I'm soo obsessed with this video it's so Sirius Black..
His fingers rubbed against your pussy, Sirius Black's tongue slipped out while his saliva dripped into your cunt, with that cocky smirk on his face while he watched you unfold.
He was a filthy man. But he accepts it as a compliment.
You held your legs up for him, his other hand rubbing your ass, as his fingers worked quickly, rubbing against your slit, when you moaned, he would slap your ass for being too loud...
"Fucking slut." He said, biting his lower lips, the sadistic smile on his face spread like the devil as he watched you be so blissed out from just a few touches ... He slapped your pussy. Once. Twice.
His tongue came out again, the string of his saliva dripped into your pussy as you held his hand that was rubbing your clit to grip yourself in some way..
His mouth latched onto your pussy, while you squirmed around, he was sucking in greedily like he was too starved.. making out with your cunt, you twitched, pushing his head into your pussy as you pathetically grind into his face..
His tongue lapped at your pussy, his thumb meanly pressed into your cunt ... He likes humming into you. He likes how twitchy you got.. his little bunny! <3
zvrswan ──── all works are written by me. Please do not feed my work to ai.
warnings: smut!!, protected p in v I think?, making out, semi public sex (the library of course), rough sex, swearing, both characters are eighteen of course don't be weird.
summary: remus lupin has been your academic rival since first year. but one night during your final year his antagonizing ends in an entirely different way...
word count: 3.3k
a/n: he won the poll fair and square. it seems all you guys want me to write for James and remus which honestly, I'm not complaining about... I love this honestly. some of my favorite smut I've written. and I pictured likeafunerall rem the entire time I wrote this. ughhhhh. as always, let me know what you think!! it's worth the read TRUST ME.
~~~
The library was empty, even quieter than it usually was. You sat on the second level, far back in the corner you'd claimed as yours. It was the furthest from any form of distraction, and the most secluded. Perfect for studying.
You tapped your fingers on the table, reading the same sentence for the third time. The words blurred together. Bombarda Maxima. You'd memorized harder spells before—you knew Defense Against the Dark Arts better than anyone in your year—but tonight, the spell wouldn't stick. Frustration coiled in your chest as you forced your eyes back to the page.
You were about to reread the entire paragraph—footsteps. Footsteps approaching your corner. Your eyes snapped up—and there he was. Remus Lupin. He stood at the edge of your corner, a few books tucked beneath one of his arms, and that stupid smug expression already in place. Not him—not now, not when you were already frustrated.
Almost instinctively, you rolled your eyes, and a frown took over your face.
"Bombarda Maxima? I finished studying that weeks ago. Didn't realize the Ravenclaws were still catching up," he said sharply.
You quickly took note of the textbooks under his arm—Advanced Herbology and Ancient Runes. Two subjects you'd bested him in.
"Still studying Dittany? Didn't realize the Gryffindors were stuck on plants we began learning about in fifth year," you snapped.
His jaw tightened, but the smirk didn't falter. "At least I don't look that confused trying to understand a basic spell."
"I wasn't confused," you shot back, slamming your textbook shut. "I was considering alternative applications—something you'd understand if you ever thought beyond what's written on the page."
"Alternative applications." He let out a low, humorless laugh, stepping closer to your table. "Is that what you're calling it now? I remember you used the same excuse in fourth year when you couldn't figure out the Patronus theory before I did."
Your fingers curled against the edge of the table. Of course he'd bring that up. "I produced a Patronus a full week before you managed more than silver mist. Or did you conveniently forget that part?"
"Only because you spent every night in here obsessing over it." He was right in front of your table now, looking down at you with that insufferable expression. "You always do this—overthink until you're paralyzed. It's why I beat you on the last Defense practical."
You stood abruptly, chair scraping against the floor. You weren't about to let him literally talk down to you. "You beat me by half a point. One judge's opinion."
"Still counts as beating you." His voice dropped lower, more controlled. Dangerous. "Must be difficult, being second best after all these years of trying so hard."
Heat flared in your chest—anger and something else you refused to name. "Second best? I've had higher marks than you in four subjects this term alone. You can't stand that I'm better than you, can you? That's why you're here—you can't resist trying to knock me down whenever you get the chance."
Something flickered across his face. His eyes darkened, and he moved around the table, closing the distance between you. Even standing, you had to tilt your head back to meet his gaze. "You think that's why I'm here?"
"Isn't it?" You lifted your chin, refusing to back down even as he stepped closer, his frame casting a shadow over you. "It's what you've done since first year. The second you realized I could actually keep up with you, you've been trying to prove you're smarter. More capable. Better."
"Keep up with me?" His voice was barely above a murmur now, rough around the edges. He was close enough that you could see the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers flexed at his sides—his hands large enough that they seemed to shrink everything around them. "You've been a thorn in my side for seven years. Every time I think I've finally pulled ahead, there you are—"
"What, existing? Succeeding?" You took a step forward, nearly chest to chest with him now—though your chest barely reached his, forcing you to crane your neck to hold his gaze. Your heart was hammering. "Sorry I'm such an inconvenience to your ego, Lupin."
His eyes dropped to your mouth for a fraction of a second before snapping back up. His breathing had changed—shorter, more controlled. He loomed over you, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him. "You have no idea what you are."
The words hung between you, charged with something that made your pulse spike. The air felt too thick, too warm. But you refused to back down—not now, not ever. He didn't deserve to win.
"I'm better than you," you muttered, your voice cold. "That's all that matters."
You thought that would be the end of it—a verbal slap to the face that would make him back off like it had countless times before. Only this time, it didn't. Instead of backing off like always, he stood still. You watched him inhale a short breath, watched his fingers ball into fists before he dropped his textbooks on to the table.
His hands were on your robes before you could even react, and your back met the bookshelf harshly. You were about to grab your wand out of your pocket, about to scream for Maddam Pince, when he did something even more unexpected.
His mouth was on yours before you could process it—hard and demanding, no hesitation. You gasped, and he took the advantage, deepening the kiss. His tongue claimed your mouth while his teeth caught your bottom lip. For a split second, you considered Depulsoing him off you, gaining the upper hand by rejecting him. But that was too simple, too predictable, too safe. That would be losing.
You were not about to be outdone.
You grabbed his tie, pulling him closer, matching his intensity with your own. There was nothing gentle about it—just frustration and years of tension snapping.
When you broke apart for air, his forehead pressed against yours, breathing ragged. His hands were still fisted in your robes, holding you against the shelf like he was afraid you'd disappear—or worse, push him away and declare victory.
You wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
Your hand slid down between your bodies, fingers finding his belt buckle. His breath hitched, eyes snapping to yours—dark and dangerous and surprised. Good. Let him be caught off guard for once.
"What are you—" he started, voice rough.
"Shut up, Lupin," you muttered, working the buckle open with steady fingers despite the way your heart was hammering. "Unless you're going to back down now."
His jaw clenched. "I'm not backing down."
"Then neither am I."
Something shifted in his expression—something feral and possessive that made heat pool low in your stomach. Before you could process it, his hands were on your waist, spinning you around with enough force that you had to brace yourself against the table to keep from stumbling.
Your palms hit the wooden surface, and you felt him press against your back, his body a solid wall of heat. One of his hands slid up your spine, between your shoulder blades, pushing you down until your chest was flush with the table. The other gripped your hip hard enough to bruise.
"Still think you're better than me?" he murmured against your ear, his voice low and dangerous.
You turned your head just enough to meet his eyes, refusing to be intimidated even bent over a library table with him looming over you. "Prove me wrong."
His hand fisted in your skirt, shoving it up roughly until the fabric bunched around your waist. The cool air hit your thighs, and you bit back a gasp. You were already wet—had been since he'd crowded you against the bookshelf, maybe even before that, during the argument when his eyes had gone dark and his voice had dropped low.
He made a rough sound in the back of his throat when his fingers hooked into your knickers, feeling the damp fabric. "Fuck."
"Don't let it go to your head," you managed, but your voice came out breathier than you intended.
"Too late." He pulled the fabric aside rather than removing it entirely, and you heard the sound of his zipper, the rustle of fabric as he freed himself from his trousers.
You felt the head of his cock press against you—thick and hard and bigger than you'd expected—and your fingers curled against the table. The forgotten Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook was right there. The irony wasn't lost on you.
"Last chance to back out," Remus said, but there was no mercy in his voice. This was a challenge, same as everything else between you.
"I don't back out," you shot back. "Do you?"
He pushed in without warning.
Your hand flew to your mouth, muffling the cry that threatened to escape as he stretched you open. He was big—almost too big—and the burn of the intrusion mixed with pleasure in a way that made your thighs shake. He didn't give you time to adjust, didn't ease in slowly, and you were more than alright with that.
His hand pressed between your shoulder blades, keeping you pinned to the table as he bottomed out. You could feel him everywhere—thick and deep and overwhelming. Your other hand scrambled for security on the smooth wood, nails scraping uselessly.
"Quiet," he warned, voice strained. "Unless you want Pince to find us like this."
You bit down on your palm, breathing hard through your nose as he pulled back and thrust in again—harder this time, more deliberate. The table creaked beneath you, and you prayed no one was close enough to hear.
He set a punishing rhythm, each thrust driving you forward against the table. His fingers dug into your hip, holding you in place, controlling the angle and depth. You could feel him hitting something deep inside that made sparks shoot up your spine, made your vision blur at the edges.
"Still think—" he grunted, slamming in particularly hard, "—you're smarter than me?"
You would've laughed if you could breathe properly. Even now, even like this, he couldn't let it go. Neither could you.
"Yes," you gasped against your palm, the word muffled but defiant.
His other hand slid up your back, into your hair, fisting it and pulling your head back just enough to make you arch. The new angle made him sink even deeper, and you had to bite down harder to keep from crying out.
"Liar," he breathed against your ear, and you could hear the satisfaction in his voice.
Your eyes squeezed shut, but when they opened again, they landed on the textbook. The piece of parchment tucked underneath it on Bombarda Maxima. The spell you'd been struggling with while he'd been Merlin knows where, probably studying something else entirely, probably getting perfect marks without even trying like he always did.
The resentment flared even through the haze of pleasure, and you pushed back against him, meeting his next thrust with enough force that he moaned in surprise.
"More," you demanded, voice barely above a whisper. If he was going to do this, he was going to do it properly. You weren't going to let him half-arse this like it didn't matter.
"Fuck," he muttered, but he complied. His grip tightened in your hair and on your hip, and he drove into you with enough force that the table scraped against the floor.
You both froze for a second, listening. No footsteps. No voices. Just your ragged breathing and the thundering of your pulse in your ears.
The smart idea would've been to cast a silencing charm on the furniture, but something about the risk of being caught only made it better.
Then he moved again, and coherent thought became impossible.
The rhythm was relentless now—deep, hard thrusts that made your whole body jolt forward with each impact. Your hand was still clamped over your mouth, but small, desperate sounds escaped anyway. His breathing was harsh against your ear, punctuated by low curses and the occasional groan he couldn't quite suppress.
