graced you again, “Speak up, how can I satisfy you if you do not speak it to me.”
“Please fuck me, Baelor.” Your voice wavered yet it was more assured as he gave a pliant nod, you felt his hips begin to rock against you slowly, a faltered “More.” Fell from your tongue as your eyes rolled back. “No, keeps those pretty eyes open f’me. I want you to look me in the eye as I fuck you senseless.” The needy undertone of his voice did not escape you, he needed this, needed you. He had all evening, and now into the night his restraint had escaped him as he finally gave into his true desire.
The moon would be hung long in the sky, yet Baelor did not take advantage of that, his pace was raw and brutal, the whimpers and moans and incoherent sentences spilling from your tongue only fuelling on his ravenous chase to keep you where he had you, falling apart beneath him. “Fuck, so tight for me, sweet girl. You were just made for me, weren’t you? Tell me.”
“Yes yes yes- just for you Baelor, all yours.” you cried, trying your best to keep your eyes on him as your voice grew weak, your ankles locking behind his back to push him impossibly further inside of you as you unravelled. “That’s it, let go for me, take me for all I’m worth.” He grunted, composure faulting as he soon followed your own release, mixing himself with you entirely. You could not recall how long you remained still, his own body near atop of yours as he turned both your bodies to settle you against the plush pillows atop the bed.
Your face found refuge in the crook of his neck as he remained still inside of you, refusing to break the coil you had both so tightly wound together in such deep devoted affection. “You tore my dress.” You mumbled into his neck, his hand caressing your back softly as a quiet chuckle escaped him. “You did look so beautiful in it. But I prefer you without any fabrics at all, my sweet wife.” His lips, pressed against your head as he spoke softly, eyes casting over you to watch you in your utterly relaxed, undone, raw state that he had brought before himself only by his own devout touch.
A/N: i’m pushing the baelor ‘sweet girl’ agenda fr (it’s just so him), (i apologise for crappy smut) been obsessed with baelor recently so maybe there’ll be a few fics posted from my drafts of him (depends if you guys want more of baelor or not really, i’m more of a maekar girl myself but there’s just something about him fr). i have a few other fics im gonna upload first, also answering through requests so fear not you haven’t been forgotten!! as always: requests open, likes, comments, reblogs and any interactions are always always appreciated. take care everyone!!
Summary: The morning after your peculiar wedding, Titus arranges for you to have brunch with your parents. It goes about as well as expected. (This won't make much sense unless you've read the first major fic, The Big Prize.)
Rating: 18+ MDNI
WC: 2.6k (complete)
A/N: You pervs keep asking so here's more. Honestly? Work. I love these two psychos. Do I have daddy issues? Who cares!
If you missed it, I posted a silly drabble in response to an anon ask but I'll keep the masterlist updated with all of that stuff.
CW: Possessive love, dark romance, Titus Danforth is a freak, Titus is down bad, you are down bad, control, dominance, dom/sub, daddy kink, cum play, fingering, borderline public stuff, humiliation sorta but she likes it, power play, manipulation, breeding kink, p in v sex, moderate drinking, drug use (not by reader), rich cunts doing rich cunt things. If these two are involved it's for the pervs, you've been warned.
⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹
Some very crucial truths were crystallizing for you as you sat alone at the brunch table, waiting for your parents and Titus to join you. There had been no time to consider such things while the actual ceremony unfolded. Everyone was already assembled; in Titus’s eyes it would be a damn shame to waste the opportunity and thumb the nose at efficiency, and so, like a man cut out of a glossy wedding magazine spread and taped onto another, Titus had stood up to claim you. That Father and Ursula were already on the grounds was pitched to you as merely a fortuitous coincidence.
Everything had happened so fast: a head in the refrigerator, Titus’s fingers in your cunt, and you somehow speaking the unspeakable to your father, all in the name of ending the game. It had never occurred to you that the game might get topped off to full--freshened up with a devilish splash from a black bottle--after the ring was on your finger. And that was perhaps a mistake, that underestimation, because now you had to face your family in the cold light of day. Without the champagne flowing. Without the string quartet drowning out any improper questions. Without the benefit of chaos.
Titus was out on the veranda taking a phone call. Barring a more brash spray of silver in his curls, he looked almost identical to the man you had met all those years ago in Luxembourg. The comparison fascinated you for a moment, as you considered how the same could not be said for you. The girl that wiggled her hips at the beast was not the one who now bore his name. That girl would be stunned, horrified, at what you had become.
Oh well, you thought, as the absolute boulder on your ring finger caught the summer sun pouring in through the gauzy curtains and flamed with cold fire. Someone gazing too directly at the wrong angle might suffer permanent vision loss. You liked that, too. Titus turned around, catching your gaze, and from the slow, predatory smile that spread across his face, you were reminded that, most importantly of all, it was what Titus liked. With a ring that big and extravagant, there was no mistaking who owned you.
Your smile curdled slightly, but you reached for your glass and took a sip of cold water, no longer alone in the huge, empty dining room. It was the restaurant attached to the lodge, but Titus had made sure it was reserved for this moment.
“Just us and your parents,” he said, watching for your reaction. You had been in bed together, naked except for the ring, which he insisted you wear all night, even if it caught constantly on the lace trim lining the pillows. The why behind the arranged meal spread across you like a withering rash. You schooled your expression just in time, revealing nothing.
“That will be lovely,” you replied, reaching up to cup his cheek.
Titus rubbed his nose against yours, delighting in the chance to be grotesquely domestic while you both circled around his real desire. Which was, as ever, to win, to establish the hierarchy in new and twisted ways—Titus on top, you beneath him. Your job, as you determined it, was to fight just hard enough to make the triumph meaningful.
“I’m sure they’ll have questions,” Titus continued, his voice full of gravel from how much he had used it the night before. “Your father in particular.”
A staff member escorted your parents across the vast dining room, taking the most circuitous route, presumably at Titus’s request, giving them the maximum amount of time to take in the tableau—their darling, only child seated at a table by the windows, dressed in chic perfection, her improbable husband standing just to the side of her chair, bending down to lovingly brush a kiss across her temple. Your parents approached with the enthusiasm of criminals being led to the gallows. A normal man would have given your mother a warm, reassuring son-in-law embrace, and your father a confident handshake, but Titus was an imp from hell with the long shadow of a biblical king, and so no such graces were offered.
“Mr. Danforth,” your father said, cold. He glanced at you, eyes narrowed, fists clenched. “Ducky.”
Titus’s hand tightened on the rung of the chair closest to your ear. Subsequently, you straightened and chose your words carefully. “Good morning,” you said, looking for all the world like a regular bride basking in the post-nuptial glow.
“Ducky?” Titus asked softly, just to you, lifting a brow.
“He’s always called me that,” you said with a little shrug.
Nobody had invited your parents to sit. They hovered awkwardly on the other side of the table. It felt like they were strangers, like you were seeing them for the first time.
“Do you like that he calls you that?” Titus asked. He had yet to really acknowledge that your mother and father had arrived at the pre-planned time at the pre-planned destination. They could have been houseplants; they could have been flies.
“Not particularly.”
Your father was not a kind man. Love was assumed and performed between you, but he had never been shy about lamenting that you were a daughter and not a son. It was your fault, somehow, that they had never conceived again, and your fault for being a girl. He didn’t need to say those parts, you just felt it, in his total indifference to your inner life, in the way he scoffed at your ideas and complained when you needed, well, anything. Your obedience, effort, and success weren’t enough. Not until this moment. Not until a deadly predator stood at your side.
Now your father looked more than ready to listen and engage. Not with relish or anything approaching pleasure, but with the straight-backed desperation of a man who knew he was staring down the barrel of an invisible gun.
Titus sat down beside you, unfolded his napkin and settled his hand on your thigh under the table. “Tell him that.” He stared calmly at the side of your face. “Tell him not to call you that anymore.”
Your father had called you “Ducky” since before you could remember.
“Don’t call me Ducky,” you said. The word “daddy” almost slipped out, but you wrangled it back in time. Titus had made it abundantly, clit-pinchingly clear that he and he alone owned that title.
Your father bristled, chewing his cheeks.
God, it was kind of invigorating. As a conscious adult, you had never backtalked your father or let him hear you complain within earshot. Now there wasn’t a thing he could do about it, and it felt good. Titus squeezed your thigh. A waiter appeared and began filling their water glasses.
“Won’t you join us?” you asked, the consummate wife, the consummate hostess.
Your mother broke first, taking the seat closest to you. Your father looked as if he couldn’t wait to leave, vanish, and die, probably in that order. He adjusted his tie as he sat beside your mother, a glance exchanged between them that did not escape Titus’s notice. You felt the tension ripple across his body as he shifted almost imperceptibly closer to you. Married life already looked good on him; the smooth dunes of his chest were just visible beneath the cotton fabric of his nine-hundred-and-fifty-dollar hazelnut-colored Bruno Cucinelli t-shirt, the even tan across his forearms and face bringing out the copious freckles that, like everything else about Titus, lay in wait.
Titus accepted a bottle of champagne from a waiter, pulling a switchblade out of his pocket and swiveling to point the neck toward the wall, using the knife to deftly, decisively saber off the cork in a single stroke. The end exploded like a gunshot. Staff scurried forward to catch the spray of Armand de Brignac Brut that ejaculated in a spectacular arc. Titus handed off the bottle and wiped his hands, then settled in his chair as the first course arrived.
In agony, you watched the chilled shrimp cocktail land in front of you. Nobody moved or said anything. You looked helplessly toward Titus. Please.
“This is my way of saying thank you,” Titus explained, and it was almost convincing, but you detected the flow of ice beneath each word. “And for being flexible.” His hand landed on your thigh again, high up enough to make the waiters look deliberately elsewhere.
“We should be thanking you,” your mother said. Her hand fluttered nervously over her throat, her eyes watery with fear.
That pleased Titus immensely. His smile touched his eyes, briefly, as he bit the head off of a shrimp and gestured for someone to bring you orange juice for your champagne. A staff member leaned down to whisper that they were out of orange juice, but perhaps the lady could tolerate grapefruit?
“Fucking savages,” Titus muttered. Your mother had started saying something else, more flattery, more platitudes, and Titus spoke over her as if nobody else were in the room. He shifted his hand from your thigh to your wrist, lifting your hand to his lips and kissing the space just above your sparkling ring. A sizzle of desire flashed across your skin. You could feel your cheeks burning as his eyes held yours, his fingernail scraping along your palm. “Darling, can you endure the grapefruit? They’re terribly sorry.”
They. The kitchen. The staff. Never him.
“I’ll survive,” you said, with the slight sighing edge you knew he loved.
“So practical.” Titus chuckled, returning your hand but not before offering another heated glance above your fingers. He swiveled back toward your mother and, suddenly gracious, asked her to repeat what she was saying. The next course arrived, the half-eaten shrimp whisked away. Every tiny movement echoed in the cavernous dining room. A breeze stirred the curtains, reminding you there was a whole world out there, away from this horrid exercise. Your gaze followed the wind, and you lifted your face to feel the soothing gust that bathed the table in a cool, grass-sweetened breath.
You couldn’t hear your mother. Titus was the only one who really ate. He finished his small portion of layered crispy potatoes with caviar, then dabbed at his lips and followed your line of sight, out toward the fields, and further, to the distant cottage where your fiancé had drawn his final breath. Titus leaned toward you, perhaps captured by your dreamy expression, and kissed the warm apple of your cheek. It was the gentlest, most husbandly gesture he’d managed in the last twenty-four hours.
“She’s not even listening,” you heard your father mutter.
The second course disappeared. Out came the third. As the lobster eggs benedict landed in front of each of you, Titus wrenched his attention away from you. He didn’t glare at your father, he didn’t need to, he simply looked, simmering there with one fist clenched on the table. This is what those poor fuckers in Pompeii must have felt like as the smoke erupted.
“Don’t do that.” Titus laughed, dark, fidgeting and rubbing his thumb and forefinger together where everyone could see it. He tilted his head this way and that. His other hand was on your leg again, climbing, darting smoothly under the silky fabric of your short dress. You kept yourself steady, breathing in even gusts, sipping your (admittedly) shitty grapefruit mimosa before taking a prim bite of your food.
“Don’t speak to my wife like that,” he added, when your father didn’t answer for himself.
“Mr. Danforth—” Your mother pleaded with your father in a stricken undertone. But with seemingly little regard for his own safety, your father brushed her off. “The way this has all been done, it is outrageous, insupportable—”
“Don’t fucking raise your voice at my table.” Titus was visibly enjoying himself. This was another one of his ambushes, a trap, he had wanted your bumbling father to hang himself this way, say just enough to justify Titus’s temper. “Don’t raise your voice in front of her. Did you see it?” Incrementally, Titus leaned forward, unblinking, eyes trained on your father, who had gone a troubling shade of purple. “She flinched when you yelled just now. We all saw it.” He canted his chin in your direction, addressing you without ever taking his eyes off of his chosen enemy. “Do I make you flinch, baby?”
You cleared your throat before the laugh could ruin his fun. Did he make you flinch? In the hour before this scheduled brunch, Titus had put you face up on the bed in your newlywed suite and placed your hands above your head, warning you, in a tone that made your blood freeze, not to move until he was finished. I’m going to fill you up, baby. Your tummy is going to be so full. You’re going to be so full of daddy’s cum, can you handle that? He had squeezed your tit like he was trying to tear it off your chest. Stars exploded in front of your eyes. You promised you could handle it. He popped a Viagra, chased it with a line of coke off your collarbone. You lost track of how many times he came, his cock stilling and shrinking then growing again but never leaving your cunt. He kissed you like the only air on the planet came from your lungs. He slumped on top of you between rounds, moaning into your neck. When your own body responded, when you had the energy, he watched you shiver and whine with electric eyes. Make me a daddy, make me a daddy, make me a daddy.
“Never,” you said, batting your lashes. Butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth.
“That’s right, princess.” Titus grinned, every tooth a fang. “A real daddy never makes his baby flinch.”
Your mother studied her potatoes resolutely.
“I don’t have to put up with this...this unholy alliance,” your father finally bit out, grunting in pain as if Titus had punched him directly in the dick.
Unholy alliance. He had no idea.
“I’m afraid you do,” Titus countered. “I don’t just own your daughter, no, I own all of you now. But don’t worry, you won’t see much of us. If you’re needed for a holiday or a photo or a baby shower, my chief of staff will be in touch.”
Your own smile arrived. That suited you just fine. You were suddenly less daunted by the task ahead of you, the rest of the courses; you were, in fact, hungry. Ravenous. Titus’s hand arrives at its destination, the pads of his right fingers ghosting across the damp fabric of your panties. You canted your hips forward, meeting his touch. You knew that when you finally stood, the stain on the chair would be embarrassing if you had any shame left to feel. His own cum leaked against his skin as he hooked one finger around the fabric and grazed his knuckle up your slit. Your throat tightened around a gurgle. He had fucked you so many times already and it wasn't even noon, yet you would happily sweep the plates from the table and let him have you again. Again and again. All the while, he kept his gaze steadily on your father, lips quirked playfully to one side.
You ate, discovering the lobster was cooked perfectly, so perfectly that you moaned quietly with delight.
“That’s right, baby, eat up,” Titus purred. Across the table, your father made a strangled noise. There was no telling if your mother even still existed. “You should tell them the good news.”
“We’re trying for a baby,” you said, in a voice that belonged to the new you, not Ducky or anyone that came before, not the shy young woman who had preened at Titus in an intimidating art gallery all those years ago. You swallowed a satisfying mouthful of food, then gazed up at Titus, his finger sinking deeper inside. The look he returned was priceless, as hopeless and lost as your own. “I can’t wait to make him a daddy.”
For more of these two please check the masterlist.
Summary: You and Titus have been circling around your shared obsession for nearly a decade. He always thought he would have you, but his timeline and his life are thrown into chaos when you break the rules of the game and dare to get engaged.
A/N: I've been extremely Pitt-pilled recently but holy shit do I love writing about evil pieces of shit. Titus Danforth, the man that you are. Titus is a piece of shit. You are a piece of shit. You are two dirty freaks made for one another. This takes place before the events of RON2.
Warnings: graphic violence, no beta we die like men, age gap, daddy kink, impregnation/breeding kink if you squint, titus loves to spoil his girl, titus is down bad, reader is down bad, control, manipulation, power imbalance, rich psychos doing rich psycho things, mentions of abuse, alcohol use, mentions of drug use, warning very rich cunts ahead, flirting, texting, dirty talk, dirty pictures, dark romance, possessive fucked up love, cheating, p in v sex, vaginal fingering, edging, HEA(?). This one is for the pervs you've been warned.
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Whether or not he genuinely liked them, Titus Danforth played games. The pleasure was beside the point; winning was all that mattered. His twin sister understood this, and so their daily game picked up where they had left it the morning before. Titus watched a sandpiper skip up and down the beach, playing its own game with the waves that foamed and frothed and roared up onto the sand.
Rituals were important. A newspaper was open in front of him, half of a buttered English muffin languishing on a porcelain L’Objet plate; Ursula had picked the painterly botanical motif. He didn’t hate it, which was what passed for harmony in their family.
The goal of the game was to ruin his breakfast.
He suspected Ursula did this because she despised the Hamptons and just being there, just the words Guild Hall and Georgica turned the bitch switch in her head to eleven. This was her way of punishing him for conducting business in a place where, quelle horreur, she might stumble upon a Real Housewife and be forced to have a tautly pleasant interaction or risk being portrayed as the raging cunt she really was on national television.
Anyway. Titus spun the cortado nested in his right hand, letting Ursula’s voice wash over him, ignoring the newspaper to watch the sandpiper duck and weave, playing his endless little game with the waves. Futile. Titus wondered if he could shoot it from the deck, but one of his fussy neighbors would surely report it and dealing with the authorities was somehow more annoying than listening to Ursula rattle off the news.
The Dow took a tumble, hedge funds were dumping software and piling into semis, his friend Martin’s crypto thing had gone belly up, and Martin had gotten busted with a legally significant amount of cocaine in Majorca, which meant he probably wouldn’t be joining them for dinner at Per Se on Saturday, when they would be back (thank Satan, she emphasized) in Manhattan. Titus continued to stare out the window, unmoved, his expression that of a man enduring a slightly clumsy pedicure. His sister’s voice raised, speeding up, more urgent; she was building toward something. She crossed her arms over her navy-blue sundress; the color was washing her out. She was a Light Spring and always looked best in pastels.
Titus sipped his cortado, spun the cup in his hand once more, heaved a sigh and raked his eyes sightlessly down the newspaper. He wished Ursula would take the hint and hurry up; he had scheduled a tennis match for early afternoon, and he didn’t intend to reschedule. The game continued. As usual, Ursula was going to lose.
And then, improbably, she said your name.
“Go back.”
It was the first thing he had said to her all morning. Ursula’s eyes widened, quickly, just a flash, before she paced closer to the breakfast table. Her fingertip ghosted along the blonde wood, skipping toward her brother’s coffee cup.
“Someone was shot outside the White House—”
“No.” Titus shifted forward in his seat, grimacing. “The other thing, about the…” He could hardly bring himself to say the words. Were you out of your fucking mind? Bristling, he bit out: “About the engagement.”
Ursula cleared her throat primly, putting on her most grating baby voice as she bent down to crumple his paper with one hand and study his face, memorize it. The urge to smack the pout from her mouth rose in him with a shudder.
“I’m certain you heard me, brother,” she whispered, batting her lashes with feigned innocence. She hadn’t been innocent for a single day in her life, not even fresh and slick from the womb. “She’s marrying Gander Schmitt.” With deliberate, slow relish, Ursula turned the pages of the paper for him, only stopping when she reached the Wedding section. There it was. Your face. Your perfect fucking face hovering beside what could only be described as an uncooked sausage with eyes and a bowl cut.
He was horrible. An offense to the eyes. And you were…
You.
The rage was immediate. Hot. All-encompassing. It surprised even Titus. His hand trembled, once, as he finished his cortado and put down the cup. “I’m going upstairs now,” he proclaimed in a deadly whisper.
Ursula smiled. He didn’t even care about her smug laugh or the fact she had, in her own mind, scored a point on him. The image of you and Gander Schmitt side by side in the Wedding section of the New York Times was burned into his retinas, ticking up his blood pressure by the second. He needed to be alone. Hit something. Shoot something. Maybe that goofy fucking bird...
He was going to explode.
Titus stood calmly, the chair shrieking across the hardwood as he tugged down his shirt and strode to the staircase. Out of sight, he took the stairs three at a time.
He burst into his room, through it, coming out the other side and onto the balcony. His shirt was strangling him. He tore open the collar, bracing himself against the banister, crushing it under his fingers until he heard the old, vintage wood groan.
You had broken the rules.
Never mind that the rules had never been established, you had broken them. You were his. That didn’t need to be said. You had been edging each other for the better part of a decade, going for months without speaking before one of you started up the game again with a mean or flirty text. You were the only somewhat amusing part of society functions, ribbon cuttings, wedding receptions, derbies. Your tits in a silk dress were life changing. He had watched you grow from pretty enough to be a yacht girl to stunningly polished, achingly unobtainable It Girl. Unobtainable for everyone else, of course. To him, you were pre-obtained. And frankly, torturing you with a quietly simmering look was often the only reason to attend society bullshit. He was going to get around to claiming you as his own one day, but Father kept threatening to burden him with an arranged marriage. It always dissolved at the last second, but the cycle kept Titus off balance.
He ripped the phone out of his pocket, breathing like a maniac. The last time you had exchanged “pleasantries” was at Christmas, almost six months ago. You had sent a photo of a single, steamed baby carrot on your appetizer plate with the caption “Made me think of you 😊”
Titus hadn’t dignified the jab with a response.
He typed furiously, swearing every time he had to back up and make a correction.
For hours, you didn’t respond. You had seen the threat, read it, but left it hanging there. Titus went to his tennis match. He didn’t remember a moment of the game. His friend asked if he had taken something before hitting the courts, molly, maybe? There was no shame in it. Titus went back to the house, stormed through the sitting room--where Ursula had passed out on the couch, a martini glass spilling gin onto the carpet—fetched the Macallan 81-year-old single malt from the liquor cabinet, and drank from the bottle, stalking back and forth on the balcony like a caged panther.
He gave in to his basest impulses, a thing he did often and gleefully but never with this much cock-twisting guilt and Googled your fiancé. His stomach churned at the mere idea of the word. There were more pictures from the engagement. Truly revolting stuff and never to be forgotten, not even if he drank the whole bottle. Gander Schmitt had given you a fat fucking rock, but it was a pebble compared to the multimillion-dollar emerald-cut Wilfredo Rosado Titus had already designed for you in his head, just then, in the thirty seconds it took him to decide Gander Schmitt was going to die.
He spit over the balcony. As the name Gander fucking Schmitt implied, the idiot was old money. Not Danforth old, but respectable at a glance. He had made a fortune recently investing in some AI clownery. Titus hated that shit on principle, it was always talking at him like he was a fucking idiot, like he needed assuaging.
Maybe he did need assuaging, he thought, drinking more, but not assuaging from a robot, from the one woman he was now not supposed to have.
Supposed to was for other people.
Titus took out his phone. It was never a good idea to drink and text, but Titus was full of bad ideas.
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contracts can be broken, he had texted, then: remember that.
The car was beautiful, exactly as you had pictured it. Exactly like your fantasies.
Less than twenty-four hours after your request, the BMW was parked outside of your Brooklyn townhouse. Gander had already left for Paris, thank God, so you wouldn’t have to explain its sudden appearance. Not yet, anyway.
Perhaps not ever.
Oh darling, you texted him. I didn’t know you cared.
Him. Not your fiancé, not the flesh-colored Grimace your parents had insisted you marry, but Titus Danforth, the psychopath of your most lurid dreams. The first time you saw him was at a gallery show. The Bel-Air. Luxembourg. You were trying your best to sound clever about art. You had gone to the bathroom and Googled some of the pieces, memorizing details about the various artists, their mediums, their ideas.
Everyone there was dangerously rich and important, and you yearned to impress. You had grown up around wealth, but this was different. These people had old, old families, entered rooms you could only dream of; if their hands landed on a scale, they could rebalance the future of humanity.
Your mother had sent you husband shopping, picking out the form-fitting Tom Ford dress, the velvet choker necklace, the sky-high stilettos. And when you saw him standing by the window, one hand holding his phone to his ear, the other around a champagne glass stem, you felt the predator within come to life. I’ll have that one, you thought. Your eyes had scanned up and down his body, making an assessment.
You couldn’t have known that little glance would kick off a lifelong entanglement. An obsession.
Titus had made sure a champagne landed in your hand. His eyes kept wandering back to you. The way his gaze scraped up your legs was like a drug. You were young and stupid enough to think it would be simple. You would snare him, marry him, pop out a few kids and drift, find your way to affairs, dance the dance of the bored and indolent, but it would be enough to set up your family and your legacy. There were worse ways to wind up, worse ways to occupy one’s time.
But he had waited you out.
He never did more than brush a kiss against your cheek. That was years ago. If you closed your eyes, you could still feel the steel scratch of his stubble.
For some reason, he never lost your number. You just kept circling each other, waiting to see who would break first, confess, tip their hand.
It was a hot day. The car, detailed, gorgeous, glistened in the light. You sauntered down the stairs to run your hand along the door. Your concierge watched from the open door of the entryway. The keys were waiting for you. No note. He didn’t need to send one; his intentions were crystal clear.
I’ll cut his fucking head off.
You shivered as you sank down into the buttery leather seat. You wondered if Titus meant it, if you had finally pushed the sick old fuck too far. Men like Titus didn’t need to lie. Men like Titus raised a hand and the whole world held its breath to see what came next. You didn’t doubt he was capable of tremendous violence. It was always there in his eyes, an errant promise, the ease of the untouchable, and it made you soaking fucking wet.
You grinned under the dappled light breaking through the leaves, pushed up your skirt, and fingered yourself through your panties. Slowly, the concierge in your lobby turned away. You slid your panties aside, letting the wetness pool on the flawless leather. Giggling to yourself, you made yourself decent, hopped out of the convertible, and took a picture of the mess you had made on the driver’s seat.
The picture flew away to Titus with a satisfying little sound.
You grabbed the keys to your new car and skipped back up into the townhouse, hunting down an iced coffee while you waited for him to respond. Instead, Gander texted. Ugh. You hated him. No, there weren’t words for what you felt. He had bought you like a horse, making sure you understood you would be just one in a crowded stable. That your saddle would have the diamond, the portion of his fortune, was meant to be flattering.
Titus was wrong about Gander being a crier. Girls whispered. You knew exactly what Gander was. A practiced, unabashed, entitled sadist. He had women lined up from New York to Tokyo, all of them carrying scars. The physical ones were bad; the mental ones were worse. But your father’s business had collapsed. He was in debt up to his eyeballs. With Gander’s money, none of you would be homeless, but you also wouldn't have a home. You would have a prison--golden, glittering, but a prison all the same.
Titus was no peach, but you identified in him the same raw, needy possessive streak you saw in yourself. You wanted to disappear into someone else, vanish into their darkness, let them see you for all the horrible things you were, and you didn’t, under any circumstances, want to share.
Gander was going to be delayed on his return trip. Boo hoo. A picture of his cock came through. You recoiled from the screen, gagging. Say something pretty for me, get it hard.