"Touch yourself," he ordered roughly, and you hated how quickly you obeyed.
Your free hand slid down between your legs, fingers finding your clit. The added stimulation made you clench around him, and his hips stuttered.
"Fuck—don't—" He sounded wrecked, his usual composure completely shattered.
Good. You wanted him as undone as you felt.
You circled your clit in tight, quick movements, chasing the building pressure low in your stomach. Your legs were shaking, barely holding you up. If it weren't for his grip on you and the table beneath you, you would've collapsed.
"You're close," he said, and it wasn't a question. He could feel it—the way you were tightening around him, the way your breathing had gone shallow and desperate.
You nodded against the table, not trusting yourself to speak.
His hand left your hair, sliding around to cover your mouth properly. "Then cum," he murmured against your ear. "But quietly. Can you do that, or do I need to spell your mouth shut?"
The condescension in his voice—even now, even like this—made anger and arousal spike in equal measure. You bit down on his palm in retaliation, and he made a choked sound that might've been a laugh or a groan.
"Brat," he muttered, but his hips snapped forward harder, faster, and you could feel him getting close too.
Your fingers moved frantically over your clit, and the pressure built and built until it was unbearable. Your eyes landed on the textbook again—on the page you'd been struggling with, on the notes in the margins in your own handwriting, on the reminder of why you were here in the first place.
To be better than him. To prove you were smarter, more capable, more deserving of top marks.
And now here you were, bent over a library table with his cock buried inside you and his hand over your mouth to keep you quiet.
You should've been furious. You should've hexed him.
Instead, you came.
The orgasm hit you like a Stunning Spell—sudden and overwhelming and all-consuming. Your whole body went rigid, clenching around him so hard he swore viciously against your ear. His hand pressed harder over your mouth, muffling the cry that tore from your throat.
Wave after wave of pleasure crashed through you, whiting out everything else. Your fingers stilled on your clit, too sensitive to continue, and you could feel yourself pulsing around him, could feel the way it was affecting him—his rhythm faltering, his breathing going even more ragged.
"Fuck—where—" he managed, and you understood the question even through the haze.
You reached back blindly, grabbing his hip, holding him in place. Inside. You wanted him to finish inside you, wanted to feel it, wanted that victory even if it was a twisted one.
He made a sound that was almost pained, and then he was cumming—hips jerking erratically as he spilled inside you. His hand stayed clamped over your mouth, his forehead pressed between your shoulder blades, his whole body shuddering with the force of it.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. Just breathing. Just existing in the aftermath.
Then reality crept back in.
The library. The table. The textbook still open beneath your hand. The fact that you'd just gotten fucked by Remus Lupin—your academic rival, the bane of your existence for seven years—in the Hogwarts library where anyone could've walked in.
He pulled out slowly, and you felt his release start to leak out, warm and wet against your inner thigh. His hand left your mouth, and you heard him casting a quick cleaning charm, felt the tingle of magic as it worked.
You pushed yourself up from the table on shaking arms, pulling your skirt down and your knickers back into place. When you turned around, he was already tucking himself back into his trousers, his face flushed and his hair disheveled.
For a second, you just stared at each other. The silence was loaded, dangerous.
Then you grabbed your textbook off the table, holding it against your chest like a shield. "This doesn't change anything," you said, proud of how steady your voice was. "I'm still going to beat you on the next exam."
Something flickered across his face—amusement, maybe, or disbelief. "Is that right?"
"That's right."
He stepped closer, and you refused to back away even though your heart was racing again. He reached out, and for a second you thought he was going to kiss you again. Instead, his fingers straightened your collar, fixed your rumpled robes with careful precision.
"We'll see about that," he murmured, his eyes locked on yours. Then he grabbed his own books from where he'd dropped them and walked away, leaving you standing there in the quiet corner of the library, still trembling and trying to figure out what the fuck had just happened.
You looked down at the textbook in your hands. Bombarda Maxima. The spell you'd been struggling with.
Somehow, you didn't think you'd have trouble concentrating on it anymore.
The next day, you were minding your own business in the corridor between classes when you heard it—laughter. Loud, unmistakable laughter coming from a cluster of Gryffindors near the staircase.
James Potter, Sirius Black, and Peter Pettigrew were huddled together, and the moment they spotted you, their grins turned absolutely wicked.
"There she is," Sirius called out, his voice carrying down the corridor. "The girl who—"
"Shut up," you said flatly, already walking faster.
"—absolutely destroyed the library last night," James finished, barely containing his smirk. "Heard it was quite the educational experience."
Your face burned. Of course. Of course Remus had told them.
"I'm going to hex you," you muttered, pushing past them.
"Moony said you were very... thorough," Peter added, his voice squeaky with barely suppressed laughter. "Very competitive, even when—"
"I said shut up."
But they were already dissolving into fits of laughter, and you could hear them making increasingly crude jokes as you stormed away. Your hands were clenched so hard your nails were digging into your palms.
You made it exactly three steps before you spotted him.
Remus was leaning against the wall near the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, looking absolutely unbothered. More than unbothered—he looked satisfied. Smug. Like he'd just won something.
When your eyes met his, he smirked. Actually smirked at you, like the whole thing was some kind of victory lap.
That was it.
You changed direction, walking straight toward him. He straightened as you approached, and you grabbed his arm, pulling him into the alcove beside the classroom door where the Marauders couldn't see.
"You told them," you hissed, keeping your voice low.
"I did," he said, completely not sorry. His eyes were still dark, still holding that satisfied gleam. "They were going to find out eventually. Might as well control the narrative."
"Control the—" You took a breath, forcing yourself to stay calm. "You know what? Fine. Tell whoever you want. But next time—" You stepped closer, your voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "Next time, you're going to lose."
His smirk faltered for just a second—surprise flickering across his face before it returned, even more infuriating than before.
"Is that a promise?" he asked softly.
You didn't answer. Instead, you turned on your heel and walked away, your head held high, already mentally preparing for the next exam. Already planning how you were going to beat him.
Because that's what this was. That's what it had always been.
james doesn't know.
oral sex (fem receiving), cheating? idk. public sex too.
For Remus and the rest of the Marauders; James was untouchable. The boy has done too much for them to ever go against his wishes. And that was the reason why Remus hanged out with James annoying girlfriend without a word.
Except for maybe the times he snapped against you. But James laughed about it, it seemed playful enough for him or the rest to let it slip. And for James, Remus would do anything. Absolutely anything.
Remus could never face James, and he was a complete goner for his girlfriend, so Remus had no option but to bare her.
James and Remus were animately chatting on the common room when you arrived, Remus rolled his eyes at the sight of you and you frowned in annoyance. James, your sweet and loving boyfriend smiled, dragging you to his lap and kissing your lips deeply as you were getting comfortable.
James then keeps his talk with Remus, smiling occasionally, a few seconds later his hand makes its way through your thighs, his finger circling the fabric of your underwear over your clit, pulling out a moan out of you as you tried to hide on his neck.
"So, as I was telling you, James..." Remus continued as James made his way to your pussy with his fingers.
"Remus" James called, taking you by surprise and spreading your legs on his lap, "Taste it"
"What?"
"What?"
Both of you asked incredulous at the same time, James smirked in response and kissed you for a few seconds.
"Maybe that's what you need to stop being... so defensive with each other" James' fingers caresses your folds as he smirks at Remus. "Come on, don't you get all shy on me now" He chuckles.
Remus breaths are heavy but he kneels in front of you, crawling to your pussy, his hot breath against your flesh while he looked at your pussy as a starved wolf.
James hands hold your legs open as Remus' tongue finally finds its place inside your cunt.
"Tastes good, doesn't it?" James asks Remus, he is clamped tight between you, Remus moved his tongue as a starved, possessed man, he didn't think he would enjoy this as much. Hell, he didn't even think he wanted to do this.
"Do you like it, baby?" James asked you with a soft smile and leaned down to kiss you. Your moans were silent against his lips and you were fucking lucky no one tried to enter or walk through the common room because you don't think you'll find the strength to put Remus away.
Remus suctioned your clit when his fingers found their way inside of you. You were completely wet and Remus used his lips as a straw in your cunt. Your walls were clenching around his fingers.
When you orgasmed in his mouth, it yet wasn't enough for Remus to stop, James put a hand on your abdomen to hold you tight against him, trying to keep you still on his lap.
"So?" James asked when Remus pulled away "Are you gonna keep hating each other?"
heyyy do you think you could write something with uncle!baelor brat taming his niece 👉👈 maybe she didn’t want to go to ashford so she’s been whining/drinking and he has to teach her how a targaryen princess should behave
I've been slow on the uncle baelor train but omfg it''s too good, I'm obsessed with him. 💗
is it a crime?
summary: your uncle has had enough of your attitude, deciding to teach you a lesson.
pairing: baelor targaryen x niece!reader
word count: 4.5k
warning(s): SMUT, targcest, age gap, unspoken feelings, baelor being the best softdom, pussy slapping, rings, oral (m and f receiving)
a/n: this is not entirely proofread so i hope it is okay!!
Ashford Meadow had proven more boring than you had hoped.
As celebration for the young Lady Ashford's nameday, everyone it seemed from the lower quarter of King's Landing to the far Westerlands beyond The Reach was granted invitation. Your own father, Prince Maekar, had received his own not a fortnight before, dragging you and the rest of the hoard with him that was that of your brothers. Albeit, only the one, seen as your younger sisters resided home at Summerhall with their ladies maid, and the other two brothers who weren't training to be a maester in the citadel, had run off leaving you with Aerion. Only older by a year and somehow his petulance proceeded him, angering you entirely through the whole day's ride to Ashford itself, even though you kept quiet, following closely behind your father's stallion. Your irritation was evident to all who came across you.
Though not all bad, the people of the town were generous, herald announcing you upon arrival as Lord Ashford welcomed you in, introducing his daughter to which you bowed politely. She was a good few years younger than you, the yellow of her dress lighting up her sweet features smiling brightly. You felt for her, as much as you did yourself. How unfortunate to be surrounded by such centered authority while being put aside. Though not that it mattered, the endless week-long celebrations just for her, perhaps it was the harshness of your own reality speaking— shoved behind your own brothers even as you were the one stood proudly in their sted.
She complimented your crimson dress, and you replied back of the flowers crested atop her head. The others didn't seem to bother nearly as much as you, your father and uncle greeting princely and reserved, but grateful, your cousins mirroring them humbly. Aerion however storming through the stone archway after them, without a care, only slowing when he reached your father's view. Careful as to not be reprimanded by the one person who would, you laughed to yourself.
Coward.
The members of the royal family were gifted between the comfort of the Ashford castle and the tourney tents for the daytime festivities. And that included your own temporary chamber readily made with your chests you had brought for travel, filled only with your day dresses and linens, your sentiment left at home. The beds were made spotlessly, the presence of your blood not a known appearance, and it showed, the generously sprayed scents of citrus and sweetgrass filling your nostrils it almost made you sneeze.
But it wasn't the castle that you preferred, it was the circle of pavilions out in the fields. A lengthy walk from the courtyard, but you found your way, strolling through the endless stream of market stalls and eager merchants. You wandered further, out beyond the setup of the noble houses, planted carefully for miles to see. Baratheon, Tyrell, Fossoway, all bearing their coloured sigils and flags proudly on patches of territory. The familiar crimson and black fabric met your eyes a distance away from the others, a calculated choice by either one of the prince's you wagered.
Paired kingsguard lined the perimeter, from your father's tent to your own, the red trail of carpet in rolled out in between and you stepped over carefully, as not to dirty your skirts. Thought to the princes weighed on your mind, the idea of your father and uncle marking up legal parchment tiredly and fulfilling duty bored even in your mind. They had given you instruction to remain close, if not in the castle walls then with an escort, though such plans were squandered by curiosity. The tourney was to begin on the morrow, and tonight the very opening ceremony where they were to introduce the potential champions. Every knight to be readying their sword and shield to compete, helms and steel polished so loudly you could still hear it over the bards singing. And the forecasting buzz excited you.
You were to be scolded for it you supposed, a princess on her own was never a welcome sight. And it was a lone you left with the few servants and men manning the tents, earning you weary looks. Not that you had minded, by inching further the corners to the edge of the pavilion, you found your cousin. Valarr. Baelor's son, skillfully training and huffing with sword in hand, sweeping it back and forth as if to face an invisible opponent. He, as well as your brother, Aerion, were entered in the lists for tomorrow, Valarr already a realm favourite by a mile. The same couldn't be said for your brother.
Your feet padded toward him, away from your carpeted walk and out onto the thinly cut grass, crunching beneath you. Your voice called out through the afternoon air, "Should you need a sword when jousting?" He jumped slightly, sword swinging down to his side respectfully as he turned to face you, clasping it back into it's sheath at his hip.
"You never can be sure." Valarr smiled, walking steadily towards you as he shook his head, the damp strands of sweat from the sun beading lightly at his skin, and your eyes raked over him recklessly. His tunic and armour was discarded, left only in the white undershirt and black trousers pulled together by string. He was an agreeable man, young and brave, dark haired and mismatched eyes that shone, much like his father's.
You both had a favourable relationship, around the same age as Aerion and you, there wasn't a time when you weren't close, often acting in childish japes against him together just to rile him up, gentler memories than that you could speak of most. There once seemed a fondness that you wished could grow, begging your father in younger years you would rather marry him than a brother or a fat old lord. It was not looked on of distaste, talks once occurring of such possibilities, though it did not come to fruition. Your longing to be close to him, closer to the respected part of your family formed into a disappointment at the news he was already betrothed, a young lady by the name of Keira of Tyrosh. Their union was that of something sweet and humble, understated in the likes of an heir, all ill feeling falling into nothing as you had met. Spending time with her also, she was made in your eyes, a beautiful addition to the family, you two often conversing with one another at feasts, seated purposefully together as you talked of things reserved to very unladylike in company, not that neither cared.
In a world such as this, it was rare for a friend. And you were grateful to know some. And having them by your side was a greater partnership than you could ask for, still unmarried and unbound yourself you dreaded the day your wandering eyes could no longer take hold. Over time it wasn't the attraction of your cousin that whittled you sharp in your seeking, it was that of your uncle, his own father. Everything you had longed for in the boy from nature to appearance reflected Baelor, and you had longed for it more moons than you counted.
"I see, well I didn't mean to impose. I was merely.."
"Escaping?" Valarr finished your sentence with a knowing smirk, raising an eyebrow out of his own curiosity.
"Something of the sort you could say. I prefer to bide time away from their legal matters. I believe we've all had enough of castles." Your laugh came untethered, free as he matched it, lowering his head.
"A welcome break this is then I'd agree."
You both stayed there for a while, a leisurely conversation, easy, standing there under the heat of the afternoon sun, smiling and jesting harmlessly until the distant horns sounded.
The opening ceremony for the tourney.
The two of you shifted, eyes flicking to each other by design.
"I suppose I will let you prepare." You took a step backward toward the sound, and he nodded, the smirk remaining as he inched to his tent, black armour readily clad on the stand just inside of it, squires following him in readiness.
"Then I suggest you should catch up, my father and yours will not be too pleased to see you late."
And he was right.
You did your best to catch up with the others, swayed and halted by the trails of people swarming toward the lists. No sign of familiar faces showed until your sight landed on that of the large royally decked out stand overseeing the lists, there already seated your father and brother, Lord Ashford and your uncle Baelor, as well as the many noble spectators beside.
Without tempting a shove you broke free from the mass of rowdiness, sneaking behind the walled stand, reaching around the back where it was empty, unseen, the various staircases to different openings facing you. You took your chances on the one, and thankfully through blind faith, it was the right one, the flats of your day slippers tapping lightly onto heavy wooden planks, the landing of the stairs opening up into an open mouthed stage, lined with few gilded, carved chairs from back to front. The four men sat at the very front, waving lightly as the crowd cheered and pulled in, orange lantern light from the grounds casting onto their faces and yours as you snaked in. You excused yourself into the empty seat next to your father, who greeted you with a head turning gaze, scowling lightly but settling as you did so, shifting in place.
"Daughter."
"Father."
There was little time for niceties, not even an apology for lateness, though it didn't go unnoticed. Baelor glanced silently, twisting the rings on the knuckle of his fingers as he watched you be seated, you were barely allowed out at such a time, especially to watch such debauchery it had been narrowly agreed on the account of your age. That and your father's stressful distaste for having any other children of his out sight. So you remained close, enduring near every court council and tourney alike, which had exhausted you as it would any lady. And it wasn't that you uncle did not enjoy your company, such things should be taught, and there is no better than experience. After all you are blood and beloved by his sons also, however it was you and your brother's relentless need to disobey direct orders.
Much like you hadn't been keeping time, sneaking off through every court encounter and feast where you were advised to be present. Baelor had still been irked by the previous passing tourney event in a nearby village, where Aerion had named you the 'Queen of love and beauty', vying for your honour, despite strict instruction to crown the other Lord's young lady, in advance to secure alliances. Even if through petty words and flattery or legal matter and battle, every part of it mattered, it was how to upkeep the realm, how a proper prince and princess should.
And he would be a lying man if he hadn't wished his brother would correct your behaviours, praying such endeavours would not be found on the young lady's nameday. Particularly yours, though no daughters himself, he hadn't seen someone act such a way, even the way you slumped in front of those watching, it was unsightly. But he stayed vigilant.
The late afternoon sun soon drifted, the moon shining luminant over the darkening sky, the lists only lit by the lined fence of torches. You believed it to be splendid, not paying much mind to anything else, only the chatter and gossip around you, and that of the squires offering wine. You hadn't been much for drinking, a few sips here and there at a rare banquet, but something ticked within you, your family tilted and you left to your own devices, you sank more cups than you had originally meant to, ordering them back and forth until they had to stand beside you just to refill. The poor young boy in your clutch pouring almost as many cups as your eldest brother would for himself.
Had the others not been engrossed and keeping an eye on you, they would have noticed your growing chaos, your spirits unusually high as you shuffled and giggled in your chair, seemingly at nothing at all. But the noise, and rambunctious crude cheers from those around had tickled you more than you could stop it. You tried covering your mouth at first, hiding your face into the fabric of your sleeve, your face a beat red.
But what was worse, was when the mob fell quiet, the knight's entrances soon upon the lists, accompanied by the thrum of drums and trumpets. Your gaze flicked around, leaning against the back of your chair, keeping yourself propped up as the murmurs lessened, only broken by a slurred male voice.
"Lord Ashford fucks his sheep."
Few laughs and agreeing yells from the crowd came, but everyone else stayed untouched by the rude jest, the old lord himself letting his head fall slightly in displeased embarrassment. Even your father and brother only faltering lightly as to stay stoic, though you couldn't contain it, blurting out a sharp laugh that echoed into the palm of your hand. You were unsure if it was the wine or your own boredom that let it spill from your loosened lips, even despite sobering up after a while, though most heard it.
All eyes falling on you coldly.
The men beside you turned one by one, nobles eyes behind you flicking from you and your kin insulted, your father's hand reaching for your own as to swat you to stop, but it wasn't him who was the one to act.
No, it was Baelor. And he'd had enough.
He rose unshakable and agitated, punctuated with every short step it took to stand at your chair, hand clasping tightly around your forearm. He glanced at his brother and back to you, the man already oblivious and clueless on what to do himself, and so he took it as intervention— taking the matter into his own hands.
Thankfully in the turn of heads, not many had seen the way you'd been dragged from the stand, the herald already announcing the first knight into the lists, followed by the repeated rampage of applause and cheer. It was swallowed completely behind trees and brush as the stretch grew further, your feet stumbling after your uncle in his grip as he pulled you back through the celebrating fields to the group of tents fiercely.
His hand only released you as he swung you carelessly inside of a tent. His tent. And you had barely any time to take in the sights of the embellished space before he was shaking you in his hold, firm hands clutching at your sides, blue and brown eyes squinting at you.
"What were you thinking?"
"Uncle Baelor I.."
"Enough this is not how a princess of the realm should be acting, your father is—" He pushed on, harsh tone cutting into the air as you spoke bitingly.
"Fuck being a princess." You egged him on, pushing your luck in the knowledge of your wrongdoing, although you couldn't tear your eyes away from him, the way he pressed into you. So close, so passionate even in his anger.
His fingers squeezed deeper into your skin,ignoring your careless jibe, his grip not enough to hurt, but enough to move, his face falling disapprovingly from side to side as his gaze raked over you, checking. If there was a reason to act out, surely it would be present, a cause.
"What is the reason, you should not be acting out in such a way."
You rolled your eyes, angered and yet ignited.
"You have brought me here to scold me? Like a child?"
"Quite rightly. A child no, unlike the brat you're being."
It struck sharply in the middle of your chest, a fateful blow that scored no injury, but his words were enough. Something that he had held himself from for longer than he should, the creases in his face pulled taut, stern but something more. Apologetic. In truth Baelor did not want to harm or offend you, paying more attention than most even in the fleeting moments, at the way your face fell at the absence of your youngest brother, or the times you isolated yourself from court. Someone such as you didn't act out without reason, but it couldn't go on. Especially feeling you tense coyly underneath him, and not out of fear, the glint in your eyes said otherwise, and he knew of that look.
Baelor softened slightly, retreating as he opened and closed his mouth, moving a steady hand to cup your cheek, inching you to look at him.
"I see beyond it niece.. you are of my blood," Your eyes raised to him, a flicker of the your feigned scowl before faltering as you watched him intently. The low lamplight radiating his face a way you hadn't abled to look upon so closely. He was handsome yes, he always had been, and you were no stranger at sneaking glances at men much less him. Even as a girl you'd recalled the contrast to what you knew of your valyrian blood, he was warmer, gentler, tanner skin meeting the dark of his hair.