You Googled a nude of someone else, some call girl who vaguely resembled you. Gander was in his sixties, flirting with dementia, he would never know the difference. You cropped out her head and sent it back with a kissy face emoji. You felt sick to your stomach. But Titus had never stopped playing his little games, never proposed or even tried to court you in earnest. It was this or destitution, and you had no idea how to be poor.
Your fiancé sent another picture, you squinted hard enough to make it blurry for yourself and heart reacted to buy time, then picked up your bag, dumped your coffee into a travel mug and went down the block for a croissant. Titus replied when you were seated at a petite table by the window, the city passing you by, and life, too. At least you would be spared Gander’s physical presence for a few more precious days.
good girl. what am I saved as now? Titus asked.
Your breath hitched in your throat at those words. Good girl. You could imagine him saying it, fingers curled around your wrist as he kissed the back of your hand, eyes searing into yours. Fuck it. The game had to escalate.
Daddy, you texted back.
Typing dots appeared and disappeared for five straight minutes while you enjoyed his suffering and ate your croissant. You were sucking the last of the almond paste off of your fingers when he finally responded.
show me. proof.
You screenshotted the message window and sent it.
What am I saved as? you asked, blushing.
i’ll never tell.
Then: i’m shopping for a saw.
Under the table, your pussy clenched. What was wrong with you? Everything, everything.
Promises, promises, you told him.
are you or are you not the owner of a brand new BMW Z3? you’re not going to marry him, sweetheart. i’ll keep proving it until you understand.
And then what? Even if you could get out of marrying Gander, nothing about your circumstances would change. But you were having too much fun. Titus never texted this consistently. Something was different. Maybe this time, he would accept the truth you had allowed in long ago—that you freaks were made for each other, two sides of the same cursed coin.
My engagement party is next week, you texted. Make it memorable, darling.
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Titus’s man on the inside let him know when the toasts were about to begin. He had considered going himself, timing his entrance to fluster you at the perfect moment, but some restraint was in order. Teasing out the game was what made it so delicious. And anyway, he needed plausible deniability for what was to come later. It was better if he kept his distance. For now. But his mole had performed adequately, and even verified that yes, the bride-to-be had her phone on her person at the party.
Titus picked up his binoculars and searched along the windows. Your big event was at the Aman—expensive but not particularly exclusive, in Titus’s opinion—and it had been a snap to book a room across the way, at the Whitby. You looked radiant and fuckable and tasteful in your Oscar de la Renta gown, too radiant and fuckable and tasteful for a walking thumb like Gander Schmitt. He looked like an oaf, but that went without saying. His bowtie was crooked the entire evening, which was driving Titus up the fucking wall.
Show some respect to my wife.
Toast time. Titus let the binoculars hang around his neck and picked up his phone.
He’s going now, the mole texted. That was his cue.
Titus sent the pictures, one after the other, then grabbed the binoculars again, found you there among the glittering guests, and waited for your reaction. He had indulged in the assumption that you would be eager for any excuse not to listen to Gander drone on and on about how much he loved you, how seamlessly you fit into his life, how you were going to make an enviable wife and dutiful mother. None of those things would happen, of course, Titus wouldn’t let them. Gander was already a dead man; he just didn’t know it. He was glad he couldn’t hear the speech, because being forced to hear that dullard lie through his teeth about you might send Titus into a venomous, blackout rage that would end in satisfaction, but satisfaction with too much mess.
There was more on the line now than just pride, more than just the game; he had done some preparatory homework on Gander. You were about to yoke yourself to a man with Titus’s appetites but not his discretion or his solvency. Gander’s big AI gamble was just that, and the Danforth’s personal financial analyst had returned Titus’s “investment inquiries” with grave warnings. This was a table with two legs--any pressure and the whole thing would collapse.
That buffoon was going to ruin your life.
That’s my job.
Titus smiled to himself, the grin spreading as you did exactly as he hoped and glanced at your phone while Gander continued his red-faced bloviating. Your eyes widened, your pulse pushed visibly against the delicate skin of your neck. You looked up, perhaps wondering, perhaps hoping, that Titus would show up in person to bask in your shock.
He was not necessarily a patient man, but for you? For you, he could try.
He was, after all, a man who enjoyed the chase.
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You stared, dumbfounded, at the pictures that had come through in rapid succession. Everyone was staring. Blood turned to molten sludge in your veins. Your heart felt like it might blast out of your chest and knock the wine glass out of Gander’s hand.
The first: A screenshot of your text chain from his perspective. There at the top, you were saved as wife. You couldn’t feel your fingers. The whole room was bending toward you. The lights were too bright. The air was too stuffy, too hot. You swayed on your heels, lips parting as you stupidly, recklessly looked down at the next image.
It was a picture taken from above, by Titus himself, angled down his chest. His shirt was pulled up, revealing the iron ripple of his lower stomach and the tantalizing trail of hair that led from his navel to his groin. No telling where his pants had gone. His cock strained against his black boxer briefs, gripped in one hand, flexed upward to make sure you could see just how thick, fat, and long it was. Just barely, just at the very top of the waistband, you could make out the leaking, swollen head spearing above the fabric. He was so hard his own fucking underwear couldn’t contain him.
You were going to pass out.
Someone put a hand on your shoulder.
Snapping back into your body, into the present, you lowered your phone, hiding it against your thigh. Your mouth was suddenly flooded with saliva, your tongue dull and heavy as Gander pinned you with a strained, confused look and waved the microphone in front of your face.
You locked your phone and handed it to your mother, exchanging it for a chilled glass of pink champagne. This was impossible. This was like dying slowly in public. If you didn’t concentrate, you were going to puke on yourself. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath, smiled, put on a show, and gave your speech, unfocusing your eyes so that when you looked at your future husband, it was Titus standing there, steady, handsome, knowing.
When it was over and you had survived it, you hurried onto the veranda to get some air. A man you didn’t recognize sidled up beside you. A party crasher? He bowed stiffly and handed you a wrapped packet.
“From Mr. Danforth, ma’am. He sends felicitations on your grand match.”
Felicitations. What a fucking dickhead.
The man skedaddled away as if afraid you might strike him or throw your drink in his face at the mention of Titus’s name. You went to the stone railing and set down your champagne, fished out your phone, your breath catching in your throat again when you opened the text chain with him. Without a hint of remorse, you saved both images, then texted: I’m changing you back to titties dickforth.
open the package.
You sighed and did so, peeling open the paper to find a now recognizable pair of men’s Saint Laurent boxer briefs, black, the fly crusted with what was unmistakably a large semen stain. You paled and checked to make sure nobody was close by. He was going to be the death of you; maybe you were starting not to care.
You’re a menace, you texted.
yes, but i’m your menace.
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You knew it had gotten out of hand, sincerely out of hand, when your mother called to let you know the fucking wedding had been moved. To the Danforth Lodge.
“All expenses paid for,” she gushed to you, utterly witless. This is a disaster. “A wedding gift from the Danforth family.”
No, from Titus and Titus alone.
Which meant he would be there. For the first time, you wondered if you were outmatched, if Titus was simply too insane to beat at this little game.
“Mom, I wanted it at the Plaza,” you said, not quite whining but trending in that direction. “I’ve always wanted my wedding at the Plaza. Since I was a little girl. We can refuse. The world doesn’t revolve around the Danforths.”
Your mother sighed. “Yes, it does, sweetie.”
You picked out a dress you knew Titus would love, not just because he would be there to see you in it, but because, selfishly, delusionally, you were still hoping he would make good on his grim promise.
And your texting was getting imprudent, to say the least. He seemed to always know when Gander was in town and when he wasn’t. Somehow, Titus had your schedule and found ways to make your life borderline unbearable. If you were getting brunch at ROBERT, he made sure a carafe of your favorite mimosas was waiting before you even reached the table. He sent a picture of himself, swollen and sweat-slicked from the gym, silver curls devilishly careless, his sweatpants low on his hips, his hard cock straining visibly against the fabric. You got him back with an equally scandalous photo taken in the lady’s restroom.
go in the stall and touch yourself
You did, because you wanted to, because everything he did made you feverishly giddy.
take your panties off before you go back to the table. put them in your bag. be a good girl for daddy and you’ll get a reward
The check didn’t even arrive at the table. Gander stared in mute fury at the waiter as you were all informed that it had been paid. Your fiancé was starting to notice Titus Danforth’s little gestures popping up everywhere. When it was time to do the prenup, explaining the BMW was hell. You had to disclose all of your major assets. It felt like sitting in the principal’s office. How to explain the diamond-encrusted collar with the platinum o-ring? The astronomical number of Agent Provocateur lingerie sets. The Hermès Himalaya Birkin. The Manolos and the Jimmy Choos and the Pradas. Your closet was filling up with evidence, and all of it could be traced back to one man if anyone bothered to look.
And Gander was beginning to look.
You were eating dinner with him--a tedious chore on a normal day and excruciating when, like tonight, he was in a foul mood—at the Modern, a week before the wedding. The Abstractions prix fixe menu was $275 a head, so you weren’t just going to push the chilled lobster around your plate and pretend to be full. Gander huffed with irritation whenever you took an actual bite of food. He wanted a skinny bride, that had been made abundantly clear from the all caps emails he sent to your mother on the subject.
OUR WEDDING WILL APPEAR IN THE TIMES. I WILL NOT BE EMBARRASSED.
No, you ugly piece of shit, you’ll be dead.
You crossed your feet at the ankles, ignoring Gander’s eyes burning into your face as you picked at the next dish; it was called eggs on eggs on eggs. You could just imagine Titus rolling his eyes at it.
“These people need to be stopped,” he would say, brooding over his whiskey. “By force, if necessary.”
Gander probably thought your dreamy smile over the eggs was for him. Moron. You were wearing a pair of shoes Titus had sent over the previous day. They fit like a glove. Everything he sent suited your body perfectly. He had studied your taste like he could get a degree in it. Extravagant but playful. Sexy but never crass.
take a photo in these. nothing else.
You obliged, getting very acrobatic with the angle in the mirror to make sure he didn’t glimpse any nipple or puss.
so demure, he said, when the photo arrived.
I’m saving the sweet stuff for our wedding night.
oh sweetheart. there will be nothing sweet about our wedding night.
⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹
Titus was a man of deranged urges, but where traditions prevailed, so must self-discipline.
He was never going to let Gander make it to the wedding night. He was never going to let that bloated windbag lay a finger on you. Far, far too risky. In fact, he had been very clear with you—if your fiancé ever tried to express his dark cravings before the ring was on your finger, you were to drop everything and text Titus. If it meant physically restraining, maiming, or outright killing Gander, then so be it. There was no mess on Earth Titus couldn’t clean up if he really needed to, but he wanted you pristine. He knew you weren’t a virgin, that wasn’t important, what was important to him was the timeline. The game was running, and when the game ended, you would be his. In the intervening time, no man was to even breathe on you.
And it was a simple thing indeed to have his financial analyst draw up a document laying out all the ways in which Schmitt and his business were careening toward ruin. By now, Gander hated his fucking guts, but the information was persuasive enough to trick him into meeting with Titus. Alone. In the remote guesthouse with the quaint, cottage exterior that tidily concealed its gruesome purpose.
Titus was ready for him. The ambush was easy, because Gander inhabited a world that Titus did not, a world in which no man as rich as Gander was ever really in danger. He didn’t know what it was to hunt. What it was to kill. Titus knew both, and it was his great pleasure indeed to teach Gander the ways of this new and terrifying existence.
He did not want it to go too long. His desire to have you had turned into something manic, a physical pain he carried everywhere. The pictures you sent him were fueling his addiction, but they weren’t coming fast enough for his liking. He needed more.
It was just the right amount of paralytic in the syringe. He needed Gander immobilized but alert. He tied the bug-eyed fuck to a chair, nice and tight, dragging him outside into the twilight gloom where nobody would see them. The staff were on alert. Mr. Danforth was conducting a private hunt that evening, and they were to act accordingly. All guests at the Lodge for the wedding were to be kept indoors. Distractions had been arranged.
Titus grunted from the effort of bringing Gander’s dead weight out into the dirt. The man’s eyes were bloodshot and runny as Titus explained exactly what was going to happen next.
“You have something of mine,” Titus told him, shucking his light jacket, rolling his shoulders. “I could’ve asked nicely for it, but that’s not nearly as fun. I like a bit of a challenge. So, I’m going to take it. I’m going to take your fiancé. She belongs to me now, do you understand?”
Gander couldn’t speak even if he wanted to, and Titus didn’t actually care if the man comprehended what he was saying.
“I know all about your little dens in Berlin and Phuket. I know what you do there and how those women end up. She’s not going to be one of those women. Over my dead fucking body will she be one of those women. But actually, over yours.” He retreated to the shed, opened it, brought out the aged, rusty saw he had chosen for the occasion. “If you were just a normal pervert I’d kill you before the next part. I want you to know I’ve had my people forge your signature on a few key documents. Your money? Your assets? Hers. We’ll strip that dipshit company of yours for parts, after I make a proper wife out of her. I know what you’re thinking—why wait so long? What’s the matter with you, Titus? Everything. Everything is the matter with me. Normally, that’s my cross to bear, but tonight it’s yours.”
⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹
You didn’t know what exactly was waiting for you in the guest house, but you suspected it was nothing good.
It was a warm summer night, sticky, fireflies dancing in the tall grass while you swished toward the cottage. Parts of the estate were allowed to grow wild. Flowers bobbed against you, brushing your fingers as you reached the charming, cobblestone path that curved toward the front door. It was white brick with black wood trim, a squat country chimney sitting empty and smokeless in the heat. Crickets and frogs roared from the tree line and a pond you had spotted from your window when it was light hour before. Your skin was on fire. The tone of Titus’s text had been so uncharacteristic it chilled your blood. He wasn’t being demanding or domineering, he wasn’t commanding you to send him a picture of your feet or your lips or your bra-clad tits.
come to the guesthouse, sweetheart. i have something to show you.
The door was open. You let yourself in, slipped off your heels, and padded barefoot through the cottage, looking for him. Titus was waiting for you in the kitchen. It was late, but he looked wired. His eyes harbored a strange, dazzling light. He had put on a clean, crisp suit, storm gray, a pair of engraved cufflinks and a paisley pocket square making him look sharp indeed. Leaning against the heavy wood table, he tipped his head to the side, watching you.
It had been ages since you had been in the same room together. The effect was immediate, charged, like licking a socket, the thrill of his presence, his proximity, shooting through you in bursts. He sucked all the air out of the room, always had.
“I was hoping you would wear that,” he said, lovingly, with a low, simmering warmth that went straight to your cunt.
It was a silky, lacy peignoir, just decent enough to pass as a flirty cocktail dress. But that wasn’t why Titus had given it to you weeks ago. You knew what he liked about it—without a bra, your nipples peaked teasingly through the delicate fabric, the weight of the silk catching on your every curve. The color, blush pink, felt obscenely innocent given your shared desires.
“Titus,” you said gradually. You could tell by the smothering silence that you were utterly alone in the house with him. “Why am I here?”
He beckoned you forward with a single, curling finger. And you went, because for almost a decade you had been waiting for more than precocious banter. Everything on your body had once belonged to him—the dress, the gold chain necklace, the bracelet, even the luxurious body wash you had used that morning. Until that moment, you hadn’t considered that he was terraforming your life, making you into exactly what he wanted one purchase, one text, one command at a time.
And more shocking, you found you didn’t mind.
When you were an inch away, Titus leaned down to breathe in your neck. He groaned softly, one hand reaching for your chin, tilting your head up until you had no choice but to look him in the eyes. His eyes. They were magnetic. His grip was firm, his thumb nestled in the groove below your lip.
“You know why you’re here.”
“I don’t—”
“You do.” Titus smiled, it was a slow affair, cold and confident. “Think, sweetheart, use that beautiful, devious brain of yours and think hard.”
You swallowed a strangled breath. God, you wanted to touch him and be touched.
“What would make you the happiest girl on Earth?” he whispered, searching your face.
You blinked, hard. “You. Being with you, getting fucked by you, being yours.”
Titus’s eyes drifted shut, an almost sweet expression gripping him before letting go and the frigid mask descended again. Still, you felt his hand tremble on your chin. “Daddy’s so proud of you, you’re so good. I hope you can forgive me, baby, you’re so good and tonight I’ve been so, so bad.”
You gasped as he let go of you. He sank one hand into his pocket, the other he used to flick open the refrigerator door. You had been so focused on him, on his heat, his power, his body, his dangerous, mesmerizing eyes, that you hadn’t even noticed the rest of the kitchen. But now you saw it. You saw everything.
“Titus…”
Gander Schmitt’s head was on a silver tray, saran-wrapped like a leftover Easter ham, his eyes glazed and staring, his mouth open in fixed, grimacing horror.
Titus left the door open, returning to where you stood, moving behind you and wrapping his arms around your middle. His head landed on your right shoulders as he cuddled you to his body, squeezing in a way that told you fighting, running, was pointless. “Are you the happiest girl on Earth tonight?”
You stared at Gander. It was impossible to tear your eyes away. It was so bizarre, so disgusting, it didn’t feel quite real yet. Reality was shivering through you, adrenaline coating your veins in unleaded. Your mouth opened and closed several times as you tried to formulate the words. “Was he alive?” you finally asked in a choked whisper. “When you did it?”
“Until I hit the carotid, yes.”
Nonchalant. Factual.
“I don’t…I’m not…” A part of you had always known this was coming, that the game of cat and mouse never ended well for the mouse. It did shame you that you didn’t give a shit about Gander being dead, only what it meant. “Fuck you, Titus. My life is over.”
He let go when you pried yourself out of his grasp. Surprising. But you weren’t about to give him points, not for anything. You marched over to the fridge and gripped the door, shaking it. “Are you fucking insane?”
“Yes?”
“Not for the obvious reasons!” You screamed, stamping your bare foot, rattling the timbers supporting the roof. You panted at him, hunched, crazed, snarling. “I mean it, you fucking asshole, what am I supposed to do now? Don’t you understand? I’m not like you, Titus. I can’t just do whatever the hell I want when I want. I wasn’t going to marry him for love, for a thrill, my family is in trouble. In trouble. I’m the only child. I’m their last hope.”
He withstood the lecture with the strangest little smile on his face.
Once you had screamed some more and worn yourself out, he calmly rounded the table, took the refrigerator door from you and closed it. “Are you finished?” he asked.
“No. No.”
“I know all of that, baby.” Titus collected you into his arms, and you squirmed until he started in on his next phrase. “I’ve taken care of everything. You’ll be my wife.”
You’ll be my wife. The words made the world spin. You settled against him, then twisted to look up into his face. “But I was never good enough before, my family--”
“You were always good enough,” Titus murmured into your temple, dragging his nose down to yours, his lips touching yours, greedy, as if he wanted to steal the breath right out of your lungs. “I just wasn’t sick of our game. You make the chase so good, but now I’m ready to win.”
He escorted you away from the kitchen and the odd, lingering smell there, taking you to the adjoining living room. Maneuvering you against the back of the couch, he trapped you there, his body wedged against yours, his hips scrunching the silk fabric against your groin. He had rehearsed this, you thought, planned it all, every word, every protestation, every minute of his triumph.
“Here.” Titus calmly slid his phone out of his pocket and handed it to you. “I’m going to touch you now, and you’re going to dial your father. You’re going to explain to him that Titus Danforth is your daddy now. You’re going to tell him that you belong to me, that you’re going to be my wife and the very willing mother of my children. His little girl won the big prize.” His eyes sparkled with pleasure, with menace. “Won’t he just be so proud?”
The phone almost slipped out of your hand from so much flop sweat greasing your palm. Your father’s contact was already queued up, ready. Titus waited until your thumb hovered over the CALL button to ruck up your dress and pull down your underwear until it was around your knees. It fell the rest of the way without any encouragement. His chest was hard and hot and expansive as you braced yourself against it and his fingers, God his fingers, slid carefully over your slit.
“Fuck,” Titus moaned into your ear. “I knew you would be wet. I knew you’d love my engagement gift.”
You didn’t trust your own voice as the phone rang. Titus crooned gently into your ear, just nothing, just sounds, chuckling when you gasped as his fore and middle finger tucked up under your clit, massaging, too insistent, too prodding to be genuinely pleasurable.
“If you tell him what I told you to,” Titus murmured. “I’ll let you cum.” You assured him with a hasty nod. Your eagerness made his cock twitch against your thigh. “That’s right, sweetheart. Little games for children are over. The adults are playing now.”
There was a severed head in the refrigerator. You were about to announce an engagement to a different man the night before your wedding. God only knew where the rest of Gander had gone. You couldn’t tell if the fight had left you or if this was something else, but you didn’t want it to be resignation. That was what marrying Gander would have been. Defeat. A noble defeat maybe but a defeat all the same. You leaned back to stare up into Titus’s face. That he smelled clean, laundered, spritzed with woodsy aftershave, made it all feel okay. That if his world and his violence were yours to share, at least there would be propriety when the lights were on and strangers were looking. You could hold your head high at his side, clasp a hand that was steeped to the wrist in blood.
Your lips parted and he took that as the invitation it was. The kiss sealed the deal, and for an instant, the rhythmic circling of his fingers against your clit softened into something sweeter. He balanced you on the knife’s edge of pain and pleasure.
“Put it on speaker phone,” he said, waiting and watching for your reaction. He might think the game was over, but you knew there were still myriad ways to lose. And to go where and to do what? Throw yourself at another monster whose dimensions were yet to be known? Titus you understood. Titus, in his way, could be controlled.
He wanted to feel big and powerful and all-consuming, inevitable as myth, a man unbound by the tawdry rules of a society that men like him shaped. And like all unimaginably powerful men, he also craved the lie that there was something he couldn’t have, something he couldn’t take.
“Where’s my ring?”
Titus bit your lower lip, pulling until you gasped and bucked against him.
“On the other side of this phone call,” he said.
Your father’s voice drew you out of the fuzzy half-reality the cottage had become. Titus nodded as you began to speak, wedging the pads of his fingers under your clit again, allowing his fingertips to graze your entrance, suggest what might be had if you did as he instructed.
“Hi Dad,” you said, your voice rising to a shrill register you didn’t recognize. “How’s…how’s your night going?”
Titus pinched back a laugh, tightening his lips. Your father mumbled something about winning a few hundred dollars at the blackjack tables. He wasn’t even far away, sequestered with the rest of the wedding guests inside the lodge and casino.
“That’s great,” you said, a bit tartly, cutting him off. Oh my God shut up. “There’s been a change of plans. I’m afraid…” Your eyes widened, flying to Titus for help. “Gander, he…um…he…”
Accident, Titus mouthed, holding your gaze. Heart attack.
“He had a heart attack I think, the doctors are still—” Titus sucked the side of your neck, rubbing, rubbing, promising relief but never delivering, making your eyelids grow heavier as you tried to chase his touch. “He’s not going to make it.”
Your father exploded on the other end, panicked, furious.
“It’s a-all right,” you hurried to promise. Beads of sweat gathered along your brows. Titus noticed, licked them casually away. You couldn’t believe the words that were coming out of your mouth, but they arrived, halting and vague and stupid. “You c-couldn’t know this but I’ve grown really close to Titus over the last year. I know it sounds c-crazy but he wants to help.”
Titus pinched your clit, impatient; your head flew back as you tried not to shriek.
“Tell him,” he growled into your throat.
“He’s my d-daddy now. I belong to him. He’s marrying me and I’m his,” Titus’s fingers slowed to a far more enjoyable pace, cheating higher, outlining your swollen lips, teasing your entrance, dipping in to test if you were still soaked, still shivering and whorishly wet. Every word drew out more kindness. He pushed one finger inside, to the knuckle, holding you up as your knees buckled. “I’m going…going to give him so many babies. I won the big prize, okay? Everything is going to b-be okay now.”
Titus ripped the phone out of your hands, hung up the call and threw his mobile clear across the house. You heard a window shatter as he fucked you with his fingers in earnest, two, pressing a ravenous, open-mouthed kiss to your neck as you worked your hips frantically against his hand.
“That’s right, sweetheart, mine. Mine. No more teasing. Now you have a very greedy daddy to please. Nod if you understand. Nod if you like it.” His voice was sharp gravel in your ear, his hand possessive and seeking as he thrust his fingers in and out, letting you hear the squelch, how desperately your pussy tried to keep him from leaving too soon. When you nodded, when you moaned throatily for him and said, “No, I love it,” his response was to grab you by the throat and tip you over the edge of the couch.
You bounced down onto the cushions, scrambling to find him as he prowled to the edge of the sofa, then around, stripping as he went. Jacket. Shirt. Undershirt. Belt. He sank down with a grunt beside you, lashing out with one arm to hook you around the waist and pull you, roughly, onto his lap. Your thighs went where they yearned to, on either side of his. He helped you push the dress over your head and toss it aside.
You reached for his fly, but he just as readily slapped your hands away. Titus smirked, reaching into his pocket, fishing out the biggest diamond engagement ring you had ever seen. He put it in his mouth, showing it to you between his teeth. His eyebrows went up, once, goading, and you carefully slipped your left ring finger through the sparkling circle, into his mouth. His tongue rolled against your finger, teasing.
While you were momentarily stunned by the sheer, indulgent size of the stone, Titus unzipped his trousers, grimacing and wincing as he pulled out his cock. Everything in your life was about to be a lot bigger. His dick was painfully hard, pulsing with his heartbeat, a vein along the edge jagged as cut glass.
“I’ve waited a long time for this,” he whispered, leaning forward to kiss your chin. His skin glistened. The faint, golden light in the cottage caught the sweat in his curls and made them shine. “Don’t disappoint me.”
“Should’ve taken it for a test drive first,” you teased, risking a little hazard. His deep, mean eyes flashed with interest. “I’ve already got the ring.”
Titus pulled your hips flush with his, lifted you, gave you the courtesy of a warning nudge against your cunt before he lowered you onto him with sickeningly good aim. Your body relented almost immediately, even his impressive size welcomed when the host was so profoundly willing. “I want my sweet stuff,” he sneered, throwing your own words back at you. “And I want it now.”
“Am I your sweet stuff?” You carded your hands through his hair, arching, leaning back to present your tits to his mouth. He watched them jiggle, transfixed, jaw jutting out as he sheathed his cock, letting you feel just how much you would be expected to take, and take, and take.
“You know you are, baby.”
“Daddy’s sweet stuff.”
He buried his face in your chest, holding you to him with a tenderness you didn’t expect from him. Interesting. “Give me everything,” he hissed, latching on to one nipple and then the other, a sound almost like a sob wrenching out of his throat. “All your sweet stuff for daddy.” His fist tightened in your hair, exerting steady pressure until you accepted he wasn't going to let go and stared up at the ceiling, utterly exposed, utterly filled. Your world was expanding. Your world was him. He was already so close, you could feel his cock swelling, shoved to the limits just from a brief, hot soak. “Say please, sir, and no, sir, and may I have some more, sir? Fuck me like a good girl if you understand.”
You did and you did.
“Sir,” you whispered, grinding against him, bouncing, finally letting yourself go, tilting over into the dark swirl of pleasure and dark pit of him, a place from which one could never, ever return. “Please, may I have some more.”
Pairing: Jack Abbot x Reader (but this time, he's a serial killer and you're his stalker, whoops!)
Summary: You have been a pain in the ass since the moment you stepped foot into Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center for your residency but not for the reasons people might think. Everyone thinks you just annoy the shit of Dr. Jack Abbot, and you do. Because you know his big secret.
He kills people in his off time. And you stalk him on yours, which is how you found out.
So, how is he going to get you to keep quiet? By making you his.