"And as blood you must learn how to act properly, as the princess you are." He emphasised the word, almost aware of how it felt.
"Even I understand the weight of a prince.. it may not be quite the same, but it is close enough." You nodded slowly, gaze tempting to his lips, the way they moved, heavy and lightly scarred, the way his thumb inched at yours, stroking the corner softly. He took you in in such a manner he tried to refuse himself of, appreciating the growing intimate heat that had spawned, not only from his own anger, but compassion, caring for you in the a way an uncle would, a protector would. But another feeling crept up, his eyes following when others weren't, tugging you away somewhere private, it wasn't by intention, not entirely, but desire. A smirk etched onto your lips, his thumb brushing over it as you did, peeking to the curve of your mouth, opening slightly around the pad of his finger as your teeth grazed it.
And that was the breaking point, a lesson had to be proven. Your teasing had grown to much, or was that just his own guilt speaking? The want perhaps? His hunger bubbled deep from his centre, the womanly full figure under the outline of your dresses stirred him, his palm opposing the one on your placed at your cheek, planting onto your side. He backed you both up carefully, steps moving in tandem with his until you stood before the bed.
"Sit."
The warmth of his scent hit your face, like pine and smoke, and you obeyed silently careful as to push further, hand placing out behind you to ease yourself down the bedframe and onto the wooden chest your legs knocked against. You smoothed at your skirts, meeting his ardent look, his fingers scratching at the salt and pepper of his fine beard decisively. They moved down tentatively to the leather over his belt, moving seamlessly over thick metal and black fabrics, and your mouth watered, the anticipation making your legs cross, his knee coming between them to stop them. It wasn't going to be simple, he wasn't letting you off so easily.
"If you want to earn your place, you are to do the things are you are told to." Baelor shrugged his cloak off, letting it fall just beside you on the furniture, the material teasing a your bare leg under the ruffle of your dress. He pulled himself free in one tug, his length falling hard into his hand with one pump of is fist. It was a sight, thick and rigid, the veins tracing up the side of it temptingly, twitching with need.
"Do you understand?" You nodded slowly, fingers reaching out in front of you barely paying attention to his voice, opting to hold him instead and allowed it, gripping him in your palm so tight it made him hiss, your gasp slicing the air.
"Good, now open your mouth." He pushed between your lips with one push, cock sliding onto your tongue and filling your mouth and out of your hands He urged your head down, your hands bracing down to the thick muscle of his thighs, squeezing gently with every drag of him, the head reaching the back of your throat until your nose brushed his base. You inhaled, the faint hairs tickling at your skin as his heavy musk filled your senses, sending a wave of arousal to your core.
"There you go my girl.." He encouraged through gritted teeth, the authority still present in the tremble of his voice. He thrusted deeper, hips straining little at your mouth until the blunt flesh teased too far, the rhythm and weight of him making you gag and splutter around his cock. Your eyes rolled back as the spit curled from the corners of your mouth, pooling down your chin in earnest just as the dampness tainted your small clothes, beads of your own arousal coating your cunt with need.
He felt it, the way you desperately tried to rub yourself onto the cushion beneath you, letting out a whine around him, not so slyly. Though he ignored it, no matter how much it tugged at him, the feel of your tongue in urgency made his breaths shallow and ragged, hips sloppy against you, stalling as he let go, hot white spurts of his seed coating and painting your tongue. You swallowed it gratefully, the faint sweet salt of him gushing down your throat as he pulled free, connecting his tip from your plump lips in a string of saliva.
Your tear strained eyes followed him as he ducked down, taking you into his arms, wrapping them around you gently, placing you down onto the plush of the his bed. He crawled over you in no time, lips ghosting yours, red and wet with him, "You've done well.. let me take you." His voice was softer, a mumble against you as he pressed himself to you, pushing his face into yours in a fervent kiss, tongue swiping just across your mouth before moving. His lips insistent all over you. Your jaw, your neck, the curve of your collarbone and down to your breast. His hands moving delicately to detangle the lace of your bodice, opening your body up to him through the unnecessary finery, laid bare and wanting for him. His body wound over yours, edging back toward the side of the bed, boot pushing at the carpeted floor, mouth latching onto your nipple, licking carefully over the soft bud, sucking it into his mouth with a guttural groan. Fingers gracing down under your ribs and at your waist until he found himself at the curve of your mound.
You shivered, the cool air hitting the wet of your cunt, hole weeping as he pressed his fingers through your folds.
"Beautiful.."
He wasted no time, beard tickling your inner thighs as he pressed a searing kiss, lips meeting the puffy pearl of your clit shamelessly, a teasing lick tracing your entrance. Your fingers threaded through his hair, clutching the top of his head, urging, a silent demand. His head lifted only slightly at your impatience, removing the palm at your waist to earn a sharp smack to your cunt. You yelped, arse wriggling against the sheets at the tender sting to you sensitive bundle, arousal dripping lewdly out of you.
"Proper ladies are patient are they not?" He warned keenly, the rumble vibrating through your skin, and although he meant to punish, he'd refused sufficiently, your taste making him moan against you as his tongue finally slipped inside. The firm muscle plunging into your wetness feverishly, his hands grasping at your thighs as he linked them over his shoulders, anchoring you to him. Solely at his mercy.
You felt your body set alight, writhing against him, flexed arms enveloped securely around you, fucking you into his face with every flick into your tightness. Your fingertips tugged the sheets as hard as you could, attempts to free yourself, to inch yourself, to cover your face, your eyes squeezed closed as your body shook. And he did not relent, gaze piercing into you over the curve of your body, his face suffocated by your cunt, lust blown and beyond forgiveness. You rocked against him, chasing the electricity of the attack on your clit, his mouth wrapping around it with a languid suck, your other hand tangling further into his dark hair as your mouth fell agape, moans rolling willingly.
"Uncle.."
He groaned into you, deeper than he'd meant to sending a shockwave through you that pulsed in your core, hips rising and falling into him, fucking you in and out as your thighs clamped, tighter around his head. His mouth alone making love to your cunt in ways you had not known, had not dreamed of, not even in your filthiest, immoral dreams. He moved you to him harsher with ringed fingers, cold shocking you, urging your hips to ride his face, tongue fucking you wholly, working you tightly, your eyes widening as you falter, coil snapping, shaking back down onto the mattress.
Your vision became blurry, white dotting your vision, your head throwing back in the endless throws of pleasure, letting out a small cry as you let go, cunt gushing all over his face, your juices dripping dow his chin and mouth. He pressed on, riding you through your orgasm as you chased it, thighs shaking and trembling, equally overstimulated and overwhelmed. He holds you in place, and you don't fully process it, still breathing heavy at the aftermath of a pleasure you were not familiar with. He feels your tremble, and he soothes around the sensitive mound as you whimper, pressing soft, chaste kisses to your clit and folds before rising.
He stalls for a moment, rising up on his knees above you, taking you in, such a sight, such a beauty. His beloved girl, hie niece. He cannot deny the way he shames himself, curses at himself and the Seven above for giving in, but still teasing his tongue to his lips to taste the remnants of you, humming tenderly. You support yourself up onto your elbows, wanting more, about to ask for more, to beg for him, to take you properly and claim you fully but he pulls back before you can, standing back onto his legs at the floor.
"We shall be needed back at the ceremony. I suggest you follow me shortly sweet niece." The roughness in his voice betrays him, straightening his collar as he tucks himself back into the confines of his breeches. You groan lightly and he shoots you a look of warning, distant fire in his eyes. You allow yourself to fall back onto the bed as he rounds it, picking up his cloak before clasping it tightly at this neck, making a start to leave before he can abandon honour completely.
Though one thing is known between you both as you lay there and he paces away, it was not done.
synopsis: Everyone knows that yourself and Steve should never have been put on the same team; you fight like dogs and spark like live-wires. But maybe not all of that tension is hate.
warnings: enemies to lovers, smut smut smut (fingering, oral - f receiving, unprotected p in v, creampie, size kink, mild spitting, rough sex, hate sex but add yearning, slight exhibitionism & public sex & risk of getting caught - fawking in the workplace), canon-typical violence (nothing graphic), description of gunshot, a lot of fighting but they are closeted cutiepies, cursing, steve rogers is a MUNCH and that's canon (to me),
word count: 12.3k words (literally 5k is smut. i wish i was joking. i have no impulse control)
a/n: i tried to do a bit of an inverse on the whole 'steve rogers is a golden retriever' thing in this so there are way too many references to dogs lmao (see: title). i physically cannot write hate sex without yearning bc i am a lover girl. someone release me from these shackles.
Steve has a big fucking issue with you.
You can’t remember exactly when it started but you do know that you liked each other just fine before you joined his team. Back then, you’d thought his unyielding, boy-scout-adjacent sense of duty and honour was kind of cute. He’d hold doors, call you ma’am, talk about doing the right thing as if it was just easy in a job like this. As if it was always clear as day what the right thing to do was.
Now, his virtue is just exhausting.
You’re watching him spar with Sam from the corner of the training floor as dusk descends outside the window and the training room becomes a sort of cave. Dim yellow light is spilling over the room, drowning it in a blurry smog. People are clearing out for the day, but not Steve. Each of his punches are pulled, each strike carefully calculated to inflict just the right amount of force in order to win but not injure. Steve could have Sam pinned in two minutes flat and both of them know it. The frustration in Sam’s expression is tickling you - you recognise it well.
You used to taunt Steve for this kind of thing during training runs and team building events, and he’d tease you right back. That boyish smile would give way to something a bit more wicked and an unnamed heat would pool low in your stomach at his crack in composure. You had been sure he was only days away from asking you out - some very proper invitation to the pictures with an assurance that he would drop you back by a reasonable hour, most likely. But then you got a promotion and came under his leadership.
He moves through missions like he’s got some do-gooder checklist in his head, and you can feel him watching every corner you cut. He doesn’t have to say a word (though he often does); the disapproval is baked into the air between you. Whatever spark had been building between the two of you got buried somewhere between all his rules and all the ways you’d break them.
A side-mission from Fury here, a refusal to wait for backup there - and suddenly you two are enemies. Or adversaries, at the least
You remind him frequently, in the throes of fiery screaming matches that make the rest of the team avert their eyes, that this is the way SHIELD trained you. He is the one going against the grain, not you. But it doesn’t seem to matter to him because his trusty moral compass never points him wrong, it would seem.
Things have gotten so bad by now that you think Steve, patient and tolerant as he is, might have even considered requesting that you be transferred if you weren’t so damn good at your job.
And you are good. That can’t be denied.
But there’s something about working with Steve that makes you great. When you’re not at each other’s throats.
You move around each other on missions as if performing choreography that only you two have rehearsed. You’ve saved his ass more times than he has ever acknowledged or thanked you for, but he has done the same for you. You have a deep understanding of how he works, mind and body. He keeps his moves varied as a rule, but you have learned to read the minute shift in his centre of gravity before he strikes, the smallest drop in his hips that means he’s about to duck, the tightening of his frame before he lunges. Equally, you know when he’s running multiple scenarios behind his eyes, when he’s processing angles before he commits.