Word Count: 12.1k
A/N: Oh no! I'm in love with a man who kills bad people for fun!
This fic is really just an excuse to write the copious amount of daddy kink I've been craving (also Jack calls you “baby girl” and you love it! because I do, sorry!), with a nice sprinkling of a little murder.
As always, you can check out all the warnings on my AO3. I would maybe classify this as a dark fic given the serial killer aspect but it's actually pretty sweet and mushy all things considered! With lots and lots of porn (who saw that one coming? ha!).
Hope it's a fun read ♡
Your therapist says it's healthy to have hobbies, to spend your free time doing something that sparks joy. You tell her you've been enjoying your new interest in photography very much.
Because you've been taking a lot of fantastic photos of your attending, Dr. Jack Abbot.
Your favorite photos so far are the ones from when he's on duty for SWAT. He looks the best in that uniform. You're kind of sick of seeing him in scrubs all the time at the hospital.
Though, he looks great in scrubs. Even better when he's chopping up bodies while wearing them.
Jack doesn't wear a mask when he's in his workshop. He likes the taste of blood, the way it feels when it splatters on his face.
Especially when his victim is still alive, still screaming.
“Shhhh.” He cuts another line straight down the abdomen, a beautifully even line that's perfectly parallel with his last one on this scumbag's chest using his trusty scalpel. “I'm not done yet. You've got at least four more to go. Though, maybe I should count the attempted rapes too. I know you have a few of those on record.”
You watch from the vent of the warehouse Jack owns. You found it after you hacked into the property records database to see where he lived. He was smart enough not to put it under his name. But you're smart enough to know Joel Barish is a character in one of his favorite movies. And “Joel” owns this warehouse.
It took you a while to find the right vantage point. He has cameras installed all over the place. You didn't have much time after you killed the power a few weeks ago to look around and see where you could hide when you came here. You luckily found this cozy little vent that you can crawl into from the outside. He never uses the HVAC system, thankfully.
He wouldn't be able to. You cut all the wires for it the moment you figured out how perfect it would be for your purposes. You store your equipment all over the vent system.
Jack has been overly cautious since that power outage. It was only for a few minutes before the back up generator kicked on but…when he did tests, every time the power got cut, the generator would always go on two minutes after.
It took seven that time. When it only took two every time he tested after that day.
He doesn't know if he's being paranoid or not.
He definitely isn't, but you're very good at being as quiet as a mouse.
Well, unless you're at work. Then, you're as loud as you can be. Just because you know it'll earn you an annoyed glare from your attending.
A glare that you wish you could capture on camera…but he only ever glares at you!
You sigh, grabbing your stuff from your work locker, reminiscing about all the death glares Jack gave you all throughout your shift. You will be getting that on film one of these days.
You close your work locker and let out a shriek when Jack is right next to you. “Dr. Abbot! You scared me…”
“I need to talk to you.” He has his backpack on. He's ready to leave.
“About what?” You tilt your head in confusion. “Did something happen with one of my patients?”
He lowers his voice, his lips almost grazing your ear as he whispers close, “just get in my truck.”
You try to contain your excitement, doing your best to hide the thrill that rushes through you at his proximity.
You should leave. There's no reason for you to listen to him. No one would bat an eyelash at you brushing him off and walking away from him.
Everyone knows he hates you and you love bothering him.
Which is why you don't hide the smile on your face as you whisper back, “did you find my gift?”
His jaw cracks, that glorious anger coloring his face.
You play with him a little more by loudly exclaiming, “oh thank you so much, Dr. Abbot! I really needed a ride home this morning. I knew you had a soft spot for me.”
You flash him a bigger grin, since you said that loud enough that everyone knows you and him will be leaving together. Meaning it won't look good if you don't show up for work later. He'll have been the last one to see you alive, after all.
“Of course.” Jack pretends to be nice. Then, he places his hand on your back and proceeds to shove you forward. “Come on, let's go.”
You hold back how giddy you are when you buckle into the passenger seat of his truck. Jack adjusts his rearview mirror, then turns to you, his eyes maintaining that glare of his.
“How long have you known?” He asks, starting his truck, the engine roaring to life.
“Known what, Dr. Abbot?” You feign ignorance.
“Oh quit it with that fake bullshit.” His words make you giggle.
“I have no clue what you're talking about.” You pout at him. “Am I in trouble?”
“It sounds like you want to be.” Jack doesn't understand why you keep testing his patience.
You do this with everything. You always question his decisions on the floor. You always talk back to him. You always second guess him. You always answer all his educational questions perfectly, even when he's trying to catch you off guard.
He wants to wipe that bratty look off your face. The face you make when he knows you're purposefully being a pain in the ass.
“Dr. Abbot, where are we going?” You ask him, pretending to be very confused. “I haven't told you my address yet. How do you know where I live?”
He scoffs at your acting. “You know where we're going and it definitely isn't your place.”
“You aren't going to murder me, are you?” You smile a little too wide. “I thought you only killed recently released rapists or violent abusers. I certainly don't match either of those descriptions.”
“There's a first time for everything.” He says through gritted teeth. “Maybe you'll be the first annoying little brat I kill.”
“What did I do?” You bat your eyelashes at him and he just lets out an annoyed grumble in response.
Jack doesn't speak to you for the rest of the drive. He always parks in the forested area a mile away from the warehouse, since he can pretend he's going on one of the nearby hikes if anyone ever sees his truck here.
It's a good workout for him to carry the limp body of whatever victim he has to his workshop.
Keeps him physically fit.
Which is why he is able to sling you over his shoulder and carry you as he treks towards the warehouse.
“I can walk myself, you know.” You don't mind the carry but it would be easier on him not to do this.
“Shut up.” Jack isn't in the mood to talk to you. Not until he is in the safe space of his soundproof workshop.
A safe space you have tainted.
Once he gets inside, Jack tosses you onto the stainless steel table he usually performs his torture sessions on. You have dreamed of laying right here, with him hovering above you. You try not to look too excited as he cuffs your wrists and ankles.
“You shouldn't be happy about this.” He doesn't get you.
How are you not freaked out? How are you so calm? He literally has you cuffed to the same table where he has killed people before.
And you're ecstatic to be here.
“I wish you could take a photo…” You let out a sad sigh. “But I know you don't bring your phone.”
He had you leave all your stuff behind too.
“Why did you take this?” Jack shows you the photo you dropped into his warehouse a few days ago on a whim. To spice up your life a little, and his.
It's a photo of him, sleeping in his bed.
“Because you look so peaceful when you're asleep.” That is the truth.
You like snapping photos of him while he's asleep. He never keeps his indoor cameras on while he's home. At least not the ones in his bedroom.
“Why have you been taking photos of me?” He shows you another photo, this one a bit more scandalous. He's covered in blood after a kill, doing that deadly smirk you like so much.
You didn't drop that one.
Oh no, did he find your—
Jack grabs your chin, making you look at him, “hey, I'm talking to you. Pay attention.”
“Please tell me you didn't destroy my cameras.” You have so much undeveloped film! “Those cost my whole check…”
“I haven't destroyed anything. But I will if you don't answer me.”
You breathe out a sigh of relief. You really did not want to lose all those photos. There's tons of gorgeous shots of him in his SWAT uniform during a particularly grueling raid last week that you haven't developed yet.
You love the look he has on his face when he's focused. You love his face, honestly.
That's why you answer so easily, “I think you're handsome.”
“What?” Jack was not expecting that.
He assumed you were planning to use this as blackmail of some kind for a letter of recommendation. You wouldn't need his, though. Any attending would write you one.
Despite how much of a hindrance you can be, Jack can tell you will become a great doctor. You're incredibly determined. You'll go on to do amazing things.
Which is why he doesn't understand you at all…like when you tell him, “I like you.”
The wires cross in his brain. He isn't sure he heard you right.
It gets particularly confusing when you add, “especially when you're mad. You look really hot when you're mad.”
“Are you fucking with me?” He's old enough to be your father.
There's no way you actually find him attractive.
But you do. “I stalked you for a reason. You don't think I'd stalk just anyone, right?”
“How the fuck should I know? I don't know anything about you.” Other than the fact that you like him apparently…
“I know a lot about you.” You list off a bunch of things and you chuckle at his shocked expression.
You know everything there is to know about Dr. Jack Abbot. He's the object of all your desires, after all. And when you latch onto someone, you don't let go easy.
“Why…me?” Jack doesn't see what is so attractive about him, especially given how much you know about his favorite pastime.
You find it cute that he can't see how drawn you are to him. To the intense drive he has towards any goal he sets his mind to. To the kindness he displays at work to those experiencing the toughest of times. To the murderous, sadistic high he gets from killing bad people.
It's easy to like him. “We're a lot alike.”
“We are not alike.” He rolls his eyes at you. The two of you are polar opposites, that much he is certain.
“Maybe I should phrase that better. We like a lot of the same things.” You say with a smile.
“I like killing people.” He is outright about that. He knows you know, so he's not going to sugarcoat it. “I like cutting them open, pulling out their organs one by one, before piecing them back together like a puzzle.”
“Yeah, I know. I've watched you do it.” You were going to buy a video camera next!
“You know. You've watched. And you still like me?” This must be some kind of ruse.
There's no way you actually like him when he is seriously fucked up…
“Is that bad?” You tug at your cuffs. “Should I start thrashing around, crying and screaming “oh please Dr. Abbot, don't kill me!”?”
Jack hates how his body reacts to that.
He hates it.
He hates it so much…because he hasn't felt that feeling in a long time.
The subtle twitch of his cock, the blood rushing there. He thought he wasn't capable anymore, something that just happened with age.
But he's realizing now it's because he hadn't encountered anyone who sparked the feeling in him.
But you have. Somehow.
With the way you're acting out right now.
You blink away fake tears, looking up at him with those pretty eyes of yours, pretending to be scared, “please, I-I'll be a good girl, just don't hurt me, Dr. Abbot.”
“Stop that.” His hands grip the metal table hard enough that he can see his knuckles shine through. “Be fucking quiet.”
“I'm s-so sorry, p-please don't get angry with m-me.” You throw in a little hiccup, to really sell it.
What are you doing to him?
Why is he reacting to this, to you of all things?
His cock is throbbing in his scrubs. He hasn't gotten this hard in years.
“I'm going to kill you for this.” He doesn't know if he's being serious or just playing into the role you're setting up for him.
But it doesn't look like you care if you live or die. You just love that you get to spend time with him like this.
You'd do anything to spend quality time with Jack, including act out his darkest fantasies.
“No, no, no!” You shake your head, tugging at your restraints, the metal clinking in that harmonious way Jack loves so much. “Please don't kill me. I'll do anything you want. Anything.”
“Anything?” He licks his lips, giving you the same look he has on his face when he's about to go in for the kill.
It gives you such a rush seeing him look at you like that.
You nod furiously. “Anything you want, Dr. Abbot. I'm all yours.”
Jack has no idea why you saying that is enough for him to want you. Specifically beneath him, wriggling around, tears streaming down your face as he pounds his hard cock into you over and over again, your voice raspy from the moans he forces out of you.
He wants you to be all his. He wants to own you.
So, that's what he'll do.
“You're coming home with me.” He tells you, grabbing a hold of your face again. “You're never leaving my sight again.”
“Okay.” You don't want to look too eager but this is more than you hoped for. “I promise I won't be any trouble.”
“That's a lie.” He lets out with a low chuckle, smirking at you so beautifully that you wish you had your camera right now.
You smirk back at him. “See? You do know me.”
Jack unlocks your cuffs, letting you sit up. You rub your wrists and he grabs one of them, examining it. You have a few micro-cuts chafing your wrists from the sharp metal. He goes to grab some disinfectant and cleans your little wounds.
“You don't have to do that.” You tell him. “It doesn't hurt.”
“You're my property now. I take care of my property.” He checks your ankles, cleaning them too.
“Should I call you Master then?” You ask him, maintaining your happy grin at this development.
Jack seriously can't stand you. You and your fucking boundary pushing. Always testing his limits, always teetering him on the verge of insanity.
Well, if you insist on calling him anything…he might as well tailor it to his liking. He might as well mold you into the object of all his desires too.
“No, not Master.” He gets up from his kneel, then grabs you by the chin, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip as he instructs, “at home, you call me Daddy. Got it?”
“So, I'm just Daddy's property?” You want to make sure you're getting your role right, kissing his thumb. He bites back a groan when you let him push it past your soft lips, your tongue swirling around the tip of his thumb before sucking on it lightly, making him wish it was his cock instead.
“You're going to be Daddy's good little girl.” Jack can't believe how much he wants to fuck you right now. He has to pull his hand away from you or he might just give in.
He hasn't felt this kind of arousal in ages. But here you are, sparking such need inside of him.
“Can I still be a brat at work?” You ask with a cute pout. “Please, Daddy?”
He clicks his tongue, annoyed. But he probably shouldn't have you act any differently at work. People definitely don't need to know about any of this.
“Fine.” He agrees. “But only at work. You listen to me everywhere else. Including here.”
You beam at him then. “Are you saying I get to come here with you and help?”
“I could teach you a lot of medicine here.”
You'll get tons of hands-on experience you wouldn't be able to at the hospital. Since here, you don't have to worry about accidentally killing them. They're going to die anyway.
Jack can show you all sorts of procedures that you would otherwise never get to do. And he finds himself feeling a bit strange, because excitement blooms in his chest. He's excited to teach you, his eager student.
“I'd like that a lot.” You allow yourself to look very giddy now. “Thank you so much for the opportunity.”
“No more photos, though.” Jack will keep all your equipment here, for insurance. “And no stalking other people.”
“That's easy. I've only ever stalked you anyway.” But now you won't have to if you'll be living with him.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Jack is giving you an out. He'll turn a blind eye if you want to leave now.
But the moment you stay, you aren't leaving him until you die. He'll kill you himself.
“Yes, Daddy.” You hop off the table, walking up to him, arms open wide. “I want to be here with you. Can I have a hug?”
Jack hasn't really hugged anyone in a while. Not like this.
But there you are, standing in front of him, looking all precious, waiting to be held.
He can't possibly reject so he wraps his arms around you, cradling you in his grip, resting his head on top of yours. You squeeze him, rubbing your face happily against his warm chest.
You've always wanted to hug him, among other things. But you knew he'd be a good hugger. You were always jealous of the patients who got to hug him. Especially now that you've experienced how lovely it is to be held by him.
Jack doesn't like how fast his heart is beating right now. Or how much he wants this not to end.
So he has to guarantee it won't ever end. “You're not allowed to leave me, ever.”
“I won't.” You cross your heart. “I promise. You can put a little tracker on me if you want.”
If you were pressed up any closer to him, you would've felt Jack's cock twitch. He really likes that idea. He'll have to figure out how he wants to do that.
Should he embed it into your body? Where?
Maybe in your hip? Or your soft thighs?
His eyes trail down your body, desire flooding his senses.
“You should've taken the out.” He shakes his head at you. “You have no idea what you're getting yourself into.”
“If you want to touch me, you can touch me.” You invite him to do so, gesturing to your body. “We can fuck right here if you want.”
“No.” He won't do that. No body fluids traceable back to him here. He is very careful when it comes to his workshop.
“Will we?” You ask him. You want something else to look forward to besides living with him.
“Yes, once I get some protection.” He should probably buy condoms. A lot of condoms.
“You don't have to.” You point to your arm, pressing into your skin, showing him your implant. “I'm protected and clean. You can check my chart. Oh! I can also take it out.”
“You'd…take it out?” He's unsure if he's understanding you correctly.
“If you want me to.” You take a hold of his hand, laying it on your lower belly. “You own me, which includes right here.”
That does it. That's the straw that breaks him. He needs you desperately.
Jack hauls you over his shoulder immediately. You giggle as he walks very quickly back to his truck. He's ready to get home. He wants to fuck you right away.
He might just do it in the bed of his truck. At least once. Just to get it out of his system.
Fuck it, he will.
Jack drops you back there and you smile when his lips come crashing down onto yours. He hasn't kissed anyone since his wife passed. That was more than two decades ago. Around the same time he started killing people.
Isn't that also how old you are?
He's been killing people your whole lifespan. And you don't care at all.
You kiss him back, wrapping your arms around his neck, burying your hands in his soft hair. He grinds his hips against yours and his cock hardens even more when you moan against his lips.
“I'm not going to last very long.” He warns.
It's definitely going to take him a while to get back into the rhythm of having sex so he wants to be realistic with you.
You don't mind at all. You're happy to accommodate him as best you can.
“Then, do you want me to put you in my mouth and you can fuck me when we're home?” You offer but he shakes his head.
“I need to be inside my baby girl's pussy.” He's not going to cum anywhere else.
“I'm ready for you whenever.” You don't mind if he just plows into you. It might hurt but you're his to use as he pleases.
“No, you're not.” Jack isn't going to fuck you until he has had a taste.
He tugs your pants off, laying them down beneath you so your bare ass isn't on the cold metal of the car. You spread your legs for him, making him groan. He can't stand how willing you are. You're too perfect.
His perfect baby girl.
You are not expecting him to just dive right now, keeping your thighs apart with his hands as his tongue drags up and down your folds, sending full body shivers through you. He likes how wet you are for him, how good you smell, how nice you taste.
If you're this delicious after a twelve hour shift, he knows he can eat you out whenever he wants. And he definitely wants to, a lot.
You're surprised at how quickly he learns what makes you feel good. He watches your reactions, figuring out exactly how to maneuver his tongue to get you grinding your hips against his face. But he doesn't let you cum.
He gets you close and then purposefully ignores your now swollen clit. You whine, wanting to finish but you can't.
“Please, Daddy.” You beg because you figure he wants you to. “I want to cum so badly.”
“Sorry, baby girl. You don't get to cum anywhere except on my cock.” He keeps edging you until tears are dripping from your eyes and you're wriggling in his hold, desperate for more friction.
“Please fuck me.” You want to cum. You need to cum. “Please, please, please.”
“I didn't realize my baby girl was so needy.” He flicks your clit with the tip of his tongue and you wish that was enough to send you over the edge but it isn't.
“I am.” You definitely are. “I need you.”
“Daddy's not ready yet.” That's a lie. Jack is harder than he has ever been. He could cum in his pants right now at how adorable you look all flustered and full of need.
But if he's going to finish quickly, then he needs to make sure you're going to cum like crazy the moment he puts his cock inside of you.
He waits until you're aching, dripping so much between your legs that there's no way he doesn't slip right in. It's only then that he finally pulls down his pants, letting you see his cock for the first time.
Relief floods your system, knowing he's going to fuck you and make you cum.
“Get on your hands and knees, baby girl.” He wants to look at your beautiful ass while he fucks you.
You listen without hesitation, needing him to take you already. He spreads your folds, lining his cock up, the tip of it pressing against your entrance.
Then, Jack rams the entire length of his cock inside of you in a singular thrust and stars flood your vision right away. You cum so hard that you're spasming around his cock, your pussy clenching tightly around him. He nearly cums right there but he holds it together for a bit longer so he can fuck you through your orgasm.
“Say my name as you cum.” He says, pounding into you from behind, reveling in the sound of you moaning his name over and over. “Good girl. That's Daddy's baby girl. Moan louder. Let everyone know who's fucking you.”
“Jack, I can't stop cumming—” It's like the moment he stopped edging you, your body couldn't hold it in anymore.
You start squirting when he cums inside of you, the feeling of his hot release triggering your own. You're gasping for air as your whole body shakes, wetness dripping down your legs. You don't know if it's his cum or yours but you feel spent either way.
Jack doesn't let you take a break, though. He pulls out of you then quickly replaces his cock with his fingers, teasing the spot the tip of his cock was ramming up against inside of you. He curls his fingers and you drench his hand in response, your orgasm uncontrollable.
“Oh god, Jack, please, I can't—” You're going to break if you cum that hard again.
“Who do you beg if you want it to stop?”
“Daddy, please, I can't cum anymore. It's too much, it's too—” You let out a cry when he starts moving his fingers side to side, pulling out another unbelievable orgasm that has you convulsing at his touch.
“One more time and then we'll go home.” He wants to see you make a mess of yourself once more and then he'll free you from his torment.
You cum so hard, squirting all over his hand, screaming his name. You collapse onto the bed of the truck once he pops his fingers out of you, your body unable to hold yourself up any longer.
Jack leaves and comes back with a pair of shorts, which he always keep in his backpack in case he needs a change of clothes, slipping them on you since you've ruined your pants. You let him lift you up into his arms and he helps buckle you into the passenger seat of his truck.
Then, you're both on your way to his place.
Though, you do convince him to stop by your place first, so you can gather some things to bring with you since you'll be moving in.
Jack lives in a rather modest house, despite his salary. He rarely spends money so he has plenty of it. He would rather save the money for his unconventional hobby of killing bad people. It isn't cheap to drive out to a prison the moment a known rapist finishes their time.
You have been in his house plenty of times but this is the first time you are a guest and not someone sneaking in.
He does ask you about it. “How did you get around my cameras?”
“I looped the feeds.” You know Jack doesn't watch his cameras often. He lives in a very safe neighborhood. The cameras are there mainly because of his time doing surveillance for the military. Better to have them than not.
“But that would require…”
“If I found out where you live and the warehouse you bought, do you really think I couldn't hack into your phone and your computer?” You chuckle at his astonishment. “You're lucky I want to be a doctor. I would've made a great hacker.”
“You hacked into my…” Jack understands now why you said you and him like the same things.
“We don't have to talk about the porn videos.” You smirk and he glares at you.
You know your interests align because while Jack rarely jerks off, he does, on occasion, like to watch porn in an attempt to. And all the porn he watches lines up very well with your kinks.
“No bratty behavior in my house.” He won't warn you again.
“I'm sorry, Daddy.” You walk up to him, giving him a hug. “I'll be good. Can we bathe together?”
“Would you like that?” He cups your face, loving the way you smile up at him as you nod. “Okay, baby girl. Go run the bath. You know where it is.”
You giggle at him saying that. Of course you know where it is. You know where everything is in this house!
You lean up to give him a quick peck on the lips before you skip away towards the bathroom. Jack lets out a little huff, his heart hammering in his chest from how cute you are.
It feels odd for him to feel so much. Usually he only feels something when he's at work or in his workshop killing someone. The adrenaline helps him feel more prominently.
But right now, he feels plenty even though he isn't rushing into danger, trying to save a life, trying to end a life, none of that.
He's happy just to be home with you.
Jack contemplates the warmth he feels while the two of you are bathing together. You made it a bubble bath, scooping up the bubbles in your hands and blowing, making them float in the air, laughing when they pop. Jack lays his chin against your shoulder, his arms wrapped securely around your waist, keeping you locked up against his chest. He hasn't been this close with anyone in a long time. Definitely not skin to skin.
“Everything okay?” You turn your head to look at him, seeing the sad expression on his face. “What's wrong?”
“Nothing, baby girl.” He gives you a kiss on the cheek. “Just tired.”
You know he's lying. You feel bad. You're enjoying yourself a lot. You wish he would too.
“Can we sleep together?” You ask because you've always wanted to. “I want to cuddle in bed with my Daddy.”
“Really?” That seems to perk him up.
So, he's feeling a little worried. You get it. He's been alone for a long time. Suddenly having someone want to be around him must feel unbelievable.
You have to help him believe in you. “I really like you, Jack. I'm not going anywhere, I promise.”
“Shouldn't you want someone your age? Someone who doesn't…murder people in his free time?” Jack sighs. He should let you go.
You're obviously a sweet girl. You're going to be a great doctor. Despite your attitude at work, he knows you're brilliant. Way too good for someone like him, who is weathered from too many bad things.
But you continue to surprise him.
“What's the fun in that?” You lean back into him, nuzzling the crook of his neck with your face. “Maybe I should be asking you if you want a bratty resident who stalks you to be bathing with you right now.”
“I do.” He admits, holding you a little closer. “Is that okay?”
“Of course.” You lean up to kiss him on the cheek then he leans down to kiss you on the lips, slowly deepening the kiss, his tongue slipping into your mouth to play with yours.
You feel his cock hardening against your back. Jack is a little startled by it. He didn't think he'd bounce back to life so soon.
You don't ask for permission. You just turn around, straddling his lap. Jack grabs his cock and lines it up at your entrance before you sink down onto it. He groans into your shoulder when you tighten up around him.
“Let's do this often.” You say, wrapping your arms around his neck.
“Bathe together or have sex?”
“Both.” You smile then lay your head against his shoulder. “I like both a lot.”
The two of you sit there a while, his cock buried inside of you, enjoying the warmth of your pussy, kissing each other. Jack doesn't know when he cums. He definitely does. But he's more wrapped up in how good it feels to kiss you, your lips so eager to meet his.
“We're like prunes.” You giggle when you and Jack are cuddling in his bed, looking at your fingers.
“I think I just look like that.” He knows he has plenty of wrinkles.
His heart skips a beat when you kiss the ones on his face, peppering little kisses all over him.
“I love your wrinkles.” You tell him. “Gives you character.”
“I wonder if you'll be saying that when you have them.” He pinches your nose and you pout.
“I would hope you like them on me.”
“You would be beautiful regardless.” His compliment throws you. He hasn't called you beautiful before. He notices your shock. “Is something wrong?”
“No, not at all.” You lay closer to him, snuggling him. “I'm just really happy you think I'm beautiful.”
“Anyone would.” It's why, even though you irritate him at work, he could never take his eyes off of you.
“I only care that you do.” You want to be special to him.
“You're my beautiful baby girl.” He presses a kiss onto your forehead. “Now let's sleep before our shifts.”
Jack sleeps so well that he almost sleeps through his alarm. But you shake him awake rather furiously, asking, “how do I turn that off!”
You've been trying to shut it off for the last minute and a half. The thing keeps blaring the most annoying sound! But it won't shut off no matter how many times you smack the snooze button…
“Oh shit.” He goes to grab it, solving the puzzle, then sets the alarm clock back down. “It's a puzzle box alarm. You have to put it together. Changes every time.”
“I see now why you're always so grumpy when you come into work.” You say with a yawn. “If that's how you usually wake up.”
“How should I wake up from now on, then?” He asks, raising an eyebrow at you.
Though, he should've guessed what you'd do next. Your hand slips into his sweats, grabbing his hard cock, stroking it gently in your delicate palm.
“Are you always this hard when you wake up?” You tease, leaning up to brush your nose against his.
“I thought I told you, no bratty behavior at home.” He pulls your hand away from him then flips you around, putting his cock between your legs.
Jack is a little too impatient to put on his prosthetic so he'll fuck you from this angle. But only after he teases you for a bit, rubbing the length of his cock along your very wet folds.
“Are you always this wet when you wake up?” He says all low in your ear, his sleepy voice sending sparks through your body. You always wanted to hear what he sounded like when he just woke up.
“Only for you, Daddy.” You angle yourself, wanting him to sink inside of you already, but he doesn't, making you pout. “Are you seriously going to make me wait? We have to get to work soon!”
“I'm going to torture you for five more minutes.” He spoons you, his strong arms keeping you locked to his chest. “Then we fuck, have breakfast and get ready to go to work.”
“You mean dinner?” You chuckle then gasp when he smacks your clit. “Woah!”
“That was me being nice.” He rubs your clit more gently now, soothing the sudden rush that his smack caused. “Don't test me again, baby girl.”
“I'll be good…” You really don't want to be good. Especially when he's edging you again, his fingers playing with your swollen clit until you're close then pulling away, making you squirm. “Can I please cum?”