It makes you his best possible partner on the field and the biggest pain in his ass in training.
“You’re up,” Steve mutters to you while Sam limps to the corner of the room, grumbling something about how next time Steve needs to stop dragging this shit out before he gets a leg cramp.
You haul yourself up slowly, moving to the centre of the gym with exaggerated languor just to piss him off, rolling your shoulders as you go. His sweat is making his white t-shirt entirely transparent, the thin fabric sticking to his defined pectorals and torso. He shakes his head, spraying sweat over the mat. It should be kind of gross, really, so you’re a bit disgusted by how hot it is. You see his jaw tick with impatience, and you begin to stretch your calves, too.
“You couldn’t have done this while you were waiting?”
“And risk seizing up again while you played with your food?”
“Just because I don’t use full force, it doesn’t mean I’m ‘playing with my food’,” he says, frowning at you in that disappointed-teacher way of his “Every time you all fight a super soldier, it makes you better. I use more force every time.”
You say nothing, only because you’re cautious about baiting him too much ahead of the ass-whooping you’re about to get. You roll your shoulders one more time, looking up at him.
“Let’s go.”
Steve lunges, coming at you hard and fast. A blur of muscle flies past your eye-line, fist cutting into the air where your jaw had been just half a second before. The force of it sends a gust that moves wisps of your hair and the speed of your dodge sends your boots skidding across the mat. You raise an astounded eyebrow at him and he shrugs with a tight smile.
On days like this, when his restraint is frayed and he is too irritated to be sanctimonious, you are reminded that he can be a little bit fun.
When you slide by his guard again, your eyes catch his for a fraction of a second before he lands a surprise hit to your abdomen that pummels the wind right out of your pipes. You groan but stop yourself from bowling over right into his knee that comes shooting up for you. You see him bear left and you glide away in the opposite direction.
“Testy today,” you say, but you can’t hit the patronising tone you are aiming for. Your voice comes out scratchy from the knock you took. He says nothing but leaps at you again.
You lean back and dodge the hit but go sprawling to the floor. Before he can pin you, you sweep a foot under his. It’s not enough to knock him in itself but he blunders for a bit and with one more kick, you send him to his ass. You get a foot in his side and hear Sam hoot in delight as he clears out of the training room with the remaining agents.
Steve’s on his feet in a flash, but by then, so are you. There’s a glimmer of something on his face, like surprise or maybe excitement. You try not to get too arrogant.
And it’s a good thing you don’t. Because after five minutes of hits and dodges, he has you on the ropes again. You’re giving it as good as you’re getting but you don’t have his stamina or pain tolerance. You can feel your equilibrium slipping, movements getting sloppy. You’re over-balancing, tumbling instead of landing.
There’s something about the current between the two of you today that makes you want to win in a way you never do with Steve. You had never even really seen it as a competition before, safe in the conclusion that he and all his serum-amplified testosterone will have you beat eventually. It was always a matter of if, rather than when.
But Steve is coming at you properly today, not pulling his punches (as much), not giving you the space to recover before he’s on you again like a hound on fresh blood and it’s making a sort of swooping adrenaline sing in your blood.
You don’t think too much about it, sweeping behind his back and hooking a leg over his. The serum means you don’t have enough strength to bring him down, but the confusion makes him stumble. With two hands on his shoulders, you climb his broad frame, boots digging into flesh, hands ploughing through his hair. He reaches a hand back to peel you off with bruising strength, but you have an iron clasp. His fingers dig into your t-shirt with almost enough force to pull it clean off.
You eventually reach the peak of him with immense difficulty. You are able to lock your thighs around his broad neck and curl your knee around his throat, squeezing hard. It’s not enough. His hands are pulling at your legs, but he’s not tapping out. You can only hold this grip for a matter of seconds, before your muscles loosen, and Steve will have your tired body pinned.
Impulsively, you dive backwards, head swooping down towards the floor. The force of it sends Steve flying back with you and you vaguely feel three taps - a victory - against your thigh before you both hit the floor.
You crash hard on your back. Your head takes a small bump to the mat and black dots dance behind your eyes for just a second, but your ass and shoulder blades take the brunt of it. It’s far from the worst injury you’ve received in training, but it’s been a while since you’ve received more than a hit. You take a few deep breaths to centre yourself, groaning once air returns to your body. Only then do you realise that Steve’s head is planted firmly on your lower stomach, neck still pressed up between your thighs. You scramble away with what you hope is a collected suavity, all bones and muscles shrieking in opposition to the sudden movement.
When Steve spins around, you know you’re in for it.
“What the hell was that?” he spits, picking himself up from the floor. His eyes are blazing, hands on his hips while he looks down at you where you are sprawled out on the mat. You close your eyes and let out a long, deliberate sigh - precisely the response you know will drive him crazy.
“That was me winning, Steve,” you say, ignoring your groaning limbs to pull yourself up. He does not offer you a hand up.
“No,” he said, voice strained and thick with irritation. “That was you trying to get yourself killed. Are you insane? You could have a concussion.”
“I know a concussion from a small bump,” you say, brushing him off with a limp hand. You move over to get your water, trying not to stagger. “Don’t be dramatic.”
“This is your problem, you know that? You always think you know best and everyone else is just dramatic or not seeing your vision, or whatever it is. You’re a good agent, but that’s not enough. You’re going to get yourself killed some day and it won’t be some great, heroic gesture like you probably think. It will be something stupid like this.”
His speech might have made a mark on you if it had been the first time you had heard it. As it stands, you just roll your eyes and take a sip from your bottle to look busy. The water mixes with blood from where you had bitten the inside of your cheek. It tastes bitter and metallic going down.
“God, you’re-”
You glance warily at Steve, wondering whether he is about to curse at you for the first time since that mission in Moscow. He swallows it. “You don’t listen.”
You shrug with a smile, watching his face go from a blushing red to a deep crimson. His eyes narrow and he spins around, broad back tensing as he storms out of the gym.
“Steve?”
He stops, twisting ever-so-slightly.
“You not gonna congratulate me on my first ever win?”
You think he might have given you the finger if he was anyone but himself.
You do end up grumbling your way over to the med bay eventually, but only because Steve threatens to suspend you from any further missions. You turn out to not have a concussion so you feel perfectly justified in scowling at him days later from across the quinjet the whole way to the shipyard two states away.
The air is warm despite the February frost splotched on the grass below. The hour is getting late; the setting sun turns the lakes and rivers a deep orangey red.
You hadn’t expected Steve to bow down or apologise, but you did expect him to ignore you. Instead, he’s watching you with a detached curiosity, like you’re some rare lab specimen or an interesting insect.
“I know you’re not seriously mad at me for sending you to the med bay,” he says. “Because that would be insane.”
“They did a whole medical evaluation, Steve,” you snap at him. “I was in there well over an hour. All for fuckin’ nothing because I’m healthy as a horse, apparently.”
“Well you missed your last mandatory check-up. So you’re welcome,” he says, his lips stretching into a handsome little smirk.
You frown. You are usually the one provoking him and you’re not overly fond of how it feels to be on the receiving end. You can feel Steve’s eyes on you, heady and pleased. He’s leaning back with his arms crossed, lofty thighs spread open with an abnormal arrogance. One that would not be on display if the rest of the team were with you.
You can fully appreciate his size from this angle, the fabric of his t-shirt straining against his biceps, his wide shoulders holding strong like an impenetrable wall of muscle and brawn. He looks particularly good when he smiles - even if it’s at your expense. He could have passed for a Gladiator, or some Greek god in another universe - the kind whose likeness would be captured in marble for future generations to marvel at and admire. It wracks you how unfair it is that he can be so irritating but still look like that.
Have you thought about him bending you over? Sure. Many a time. But you still can’t stand the guy.
“You still seeing that guy in R&D? Uh- Mark, or whatever.”
You give him a side-glance. Steve doesn’t forget anyone’s name. He is the kind of guy to be introduced to a hundred-man team and be asking Lucy for a debrief and thanking Jim for the coffee the very next day. You think he might be on a first-name basis with everyone he’s ever met. So you know that he knows his name his Mike.
“No,” you mumble. “We broke up last month.”
“Why?”
“None of your business, Rogers,” you say. You’re trying to appear unbothered, but you’re a little rattled. Your teeth are grinding. “What about you? Any dates recently?”
“A couple.”
“And how were they?”
“Good.”
You scoff. “You talk this much with them? Your chattiness might scare them off.”
“The ladies I take on dates might not have the same preferences as you, you know,” he says with a raised eyebrow. Your lips twitch at that term - ‘ladies’. How old-school.
“No, I’m sure they love one-word answers and taciturn grumbles.”
“I’ve had no complaints.”
Your mouth opens and closes stupidly. The shells of your ears prickle with heat as Steve just grins wider, shifting his hips to lean further back. He looks so goddamn cocky, so punchable. You wish you could take a picture and show him to all those trainees you had heard refer to him as a ‘golden retriever’. He seems more like a Mastiff to you; huge, stubborn, impossible to deal with.
You purse your lips together, eyes dropping to his army dog tags. The chain droops down his tanned, fabric-clad chest, the tags sitting neatly in the deep groove between his pectoral muscles.
“Why did you and Mike break up?”
Your cheek twitches up. “So you do know his name.”
“Tell me.”
You turn your gaze away from him to watch the sun set out the window, even if it makes your retinae burn. “My fault, mostly. I don’t really, uh- know how to do it.”
“What? Relationships?”
“Yeah, I guess. I’m not used to having to let someone know when I’ll be home or making sure I have time for them between back-to-back missions. I blame my career choice.”
“Maybe you just didn’t care enough.”
Your eyes snap back over to him, eyebrows shooting straight to your hairline. “What?”
“I’m just saying. It’s not your career choice. Lots of people in this line of work have relationships that they prioritise.”
“What, you’re suddenly Dr Phil or something? It’s not like you know the ins and outs so don’t-”
“Dr Phil?” A cute little line forms between his brows.
“He was this-” You pause, heaving a frustrated breath out your nose. “You know what? Never mind.”
“My point is,” Steve continues. “I think you would want to do all those things for someone you cared enough about, even when it’s difficult. It wouldn’t be some tick-the-box.”
All traces of arrogance are gone from Steve’s expression, only genuine interest remaining as he scans your face like he’s trying to solve some puzzle. It makes you uncomfortable - you would prefer for him to laugh at you or lecture you.
“I could be dating Brad Pitt and I still would not care enough to answer a text about what’s for dinner when I’m busy.”
He frowns. “Who is Brad Pitt?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
The walk to the shipyard is quiet. Silent, if not for the steady scratch of Steve’s boots grinding against the gravel. The hum of the quinjet dulls the farther you walk.
You may not particularly like Steve, but you appreciate him at times like these. You couldn't be more perfect mission partners for each other if you tried. The way you fall into your posts quickly and seamlessly, giving each other the space and silence to focus on preparing for the mission while also trusting that you will speak up if the situation calls for it.
Your methods and routines are practically identical. It’s almost a shame that the moment things break open, that quiet alignment shatters.
Steve holds a fist up, signalling you to stop. You do, falling in behind him. You’re not sure what he’s hearing, but you trust him implicitly when he makes the motion for you to duck behind a flatbed truck. You press yourself against the cool metal and Steve plunges in after you, his warm chest and stomach caging you. Hardly a second later, you hear what he had - a door clanging open, boisterous voices spilling out, all speaking over each other in Russian.
Steve meets your eyes, gives you a silent signal and you nod, moving out from behind the truck as silently as a deer and blending into the night. You weave through the shipping containers with practiced alacrity. You don’t need to look to know Steve is right behind you; you can feel him.
You split angles without having to speak. Steve covers the high runways while you sweep the lower lanes between cargo. The night has cooled and the wind is vicious now, needling the hulls of the half-empty freighters and blowing the hook block of the crane overhead until it swings like an unsteady pendulum over the flooded pier. Steve is keeping close. His hot breath feels sharp on your neck against the biting wind.
You get within five hundred feet of the main electrical substation before you’re spotted. A pair of guards open fire from the building behind you, spraying an uncoordinated bouquet of bullets in your direction. You find cover effortlessly and huff with humour at the sloppy execution. They had just revealed that they are aware of your presence without allowing you to get close enough for a good shot.
“Idiots,” Steve mutters, as if he’s genuinely disappointed. You smile up at him, almost expecting him to say something about how he expected better from them.
You easily dodge their fire as you advance leisurely and safely, winding in and out from behind shipping containers. You decide that you’re not in the mood to go at it with Steve today, so you take his lead even if it’s significantly slower than how you would choose to do this yourself. You don’t worry about the shots that get too close - whatever you can’t dodge, Steve fends off with his shield.
You are out of the gunmen’s range when you make it to the ladder that leads up to the platform you need to get to, but you have no doubt they are headed your way. You go first, taking your gun from its holster, aiming it upwards, and heaving yourself onto the ladder. The iron bars are slick with seawater and heavy fuel oil; you have to grip tight so you don’t slip.
You’re making careful progress up the ladder with Steve behind you, eyes pointed upwards for any sign of unwanted company. The metal feels slithery beneath your fingers and it takes you an extra few seconds to climb each step. It’s shuddering under each step and you wonder vacantly whether Steve’s weight will make it collapse.
You don’t have much time to prepare for the gunman that approaches above you. Your fingers are still clumsily fidgeting, trying to aim your gun while also grasping the slippy bar of metal. You get your shots off at the same time; yours hits, his does not.
What it does do, though, is make you dodge. Your body bears left, foot skidding on a rung of the ladder and suddenly you’re slipping downward, stomach swooping as your body collides with Steve’s.
He scarcely reacts, catching you with one arm, using little to no exertion. His fingers clamp around your waist, steadying you. For a fraction of a second you both freeze - your breath catching, his jaw tensing, bodies flush together, faces inches apart. Every hard plane of his body is pressed up against you. There is a throbbing warmth low in your stomach.
“You good?” he asks, breathy and deep.
“Move,” you say, voice tight, shaking out of his grasp and climbing up once more. He sighs and mutters something under his breath but you can’t make it out. Your heart is galloping, your pulse thundering in your ears.
You barrel over the platform, and go running towards the tower just as another guard reaches the door, attempting to get to the breaker panel before you have the chance to disable it. He locks the door behind him but Steve kicks it in with a crash. You slide low, sweeping the guard’s legs. Steve disarms him before he can even hit the floor.
There’s no need for discussion as you both fall into your respective roles. The room is oppressively grey and layered with multiple wires, but you find your way to the breaker panel. You work on planting the shutdown device on the primary switchgear while Steve holds off reinforcements, laying enough suppressive fire to keep three guards pinned behind a forklift.
You’re more aware of his presence than usual while you work. He sits like some nagging instinct in your head, telling you to look. You know if you do, all you will see is his back, a heavy fortification of muscle and hard lines and sweat. You don’t need that kind of distraction. Your nerves are already fried from the uncomfortable consciousness of how his body felt pressed tight against yours.
You step back, watching the disruptor activate and the power shut down around you with a whining drone. The grey space becomes black and for just a split-second, yourself and Steve stand alone in the dark, no sounds pervading the room except your laboured breaths. The street lamps outside have extinguished - the bullets outside pause while the gunmen assess their situation.
Steve moves, shattering the stillness. He grips your wrist and pads quietly out the door, taking full advantage of the blackness to make a discreet getaway. You grab your wrist violently out of his grip but you follow him silently. You can’t see anything very well, but you think he might roll his eyes.
The shipyard is drowned in darkness, the only light the thin silver sheen of rain on metal. You move with Steve between the towering containers, keeping low. Every small sound seems deafening now - the clink of a loose cable swaying in the wind, even your own breaths.
A pair of guards drift close, their flashlights slicing through the blackout. You flatten against the cold steel wall, willing yourself still as the beams skim past, bright enough to catch the rivets beside your cheek. When the voices fade, Steve breaks across an open stretch at a quick, silent sprint. You follow.
You’re not sure why you do it. It’s usually Steve’s job to scan the high ground. His serum-enhanced eyesight can catch movement long before you can. But Steve is preoccupied with sweeping for guards on ground level, so you do it instead out of pure intuition. And you see it: a sharp, unmoving glint on the crane platform above.
Your pulse spikes.
There’s a shooter.
You had caught sight of him too late to find cover. You are out in the open. You can’t see the shooter well, but you know who their target will be and it’s not you. Steve is too far ahead to be able to warn him in any sufficient way.
In a moment of complete and utter instinct, and maybe more than a little stupidity, you raise your gun and shoot. You miss.
The shooter turns their attention to you now. You fire another, miss again.
The hit slams into your shoulder so hard, it immediately steals your breath. You stagger forward, fingers going numb. The gun drops from your clasp.
You try to breathe, but the pain is sharp and choking. Your vision wavers from blood loss and the sheer, overwhelming burn tearing through you. Steve’s gun cracks somewhere to your left but the sound bends around the pain, distant and warped. You can’t lift your arm. You can’t even unclench your jaw.
You wait to feel the blood clot around your wound but it’s slow and reluctant. You hold on for one more second, and then blackness swallows you.
The only thing that you’re aware of when you open your eyes is the pain. Not the cold, harsh light of the hospital. Not your family and team members that sit around you, looking morosely at the floor and bouncing their legs. Not even that Steve is absent.
For some length of time that feels very long, you exist in that state; slinking in and out of consciousness. But the pain never disappears, not even the bouts of darkness. In those moments of oblivion, the pain goes behind a cloud, but it always returns with a violence. You get to know this in a vague sort of way, feeling dumbly grateful when the pain is at bay but never being so naive as to think yourself free of it.
Although you will later find out it is only two days, it feels like a small eternity before you can clear the film that feels like scum from your throat and croak anything out. You must not be of fully sound mind yet or maybe the painkillers are making you loopy, because the first thing you say to the room, crammed with familiar faces, is; “Steve?”
You’re assured by someone - Maria? Natasha? - that he got you out. That he’s ok.
And then that grey cloud descends once again. The pain and the haze return.
It’s not that you care that Steve doesn’t come to visit.
It turns out that your wound is just a through-and-through shot to the top of your shoulder. One centimetre in any direction and the bullet might have lodged itself firmly into your neck or paralysed your arm for good. The area is packed densely with muscles and nerves so you are wreaked with pain, but as it stands, it did no permanent damage.
So, really, there is no need for him to visit. And you definitely don’t care. You just think it’s bad leadership is all. You would have showed up for him if the roles were reversed, no matter how much of a pest he is. Would have sent a card. Even a text, at the very fucking least.
You leave the hospital after the dullest week of your life. You hadn’t, until that point, realised how tangled your life purpose is with your career. You feel rabid after just a day or two of consciousness, restricted to your bed with no files to review, no cases to crack open. Just you, a few beat-up novels you had been meaning to get around to reading, and whoever decides to drop by to see how you were doing.
Maria lets you know that you are required to take another two weeks of leave before returning to work. Standard policy. Your requests to be forwarded files related to your ongoing cases are rejected. You can’t even enter the building to go to the gym.
In the absence of anything better to do, you watch films back-to-back. Try some recipes you had earmarked. Visit the new museum that had opened in the next block over. Wait to hear from family, friends and colleagues. But not Steve. You’re definitely not waiting to hear from Steve.
You’re not usually great for following orders but you follow the doctor’s instructions closer than you have abided by anything in your entire life. By the time you return to HQ, the pain in your shoulder has flattened to a dull ache and you have formed a resolution to try to find some sort of hobby outside of work. You had no idea your real life is that grim.
Maria meets you with a distant smile at reception.
“Welcome back,” she says pleasantly, turning to walk with you through the building. Quiet conversation, the rustling of paper and the heavy clicks of agents suiting up covers the space you walk through. “We’ll do a mini induction and then I’ll let you get to it.”
Maria’s office is pristine. The door clicks shut behind you, muting all murmured voices outside. Everything looks recently straightened, recently dusted, recently organised. Sticky notes, task lists and cables are perfectly spaced out into their correct positions. The files stacked on the shelves are bound and appear to be in alphabetical order. You picture your home office space with a dim sort of shame as you sit down in front of her.
“How is your shoulder?” she asks without much interest.
“Much better, thank you. Should be able to get back out there now.”
She opens a cabinet in her desk and pulls a bloated yellow file. “That won’t be possible. We have made the decision to transfer you to another team. You’ll need a few weeks to catch up on the ongoing cases.”
“Another- what?”
Your brain is whirring, trying to catch up with what Maria just said. She doesn’t reply, just watches you buffer.
“You’re really taking me off the team on my first day back? Am I being punished for getting shot?”
“Not punished, no,” she assures you patiently. “You’re not being demoted, your day-to-day won’t even change very much but you’ll be working under Romanoff now. It was just decided that you would be a better fit somewhere else.”
“Decided by who?” you ask, even though you know the answer.
“By the leadership team,” she replies diplomatically.
Your gaze narrows on her but she is unperturbed. The sound of the seconds ticking by on the clock are suddenly deafening. You’re engaging in a sort of silent stand-off with her and you’re certainly not winning.
“Where is he?” you ask at last.
“On assignment.”
“When will he be back?”
She smiles at you tightly and you realise she can no longer tell you. You’re not on his team anymore.
A wild instinct runs through you; you feel you might be a few seconds away from stomping your feet like a child, shouting at her that it’s not fair! and he started it!
Instead, you huff out a harsh breath and snatch the file up from the desk.
The hour is late and night is spilling through the windows. Yourself and Nat are the only ones left in the room; maybe the only ones left in the building. She lounges against the opposite row of lockers, boot propped up, grinning like you hadn’t just run a mission that by all rights should’ve ended in a four-page incident report and at least one formal reprimand.
“We are a match made in heaven,” she says with a dreamy sigh.