“I told you.” He nips at your earlobe. “You only get to cum on my cock.”
“Then, please put your cock inside of me.” You can't possibly wait anymore.
This is torture!
“Okay, since my baby girl asked so nicely.” He gives you no warning before he slams every inch of his thick cock inside of you, drawing out a raspy moan from your lips. “Does Daddy's cock feel good inside of you?”
“Yes, so good.” Your eyes roll back when he presses his fingertips into your lower belly, making you very aware of how deep inside of you he is. You cum the moment he starts rolling his hips, pushing right up where his fingers are pressing down. “Please don't stop, Jack.”
“I'll make you cum a lot, don't worry.” He places a soft kiss at the nape of your neck. “Let Daddy spoil you.”
His other hand slips down, playing with your clit again. He really is spoiling you. You rarely cum this much. Usually only when you touch yourself thinking of him.
Jack lasts a lot longer this time, much to his benefit because you're sweating and panting by the time he finishes inside of you, your body shaking from all the orgasms. He chuckles against your shoulder, nibbling a love bite right there that he knows will be hidden under your scrubs.
“Was that a better way to wake up?” He asks, snuggling you close.
“I don't think I can walk…” You're spent! He wrung you out…
“Wait a second.” Jack gets up, putting on his prosthetic, adjusting it until it fits properly, then stands, testing just to be sure he's all good before he scoops you up into his arms. You giggle against his chest, enjoying the princess carry a lot more than when he flung you over his shoulder yesterday.
He helps you into the shower, setting you down on his shower chair. You wash up while he brushes his teeth then the two of you swap, the routine oddly domestic. You are grateful he has one of those toilets that is in its own little room. You definitely had to go, so you don't risk getting a UTI. You will not be risking anything that would be denying you sex with Jack!
Once you're done, you meet Jack in the kitchen, where delicious smells are wafting all around. You knew he could cook. You've watched him cook plenty of times when you've hacked into his cameras.
You never thought you'd be lucky enough to eat his cooking one day.
“It's just leftovers.” A baked pasta dish he made yesterday. He always makes too much. He was planning to give the rest to Robby but now he has another mouth to feed so he's glad he made enough for you to eat now.
You enjoy it immensely. “This is so yummy. I can't remember the last time I ate a home cooked meal.”
“What do you normally eat?” Now, Jack is worried. Are you malnourished?
You definitely are when you tell him, “usually protein bars. It's convenient, since I was always chasing you around.”
“You can't live off processed foods…”
“You really are my Daddy.” You chuckle at the way he's going to lecture you. “I promise I'll be better now that I'm not stalking you anymore."
“I'm serious about that. It's unsafe that you were following me on my SWAT raids. You could've gotten hurt.” He saw those photos you took. You were closer to the action than you should've been.
“Good thing you're a combat medic, right?” Your comment earns you a smack on the ass. “Ouch!”
“What did I say?” He will not tolerate you being annoying at home.
“I'm sorry…” You lean your head against his shoulder, poking him with your knee since you both are sitting side by side at the kitchen island. “I promise I'll save all my brattiness for work.”
“You better or I'll edge you until you're crying again.”
Now is that really a punishment? You keep your giddiness to yourself.
“So, what do we tell people when they ask why we're carpooling?” You ask him when he parks at work.
“Robby knows I've been thinking about renting out my basement. So, now you're renting my basement, which is why I drove you home yesterday.” It's also a good excuse as to why you'll be at his house all the time.
“Do you want me to?” You're planning on breaking your lease anyways. “I don't mind paying rent.”
“You don't have to pay rent.” He doesn't need you to be paying for anything. He has plenty of money and you should save anything you make since residency is tough enough.
“Are you sure?” You don't want to be a burden.
“I'll take care of you.” He pats you on the head gently. “Now let's go to work.”
You'll blame it on the alarm clock blaring this morning but you are exhausted by the end of your shift, yawning every few seconds. You thought you slept pretty good, since you were snuggled up against Jack, but you're so out of it.
Then you realize it's because you're starving too.
“Hey, are you alright?” Jack places his hand on your forehead when the two of you are back at his house. You feel a bit warm. He should check your temperature.
“I'm fine. I just usually eat a protein bar whenever there's a lull in the action but I didn't have any.” You should go grab them from your place, along with the rest of your stuff.
Jack points his temperature gun at you and you're at a normal temperature so he's grateful it's not a fever. But he is worried about you, since food doesn't seem to help.
Could it be…
He might have overworked you a bit yesterday…
You brush off his concern. “If I can stalk you on a SWAT raid, I can handle some sex.”
“Those are on your days off, though. We just finished a shift after everything we did yesterday. No wonder you're exhausted.” Jack should be more tired.
It's impressive he isn't, though he does have a bit more stamina training than you.
“I'll be fine. Please don't worry.” You definitely don't want this to deter him.
But it does.
From then on, Jack decides he won't touch you on days you both are working. And especially not on days you're working and he's off. But you're only ever off while he's not…so he hasn't touched you at all since that very first day.
This might make you go insane. Like actually insane.
“Jack, can we please talk about this?” You ask him when he gets home from a shift.
“Maybe tomorrow. You work later.”
“You said that yesterday…” Though technically it was the reverse, where he said he was working later so…
Either way, it's getting on your nerves. It's the first time you've been annoyed with Jack.
“It's been more than a month.” You know because you've had a whole period since moving in with him, which just ended so there's no reason for the two of you not to have sex.
Jack is very aware of the fact that it's been that long. He is barely hanging on. He has taken to jerking off whenever he's off just to relieve the itch. He misses touching you. The only time he does is when the two of you happen to be able to sleep at the same time.
At the very least, he still cuddles you. But if you try to do anything about his hard cock rubbing against your back when he spoons you, he pulls away, telling you to go to sleep. So you don't do anything about it because you'd rather he hold you but it's torture to be laying next to him and not being able to do anything.
“We will have a day off together eventually.” He tells you and you scoff.
“Then what am I doing here? You can just call me when we're both off. I don't need to be here and—”
“You're not leaving.” Jack suddenly is right next to you, making you flinch. “You're staying put.”
“Why?” You can't stand this. You'd rather just stalk him than be so close yet so far from him…
“Because I said so.” Jack isn't going to let you go.
How is he supposed to let you go?
He hasn't slept this well in so long. He loves the smell of you on his sheets. He has a purpose to come home to, like cooking for you and making sure you stay on top of your health.
Can't you see that he's doing all of this for your sake?
You don't, because you think he's being absolutely ridiculous.
“Are you fucking serious?”
“Yes, I am serious.” He is very serious when it comes to you.
He'll do anything to keep his precious baby girl healthy. Even if it means neglecting you in other ways…
You're over this, trying to play nice. You need to get him angry.
So, you give him an ultimatum. “If you don't fuck me right now, I'm going to walk out that door and you will only ever see me at the hospital.”
“I'm not going to fuck you when you work soon.” He knows your shift starts in a few hours. You need to go to sleep.
“Then I'll see you at work, Dr. Abbot.” You grab your phone off the counter and head towards the door.
Thankfully you hadn't broken your lease just yet, since there's only a few months left on it. Jack figured it would be better for you to keep the place so you could slowly move stuff in versus having to do it all at once. He didn't want you to make such a big commitment right away. Even though you want to. Even though he wants you to, deep down inside.
And now, he's watching you walk away.
All because he cares about you.
That frustrates him to no end.
Jack grabs you by your arm, stopping you in your tracks. “You are not leaving me.”
“Let go of me.” You yank your arm away but he only grips it harder. “I don't want to be here anymore!”
“You are so fucking stubborn.” He scolds you. “Can't you see that I'm doing this for you? You need the rest.”
Of course he wants you. Of course he wants to fuck you. He is dying to touch you, taste you, feel you—
“I don't need rest!” You shout back at him. “I need you. But you're too fucking blind to see that so let me go!”
Your words shock him so much that you're able to tug yourself free from his grip and storm out of the house. Only for Jack to pull you right back in, slamming the door shut before he presses you up against it, kissing you for the first time since that day.
Maybe it's because you're touch starved but you melt into his kiss way too easily, moaning when his hands slip under your shirt and start caressing your bare skin.
You can feel how hard he is against your thigh while his thigh spreads your legs apart, grinding upwards to tease you through your sweats.
“Fuck.” He breathes out onto your lips, his worried thoughts flooding out. “I should take off my scrubs, in case there's anything on them that can get you sick. I need to wash my hands too—”
“Jack, listen to me. You're overthinking this.” You grab a hold of his face, forcing him to look you in the eye. “I am not some fragile little girl. I can play that role for you but that's all it is, a role. I am a very healthy young woman who wants her Daddy to fuck her silly. Can you do that for me, please?”
He leans his forehead against yours, having missed you calling him that. “Is that what my baby girl wants?”
“Desperately.” You might combust if he keeps denying you. “I need you.”
“Where?” He rests his hands at your waist, tugging you closer to him.
“Buried deep inside of me. I miss cumming on your cock.” You can't believe he's made you wait this long to experience it again.
“I'm scared you're going to be exhausted later.” He doubts he can hold back.
Jack should wait until you have a day off. He doesn't mind suffering during his shift. He just doesn't want to put you through that because of his selfishness.
“I can handle a little exhaustion if it means I get to be close to you.” You lean up to kiss him and he lets you, which you're grateful for. “Please don't push me away, Jack.”
“I don't want to. I just…” He sighs, resting his forehead against yours, his anxiety clouding his thoughts. “I care about you, baby girl.”
“You do?” Your heart flutters hearing that, needing the words of affirmation.
“Yes. So much.” He wraps his arms around you, placing a kiss against your forehead. “That the thought of you sick scares me.”
“Jack, I'm perfectly healthy. And we're both doctors. I think I'm in good hands if I get a little cold or something.” You rarely get sick. That exhaustion was definitely just you needing more stamina, something you will work on. “Why don't we cross that bridge when we get there instead of worrying about it now and letting it get in the way of us?”
“Is there an “us”?” He asks rather nervously, his hands trembling. He's never felt so unsteady before.
Jack has had a lot of time to think over the last month or so the two of you have been living together. He just isn't sure he's worth it. He wants you here. He needs you here. But he doesn't feel like he deserves your presence. Maybe that's why he's been pushing you away.
Self sabotage is something he's very used to. Why else would he work a twelve hour shift and then agree to a SWAT raid knowing he'd only get a few hours of sleep before his next shift?
A part of him assumes you'll stop looking at him with so much kindness in your eyes one of these days and that'll break him. He'd rather lose you before then. But he is too selfish to let you go so soon.
“I've killed someone for you.” You say outright, making him pause his spiraling thoughts. “So of course I want there to be an “us”.”
“What did you just say?” Jack has no clue if his hearing has gone bad but did you really just say—
“You didn't notice. There was a car tailing you after you picked up a target of yours. The guy's brother. Similar rap sheet, but he got acquitted. Not enough evidence.” You let this out because it's about time for him to know the lengths you've gone to. To protect him. “I killed him before he could catch up to you. Staged it like a car accident. Which is why the police figured your victim died in the same accident, since they assumed he was the one who picked him up.”
When you tell Jack the guy's name, he blinks at you, recalling how long ago that was. “That was a year ago. You weren't even a resident yet…”
“Yeah.” You step closer to him, keeping his eyes locked on you. “There's a reason I had to get into your emergency department.”
“How long have you been…” He's genuinely baffled.
You smile at him, reaching your hand forward to place over his heart, feeling the way it's pounding in his chest. “Since you killed my father.”
You tell him your old last name. The one you had before you changed it. And Jack remembers instantly.
Your father was put away for manslaughter in a domestic violence “accident”. He was released a few years ago.
Jack especially hates men who beat their wives. He finds them beyond repulsive. And he had seen your mother in the emergency room before, countless times. He was there when she died from her injuries.
It was the only kill that could've gotten him caught, given how close to work it was, how personal it was.
But the police never questioned Jack about it. Because you had said that you were the one who picked up your father from prison and he had stormed out of the house and disappeared. He's still a missing person's case to this day.
No one else but you and Jack know your father is actually dead.
And you've been stalking Jack ever since.
He's the reason you went to med school. He's the reason you aren't dead or in prison.
Because if he hadn't killed your father, you definitely would have. And you wouldn't have been as clean as someone with decades of experience.
You lift your hand off his chest and back away, giving him a little space before you say, “I understand if this is too much for you. I…”
You let out a little sigh, biting your lip. You should get it all off your chest. It's better to let it out now, while it's still early enough.
Before your heart breaks.
So, you confess, “I never thought you'd ever…want me…in any capacity. I was content to just follow you around forever. But then I guess I got a little greedy, wanting your attention, and now I'm being really greedy, wanting even more than that.”
Jack has never seen you look like this. You're always so bright and confident. But right now, you're genuinely scared. Not the kind of scared you'd put on as an act, but there is real fear. Because you don't want to lose him. But you don't want him to hate you either.
You know you're fucked up for stalking him for so long. You understand that's creepy and not sane behavior.
But you don't know how to love any other way.
Neither does Jack. He doesn't remember what it was like to love normally, not after what happened to his wife and how that sparked him to start killing people.
But he knows that he loves you.
In his own messed up kind of way.
That's why he tells you, “you can be greedy, baby girl.”
“What?” You were not expecting that.
“You've waited a long time for me to notice you, haven't you?” His words send such ripples of unfamiliar feeling through you. “I finally gave you my undivided attention and then I ripped it away. That must've hurt. I'm sorry.”
You know what the feeling is now.
It is hurt.
You just didn't want to feel it because you didn't think he'd comfort you if you did. You swallowed it, suffering alone, to be courteous to him. But then you snapped because the pain was getting too unbearable. You need him too much now that you know what it feels like to be his…
“Come here.” Jack pulls you towards him, scooping you up into his arms. “Let me reassure you that everything's going to be okay.”