You snort. “Tell that to the clean-up team.”
“Let them file a complaint,” Nat says, waving a dismissive hand. “Clean exit, no casualties, minimal property damage. Made decent time too.”
“Mm.”
It had gone well. Better than well. Nat works like you do - zippy, instinctive, a little unhinged when the situation calls for it. There had been no questioning glances when you made a split-second decision, no screaming matches in lieu of a debrief. Your third mission back was a big fat success. You should be overjoyed.
But as you wipe the shower-water from your skin and peel your top on, all you can summon is a hot, directionless anger. Or, maybe not entirely directionless.
Because for the most part, you can direct it towards Steve. Your shoulder has mostly recovered with only a mild stiffness left to show for it but you’re still suffering from a wounded pride. The fact that he didn't bother to check up on you and requested a transfer after you quite literally risked your life for him is bad enough. But he’s been a ghost to you in the three weeks since you returned to work.
That first week, he had been on assignment in Hungary. You had gone on a hunt for him as soon as word got around that he was back, but he was nowhere to be found. All his usual conference rooms were vacant and he had clearly started training elsewhere. You have not been able to track him down in the weeks since and you have no doubt in your mind that his sole intention is to avoid you.
Because he feels guilty for what had happened? Or maybe because he doesn’t want to have to thank you? You’re not sure. But you’re pissed.
And not just at him either. At yourself too.
Because, alongside that anger, there’s an uncomfortable hollowness tugging at you. You bring it with you everywhere you go. It weighs you down like a chain. He won’t vacate your brain no matter what you do and you can’t quite deny that maybe you might miss him. Just a little.
The anger is not the worst of it; it’s that other thing - the tiny, shameful spark fluttering under your ribs when Natasha lets you rove free instead of testing you, challenging you, making you better. It’s the way your life feels just a bit emptier without someone to tease and provoke.
And it’s humiliating, because - seriously? How original. You really had to go and join the queue of people pining after the tall, hot, golden-boy with perfect manners and stupidly earnest eyes and muscles so perfect that only scientists could have sculpted them. Brilliant. Groundbreaking. As if you don’t already hate him enough without adding that to the mix.
“I was gonna drag you for a drink but the energy you’re giving off right now is rancid,” Nat says, walking towards you with her towel in hand. She snaps it at you but you jump out of the way before she can make contact. “You’re so pissy all the time since you got transferred.”
“I’m not pissy,” you snap, obscurely aware that you’re proving her point.
“Why do you even care? You and Rogers fight like dogs. You never wanted to be part of his team in the first place.”
You’re purposely avoiding her gaze, but you know the exact look that Nat is giving you based on her tone alone and you hate it with a burning passion.
“I don’t care. It’s just not fair, but it’s whatever.”
She sighs, picking up her duffle bag and flinging it over her shoulder. “I’m gonna leave you to whatever this is,” she says, waving her hand vaguely in your direction. “Get eight hours tonight and try to come back less cranky.”
She walks out, hips swinging, and you wait another moment or two before following suit.
HQ feels different at this time of night. The overhead lights seem a shade too bright without bodies moving through them and your footsteps sound sharper against the floor. The whir of a printer on standby and the buzz of a monitor stand out more. Clean, white light is shining on empty desks.
There is a weight on you as your make your way through the carpeted corridors, passing empty offices and meeting rooms. Nat is right - you are pissy. You’re so goddamn angry and mortifyingly upset, crucifying yourself with mental images and memories you would do anything to be rid of. You had always been mildly curious about those feelings that you observed in movies, the ones all your friends used to rave about when they met someone they fell head over heels for. You have dated, have even been in a few serious relationships. But you always knew there was a big gap between what you had witnessed and what you had experienced.
You wish someone had told you how stupidly painful and embarrassing it could be. You would have tried harder to steer clear of it.
You almost think that you’re imagining the picture of Steve in the meeting room to your right, framed by the semi-frosted window in the door. For just a split-second, you think it might be another one of those humiliating daydreams. But no - he’s burning the midnight oil; his neck is craned over a file, a small lamp pouring light over his handsome features.
You’re not one to question your instincts. You hurl the door open with an aggression that has Steve’s head snapping up in shock, pen falling from his hand, mouth parting. You listen to the door tumble closed before you realise dimly that you have no idea what to say to him. You’re floundering a little, but you keep your expression steady.
He breaks the silence first.
“You’re here late.”
“Just wrapped an assignment with Nat,” you say, hand on hip. “Turns out we make a pretty solid team. It’s refreshing.”
His jaw ticks, but he gives nothing else away. He looks back to his papers, as if dismissing you. “Glad to hear it.”
That’s it? That’s really all he’s giving you?
You can feel fiery heat crawling up your neck and you try to stop the furious shake in your hands. Composure is becoming more difficult to maintain and you know that you’re about a second away from bursting but his gall is astounding. He really has nothing else to say? After everything?
“You got me kicked off the team.”
“You didn’t get kicked off anything,” he sighs, leaning back in his seat. His eyes are travelling your form warily, like he isn’t quite sure where you’re going with this. “You got transferred.”
“Yeah, transferred out of the team.”
“I thought you would be happy,” he says wryly. “You were always complaining about having to work with me. I think you even said you’d rather work with Natasha a few times.”
“I am happy!” It comes out as a bark. You’re embarrassed by your petulance even though you can’t cork it. You know that you’re acting like a child. Steve’s lips are creaking upwards, his eyes lit up in amusement.
You clear your throat. “I am happy,” you repeat, in a low, controlled voice this time around. “It just feels a bit ungrateful is all.”
The way Steve’s poise breaks, superior grin twisting itself into a snarl, is hugely satisfying. You are self-aware enough to know that you’re being hugely immature, but it just feels so good to drag him down to your level.
“You think I should be grateful that you almost got yourself killed on a mission?” he snaps, standing up from the meeting room table and walking towards you. You meet him half-way, until you are inches from each other. Your neck stiffens with how it bends up to meet his enraged eyes. Your body is humming with this familiar rhythm, as if fighting with Steve is the only thing that makes you feel alive.
“Well, I got shot saving you, so yes - I would say that’s a pretty good reason to be grateful,” you snap back, eyes narrow.
“Don’t be dense.” His voice is tight and poisonous in a way you have rarely ever heard before. “That was a really fuckin’ stupid decision and you know it. You took a bullet for the super-soldier with accelerated regenerative healing and a vibranium shield. Does that sound like a good decision to you?”
He sounds more furious than you have ever heard him in your life - and you have made him mad more times than you can count. He had cursed at you. He hasn’t done that since Moscow.
“I knew what I was doing,” you spit back with equal fury. “That shooter had all the time in the world to get into position; they would have been aiming for your head and they would have hit their mark, too because you weren’t paying enough attention to raise your shield. I knew that pulling them over in my direction meant that they would shoot me but they would have less time to aim. Just because you think I’m stupid doesn’t mean I am, you jerk.”
He is struck dumb momentarily, brows furrowing and lips pursing in thought. You are close enough to see the twitch of his mouth, to feel his disgruntled puffs of breath against your skin. Contentment slithers up your spine. Seconds tick by in silence; Steve pensive and stoic, you smug and satisfied. You have won this round and decide to go out with a bang.
“But I guess I should be thanking you because I have a new team lead now who trusts my judgement and doesn’t pick a fight every five minutes. So thank you. And go to hell.”
You turn on your heel, already halfway into your stride, and his hand shoots out so fast it must be instinct - large, calloused fingers closing around your arm before you’re even finished the pivot.
There is a second where he just glares hard. His blue eyes eat up every inch of your face.
And then your body meets his chest and his lips are instantly on yours in a heady explosion of fire - it’s a violent, fervid thing and you surprise yourself with how quickly you return his passion. You had imagined this moment in the last few weeks - in all your dirtiest daydreams, you made him sweat it out a bit, even beg. But maybe you can make him beg later - you had missed him too much to turn him away now.
Your lips move like it’s another one of your fights, faces pressed against each other in a messy battle of lips, tongues and teeth. His hands travel to your hips and pull you flush against him while you fist his crisp blue shirt, folding wrinkles into the perfectly ironed fabric.
Your feet leave the ground as he lifts you with irritating strength, pushing you onto the meeting room table and settling himself between your legs. His sheer power - the way he can lift you like you’re absolutely nothing - makes heat pool in your tummy, something stirring low. You’re pushing your lips against his fiercely, channeling all the pent up anger from the past number of weeks.
He isn’t gentle. He’s rabid as a stray dog. His fingers grasp harshly onto your hips with bruising strength. Despite the fact that you’re already pressed up against him, he tugs you tighter to his body, like close is not close enough. You can feel the large swell of his cock against your thigh, hard as a rock, and you have to stop yourself from adjusting your position and grinding down on him. You’re eager enough to do it, but he can't know that.
Your hands travel around his chest and shoulders, fingers delving into every curve of muscle there. He feels so big and broad against your touch and it turns you on so much that it almost pisses you off.
“You’re such a dick,” you gasp, the sound muffled against his lips.
“I know,” he says back between kissing, his mouth not moving from yours.
“Didn’t even visit me in the hospital.”
“I know.”
“I hate you,” you say, aiming for a sharp tone. It comes out breathy. He’s still kissing at your mouth, lips moving wildly - out of sync and jumbled.
“Shut up,” he grunts, hand going to your lower back and pushing your pelvis forward so you grind against him. An embarrassing whine rips itself from your throat as pleasure sparks through you, lighting up your body. You grind down again, addicted to the feeling, and Steve groans against your lips, hips jerking up.
It prompts something filthy; the two of you still fully clothed, bucking and grinding against each other like feral animals. There is a delicious throbbing in your core, your entire body crying out for more of him. His left hand is still on your hip, encouraging your body to continue grounding down against his hard cock through layers of cotton, but his right hand moves up to grab your jaw with a possessive force. You are giving it back to him too, hands clutching and grasping at him with a brutality.
He pulls away to lift your top over your head, eyes levelled at you with a burning intensity. His pretty blues are darker now, less earnest.
“Steve, we’re in the office,” you object, fingers reaching out to grab it back. He tosses it to the floor before you can.
“Don’t care,” he says, reattaching his lips to yours, fingers crawling to the waistband of your trousers. “Gonna fuck you right here.”
Your stomach clenches. It’s a strange role reversal. You’re not accustomed to being the one who stops and thinks about things before acting - that’s always Steve’s remit. You should be concerned that his perfectly constructed control has been tossed out the window, but it only makes you more excited. You know that there is something dangerous deep underneath each layer of restraint that Steve exercises. You have always known you’re better at digging it out than anyone else in this world. When you do, it’s a beautiful thing.
How can you do anything but give in?
Steve’s fingers play with the button of your jeans, popping it open with an effortless tug before he slides them down your legs along with your shoes. You’re left in just your underwear, splayed open before a fully-clothed Steve Rogers like you’re some sort of offering. He watches you with dark eyes, something between worship and hunger enveloping his features.