You lean your head against his chest as he carries you over to the couch, seating you right on his lap. There is a lot of comfort in being close to him. Comfort you're wary on taking. Afraid it'll all get ripped away again.
“I'm not going to neglect you anymore.” Jack tells you, his voice gentle and full of care. “You deserve to be held.”
“Where was this a few weeks ago?” You say with a pout then sigh. “Sorry, I don't mean to be a—”
“You can be a brat. Be yourself, baby girl.” He'll let you for today.
You then proceed to bite his neck hard, your teeth sinking into his skin. He has to tug you off of him by your hair, shocked by your actions.
“I said you can be a brat, not a fucking animal.” He can't see the bite mark but he's sure it's visible above the collar of his scrubs. That's going to be tough to explain at work…
“That's what you get for being so mean.” You glare at him, wanting to bite him again. “You fucked me and made me cum like crazy and then you edged me for over a month!”
Jack hadn't realized that technically that's what he did. He gave you a taste of the pleasure he could bring you and then promptly denied it. He can see now how frustrated you must be.
“I'm sorry.” He feels horrible… “I didn't think it through.”
“No shit.” You grumble, staring at the bite mark you made. “Now you owe me something for the trouble.”
“Alright. Anything you want. Tell me and I'll give it to you.” Though Jack would prefer it if you didn't bite him again.
“Tell me you love me.” You meet his eyes then, seeing the stunned expression on his face. “I don't care if you don't but I just want to hear it at least once in my life, please.”
Jack doesn't like the way tears are welling up in your eyes. You want to be loved so badly, especially by him. But you'll settle for him just saying it, even if he doesn't mean it. You just want to have the sound of him saying it etched in your mind.
“I love you.” Jack reaches up to brush the tear that escapes the corner of your eye. “I love you so much.”
You nod, blinking back the tears that fall after he says that. “Thank you.”
“I'm serious.” He cups your face with both of his hands, wiping your tears with his thumbs as gently as possible. “I love you and I'm never going to leave you either. I promise.”
“You don't have to tell me that.” You shake your head at him, your face rubbing against the palms of his hands. “It's okay if you don't.”
“I do.” He keeps reassuring you of how he feels. “How many times do I have to say it for my baby girl to believe me?”
You shrug. “I don't know. A lot.”
He chuckles. “Okay, then how about every day from now on?”
“But I've stalked you for years…”
“And I've killed people.”
“Me too.” Technically only the one person but that's more than most people ever do…
“You did it for me. That makes me love you even more.” He leans in, giving you a little kiss on the cheek. “My baby girl willing to do anything to protect her Daddy. How much prouder can I be?”
“You're proud of me?” This is hitting every part of your soul with so much warmth, hearing him praise you.
“So proud. You kept me out of prison. I owe you more than just my love.”
“Then you aren't allowed to edge me ever again.” You make him swear.
“What if you're like really annoying that day, though?” Jack's question makes you giggle.
“Haven't I suffered enough?” One month felt like a lifetime…
“Fine.” He pulls you in closer. “Maybe I'll just force you to cum until you're begging to stop. Better?”
“Much better.” You give him a big hug and he smiles against your shoulder, squeezing you tightly. “I've missed this a lot.”
Jack presses a kiss against the side of your neck before slowly trailing upwards, saying against your skin, “what else have you missed, baby girl?”
“Bathing with you.” You definitely want to do that first.
“We can do that.” He kisses you so sweetly, making your heart melt. “But first, you're going to call the hospital and say you're sick.”
“Oh?” You wrap your arms around his neck as he lifts you back up into his arms again. “Is my attending being a bad influence?”
“You've never called out before. They can lose a resident for a day.”
“You mean a night.” You nip at his bottom lip after you say that, chuckling when he glares at you.
“Don't make me regret letting you be a brat.” He sets you down on the bed. “Now go call while I run the bath.”
“You love that I push your buttons. I bet you're hard already.” Your eyes stare straight at the outline of his cock in his scrubs.
Jack rolls his eyes at you, not responding before he disappears into the bathroom. You make the call, thankful that there isn't any push back. You wouldn't mind a nice night off, especially if it means Jack is going to spoil you.
And he really does spoil you, because the moment you get into the tub and straddle his lap, his lips are on yours in an instant.
“Let a girl breathe a little first.” You laugh in between his feverish kisses.
“I've waited long enough for us to have a day off together.”
“You mean night?” You giggle so hard when he starts tickling you as punishment. “Jack, stop!”
“I never thought I'd hear you say those words.” He does stop, but only because his hand slides lower, to graze your clit gently.
“Definitely don't stop now.” You hold yourself back from grinding on his hand.
“I won't.” He plays with your clit, swirling little circles around it, watching your reactions.
Jack is very good at figuring out what you like, how much pressure to use, how much friction you need before you're cumming all over his hand, your orgasm so intense since it's been so long. You lean your forehead against his shoulder, gasping for air, the steam from the bath making your mind fuzzy. He rubs your back with his other hand, comforting you.
“You're okay, baby girl. That was just your first orgasm in a while. Deep breaths.” He doesn't want you to pass out just yet.
“Not my first.” You say, a bit dazed, letting that slip out. You press your lips together, hoping he didn't catch that.
But of course, he did. “Have you been touching yourself without me knowing?”
“Can you blame me?” Your question is answered by him thrusting a finger inside of you all of a sudden. “Jack!”
“You're not allowed to do that anymore.” His voice lowers. He's stern about it. “If you want to cum, you ask me to help you, okay?”
“What about you?” You lean forward, brushing your lips against the shell of his ear. “Are you going to pretend like you didn't jerk off every night you were off and I was at work?”
He grabs your face with his free hand, making you look at him. You smile in his grip and he glares back at you, “did you turn on my cameras?”
Jack has had them off since you moved in, since he didn't want you to feel like you were being watched all the time. Which he is realizing right now is a little ridiculous considering you love watching him so why would you care if he watched you?
“If you have to ask, you know the answer already.” You chuckle and then whine when he pulls his finger out of you. “Aw, I didn't want you to stop…”
“You can't do that either.”
“Daddy's strict!” You must have pushed his buttons just right because his cock is throbbing under you.
“You're going to make my hair gray.’” He shakes his head at you.
“I think you're already doing that well by yourself.” You lace your fingers into his beautiful hair. “But I like it gray. My silver fox.”
“Please do not ever call me that again.” He groans at the way you're enjoying yourself a little too much. “After today, no more brattiness.”
“So I can be a big brat today?” You flash him a bright smile.
“Don't push it.” Him saying that makes you want to do exactly that.
So you do.
You get up out of the bath and Jack can't snatch you back in time.
Then, you play with fire. “I bet I can make myself cum before you can catch me.”
You quickly grab a towel then dart out of the bathroom. Jack's jaw clicks as he mutters under his breath, “this fucking brat.”
You quickly run downstairs, into the basement, since that's where you're storing your stuff right now. Jack is letting you do whatever you want with the basement since he wants you to have a place in his house that is all yours and undisturbed by him. That's why you have all your sex toys stored there.
You grab your favorite rose toy and lay down on the guest bed Jack has down here. You don't know what has you more heated: the toy sucking on your clit or the fact that Jack must be very angry with you.
It must be the latter because the moment you see that deadly glare on his face from the basement stairs, you cum so hard.
“You can be so fucking irritating.” He stalks towards you and his anger only increases when you cum again. “Did you really just cum from me being mad at you?”
“The toy helped.” You giggle, which only pisses him off more.
“Turn it off.” He commands.
But you're a bad listener right now, so you turn it up and close your eyes when it overwhelms your sensitive clit.
Jack can't help how hard he gets watching you use that toy on yourself. Maybe he should just stand here and watch you. But there's a part of him deep down that doesn't want you to cum without him.
So, he climbs onto the bed, hovering over you, and your eyes open wide when you feel him thrust two fingers inside of you, curling them right below where the toy is sucking on your clit. Your orgasm ripples through you all of a sudden and it doesn't stop because Jack curls his fingers right on that spot over and over again. You lift the toy off of your clit, since it's way too intense now that you've came a few times, but Jack quickly pushes it back in place with his other hand, holding it to your clit, letting it send you over the edge again.
“Jack, please let go!” You're too overstimulated. You're going to go crazy if he makes you cum again.
"And here I thought my baby girl was desperate for her Daddy to make her cum.” He adds another finger inside of you, filling you up more.
“I am but—” You wriggle beneath him, his fingers fucking you like his cock would. “Please slow down!”
“But you're going to cum so hard, baby girl. Just let it out. Don't hold it in.” Jack smiles at how quickly you unravel after that, drenching his hand with your orgasm. “There you go. Good girl.”
He frees you from the toy, turning it off. You let out a sigh of relief then squirm when he pops his fingers out of you all of a sudden.
You feel the wetness dripping out of you way too clearly now…
Almost as clearly as his cock sinking right into you without warning. Your toes curl instinctually, your breaths leaving your lips all airy.
Jack groans when he hilts, cursing under his breath, “fuck, you're so tight after you've cum a few times. Maybe I should make you cum first before I fuck you.”
“I won't complain either way.” You open your arms up. “Come kiss me, Daddy.”
He can't help the grin on his face at how cute you look, waiting for him to hug you. He hooks his arms under your shoulders before leaning in to kiss you, loving how easily you moan when he rolls his hips.
“If you hold out on me again, I'm going to tie you down and ride you myself.” You say against his lips and he chuckles in response.
“I'll have to teach you a few knots to use then, baby girl.” Jack licks his lips at the thought of tying you up.
“Please fuck me a little faster.” You're wriggling under him from how slow his strokes are.
“I said you can be greedy, not demanding.” He brushes his nose against yours, smirking at your glare.
“If you're going to go this slow, let me use my toy too.” You point to it.
Jack eyes it, debating. He wouldn't mind seeing you pace yourself however you'd like while he enjoys the show.
So, he nods. “Go ahead.”
He helps you grab it and you turn it on to the lowest setting, holding it over your clit, your back arching when Jack thrusts deep inside of you as the toy sucks on your clit.
Soon enough, you start grinding your hips up, meeting him halfway, losing yourself in your orgasm. Jack likes how unapologetic you are in bed, not afraid to show him how much you're enjoying yourself.
“I love watching you cum, baby girl.” He could stare at you with your eyes glazed over all day long.
“You don't have to just watch.” You wrap your legs around him, pulling him in closer. “I want to cum on my Daddy's cock.”
“Isn't that what you've been doing?” He raises a sly eyebrow at you.
“You know what I want!” You don't hide your frustration from him stalling.
“Alright. Turn off the toy. You'll need both hands to hold on tight if you want me to fuck you rough.”
You eagerly shut it off, tossing it aside before gripping the sheets below you.
You are rewarded with a thorough pounding. Jack hovers over you, body pressed down against yours, drilling his cock into you like you're just a toy for him to use. It's everything you've been dreaming of these last few weeks.
Wave and wave of pure bliss roll through you with every thrust, amplified by his lips on yours. You love kissing him so much, especially when he's fucking you like this.
You love everything about Jack.
Which is why you breathe out when you're close to cumming, “I love you.”
And he smiles against your lips before saying back, “I love you too.”
The orgasm you have when he finally cums inside of you fills you with delight. The warmth of his release is genuinely one of the best things you've ever felt. It's even better because you know now that he really does love you.
“I want to have sex after we kill someone.” You tell Jack when he plops down beside you once his cock is soft, pulling you to lay against his chest.
“This has to be the weirdest pillow talk ever.” He laughs, nuzzling your nose with his own. “We can fuck in my truck after.”
“Promise?” You bat your eyelashes all sweetly at him.
“I promise.” He seals that with a kiss against your temple.
“What if I just suck you off in your workshop? No body fluids?” You really want to touch him while he's chopping someone up. Just once!
Jack scoffs. “You may be crazier than me.”
“And you love it.” You snuggle happily against him.
“I do.” Because he loves you.
You and all your crazy.
“Maybe I can section off a place in the workshop that is easy to bleach.” He could create a whole shower system to do it for him so he doesn't have to scrub it down.
“Don't tease me with a good time, Jack.” You'd love to fuck in his workshop.
“If that's what my baby girl really wants, then I can deliver.” He wants to keep you happy and healthy.
“Well, what I really want is another kiss.” You lean up, closing your eyes, smiling when he pecks you lovingly on the lips. “Thank you, Daddy.”
“Anytime.” He happily kisses you again and again.
Like he plans to do for the rest of his life.
Maybe even while he's covered in someone else's blood…
A/N: In the original draft, I was going to include them killing someone together and then fucking after LOL but then I told myself maybe I'll just keep this fic loving and sweet instead since I've been writing plenty of other fucked up stuff as of late. This was truly just an excuse for me to write my unhealthy obsession with both daddy kink and being called “baby girl” and I loved it!
a lil tomato soup made from roast tomato, onion, garlic and bell pepper with a lil grill ches. regular marble cheddar, some farmers market truffle cheddar, and a lil pickle for the filling. bread is a sourdough pullman's loaf recipe of my own design
man it is SO funny that everyone's still cycling this post considering that the meal poisoned the shit out of me
turns out the bread i baked there had started to mold, the cheddar cheese had started to mold, and the chicken stock I used for the soup's best before date was over a year ago. I found all of this out a day or so later and I'm now still dealing with the gastroenteritis symptoms
Anthony Head, the suave, smooth-voiced British actor known for roles in “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” and “Ted Lasso,” has died, his family sai
Some very sad news. Not only was Anthony Head featured in Buffy and Ted Lasso, he also starred in BBC's Merlin TV series as King Uther, and made a couple of appearances on Doctor Who (School Reunion, and a voice actor on The Infinite Quest), as well as narrating two seasons of the Doctor Who Confidential behind-the-scenes show and performing in a few Big Finish audio dramas. Reading up on him just now I see he was also considered for the role of the Eighth Doctor.