His eyes zero in on your bra-clad breasts. “Take it off,” he says, voice strained, and you reach up with urgency to unclip it, tossing it carelessly somewhere across the table.
“Suddenly so good at taking orders.” His hand reaches up to palm your breast, the other playing with the waistband of your panties. Your body arches to his touch involuntarily. “Should have done this months ago. Might have made you behave.”
He can probably tell you’re about to say something snarky, because his lips meet yours ferociously yet again and what would have been a rude retort turns into a moan when his thumb presses down on you over your panties.
Steve pulls away, eyes catching yours with surprise before dropping down to your core, covered in a thin layer of now-transparent fabric. “You’re soaked through,” he breathes, awe colouring his tone. “See how wet you are for me?”
Hot humiliation floods your face. “Fuck you.”
He gives you a slow smirk, eyes glinting. His tongue pokes out to wet his lips, leaving them glossy and shiny, and you realise he enjoys this as much as you do. His head dips down, lips just brushing over your neck, breath caressing your skin, before he’s lathering kisses there. He hooks his fingers over your underwear and yanks it down aggressively. You watch it cascade down your legs pathetically, chest heaving with the pressure of his lips under your ear and his fingers sliding down your stomach torturously slow.
His fingers just graze over your wet heat and your blood is singing in your veins. You feel overpowered by him in the most mouth-watering way; his large frame trapping you, caging you in. He presses two fingers in, harsh and sudden, and you gasp.
“You get so turned on fighting with me, don’t you sweetheart? I knew it. Knew you were getting all wet every time I raised my voice at you. You pretend you don’t like me but you love when I boss you around.”
You want to slap him, but he’s right. And you consider that if you do, he will stop. His fingers are so big and calloused inside you and it simply feels too good to ever stop. You’re breaking into a sweat while he pumps in and out of you, your slick spilling onto his perfectly tailored work slacks while your walls clench around him.
When his other hand reaches down to grind down on your clit with vigorous strokes, a burst of white-hot pleasure works its way through you, licking up your spine. You pull hard at his hair, looking for anything to anchor yourself and hear him hiss a moan against your neck. The sound makes you clench around him and his fingers pump into you with renewed roughness in response.
You’re absolutely ruined. He has turned you into a complete wreck. You can no longer deny how badly you want him nor how much you need this; you don’t even try anymore. Your hips are wiggling down, trying to take him deeper. You have lost all semblance of shame, too taken up by the pleasure that his fingers are delivering you.
“Look how desperate you are,” he says, eyes caught where he is filling you. You don’t want to look down, shame working its cruel way through you at his taunting, but he grasps your jaw, tilting your head downwards. His fingers are warm and wet with your slick.
His two fingers are enough to stretch you out - they almost look too big for your hole. You shudder at the sight of them sliding in and out, knowing his cock will stretch you out all the more. Steve’s staring at your pussy like a man who is starving.
His fingers pull out from your heat quite suddenly. You’re hazy and confused until he lowers to his knees on the ground in front of where you are perched on the table. Your eyes connect in a moment of explosive intensity. His pupils are blown wide and when yours begin to flutter shut, he pinches your thigh gently in warning. You are forced to stare while he lowers his face between your thighs, eyes gleaming.
“Gotta taste you,” he says, almost to himself, and then that stupid fucking mouth that pisses you off so much every single day meets your cunt.
The sound that comes out of your mouth is unintentional and would be entirely mortifying if you were thinking straight. Your head falls back, eyes shutting. He pinches your thigh again, harder this time.
“Eyes on me, sweetheart.”
You eyes spring back open, twitching as you fight the instinct to squeeze them shut. He holds your gaze captive while licking a messy stripe up your folds. You can feel sweat collecting at the top of your forehead at the sensation. He is ravenous and unrelenting, sucking on your clit before soothing it with soft kisses. Exploring your folds with his lips. Dipping his tongue inside and gently nipping, testing your limits.
He’s eating you out in a way you never have been before; it’s not some repetitive flick of the tongue against the clit, picked up from porn and designed to make you cum as fast as possible so he can get the hell up and get his own rocks off. Steve is learning you, watching your expression closely to see what makes your breath catch. You feel him grin against your pussy as a moan slips out reluctantly when he drags his teeth over the hood of your clit, offsetting the pleasure with the tiniest bit of pain. He groans when you lose control and your eyes roll back in your skull.
He pulls back just a few inches and you watch him spit a thick glob of saliva straight onto your cunt. He’s still holding intense eyee-contact with you when he runs his fingers through your slit, mixing your wetness with his own. It’s sliding down through your ass and onto the table, reminding you exactly where you are. The fact that you are doing this in a meeting room in your place of work makes it seem even dirtier.
He shoves two fingers back into you without warning and your hips buck. He continues to mouth at your clit in the most beautiful patterns and you truly feel like he is doing this purely for himself, like he’s enjoying it as much as you are.
He sucks hard, sliding your clit into his mouth and you’re not in control of the words or sounds that spill out of you. You’re telling him how amazing you feel and how fucking good he’s eating you, but you realise you might have fucked up because you can just feel his arrogance. It’s pissing you off. You need to remedy it quick.
“Maybe I should keep you down here like this all the time, Steve. What do you think? Can’t bitch at me when your mouth is busy. And you’re just so good at it too.”
You can feel the smug smile melt into something more sinister. His eyes grow darker, but he never moves them from yours. He continues to lap at you, but his mouth is more aggressive now - a stormy sort of warning. You ignore it.
“Bet you’d let me put you on your knees after every mission if I wanted.” Your voice is coming out a bit too breathy for the sort of control you’re aiming for, but you continue regardless. “Keep you there for hours if I need to.”
Steve is standing up faster than you can register, a rough scowl painting his face. “Fucking brat,” he grunts, voice low. Your pride does not allow you to complain about how close you were to coming on his tongue.
He’s unbuttoning his shirt with rapidity and you get the message, part terrified and part exhilarated by what’s to come. You go to work on his belt in the meantime, clumsy fingers frantically unbuckling so you can yank his trousers down his legs.
Steve shrugs out of the sleeves of his shirt, you almost groan. It is just so utterly unfair. It’s not like you’ve never seen him in this state before - missions sometimes require you both change clothes in less-than-ideal settings. But seeing him in this context, a thin sheen of sweat coating his pecks, an enormous bulge in his underwear that you know you have inspired; it’s unearthly. It’s only for you. You want him in wicked, sinful ways. And you’re determined to have him.
You try to hide the shake in your hands as you reach towards his underwear. Time slows down as you pull down it down to reveal his cock - what had been a frenzied blur of limbs and clothes patters off into cautious movements, heavy breaths.
You actually groan when you see it; standing tall and fucking huge, slightly curved, subtle veins running lines up to the tip. A pearl of liquid has collected at the tip, smudged on the swollen head. It’s so pretty, you can feel your eyes becoming a bit hazy. The light in the room seems to ripple and bend around it.
Your fingers reach out tentatively, dragging down his length. He hisses, hips jerking up to your touch when you wrap your fingers around him. You can barely wrap your hand around it and you’re startled by how small your hand looks in comparison.
“You think you can take it?” Steve asks you.
“I can,” you confirm with certainty.
“Let’s see about that, sweetheart. I think I might break you,” he returns and you wonder vaguely whether Steve is just baiting you, taking advantage of all your stubbornness to make sure you push yourself past your limit.
His body brackets yours again, leaning over your body to give you a filthy kiss. His mouth is absolutely dripping with the evidence of your arousal and his own spit. You can taste yourself on his tongue, mixed with something that is pleasant and categorically Steve Rogers. His lips move hot and dirty against yours, tongue pressing in on yours while his cock nudges your entrance. You gasp against his lips.
“Yeah?” he murmurs against your lips. “You ready for me?”
You nod furiously and he reaches down to fist his cock. You feel his thick length begin to nudge at your entrance, the head slipping in slowly. Your cunt pulses with anticipation as you feel the sweet ache of him breaching you. You let out a low whine, caught somewhere between pain and pleasure, as he pushes in further, the thickness of him stretching your walls.
It’s a tight fit. He gets just less than half-way, before your pride breaks and your hips jump away from his at the burn. His jaw twitches, blue eyes fluttering closed for just a second.
Steve reaches down to stroke at your clit and the rush of pleasure makes you loosen up just enough for him to notch in a few inches further. “C’mon, sweetheart. Thought you said you could take me.”
“I can,” you say, the words pattering off into a whine. “Just big, is all.”
“Sure is,” he says, pushing in further and smiling wickedly at you. “And I’m gonna make you take it all, baby. Gonna make you feel it here.” His fingers press down hard on your tummy.
His cock is stressing its size inside you, hitting places previously untouched. You can’t quit believe that he still has more to give you but he does. You’ve never felt anything like this before, never had anything this big inside you and it hurts in the most delicious way.
“Fuck,” Steve spits, breathless. “Yeah, okay, I think you can take me all the way. Just a little bit more, sweetheart. Let me in.”
If he hadn’t eaten you out until you were an inch from nirvana, you’re not sure this would be possible. But as it stands, he bottoms out and you feel like you’re floating. Your hips are twitching, unsure whether to escape or grind down harder.
“Squeezing me so tight, baby. Think you were made for my cock,” he hisses, his face tightening with a primal need. “You okay?”
You’re not sure that your vocal cords are still working so you just nod and listen to his deep breaths. Your back arches when he presses sloppy kisses to your neck while you adjust to him. It feels as if he is moulding you around him.
Your fingertips drag down his back and he shivers, jerking his hips forward involuntarily. “Sorry- ah, fuck-” he groans, face clenched tight.
He withdraws a couple of inches, cock dragging through your walls, before slamming himself back in. He looks down at you like a kicked puppy when he hears your strangled gasp. “Feels too good. Gotta- agh. Can’t help it, sweetheart. I’m sorry.”
You like this side of him, you think idly. You had seen Steve in many different moods, but never like this. Apologetic and pleading. He is a boulder above you; 6 foot something of pure brawn, but begging you so nicely to take his cock. “I know it’s big but you’re such a pretty little thing for me. Have to move.”
You still can’t talk so you nod at him in encouragement and watch relief pour over his face. He kisses you again with intention, bucking his hips into yours with beautiful friction. You are stuffed so full, it feels like he’s everywhere at once. This whole thing is becoming far sweeter than you were expecting.
Steve finds a leisurely, pulsing rhythm as he rocks himself into you, lathering kisses over your lips in a way that is entirely too romantic for the setting. He rubs tantalising circles on your clit, helping your walls to relax into him - helping you let him in until you find your voice, babbling about how much you want him and how good he’s making you feel.
You’re becoming aware that he owns you now; that maybe he always had. He thrusts into you with a beautiful sort of reverence and you know that you are ruined. Sleeping with anyone else would feel like a brutal punishment after you felt him like this.
A noise from outside - the faint tread of boots on the ground - makes you both stop cold. Steve freezes completely, his dick coming to a stand-still inside of you. They are faint but getting closer by the second. Your eyes meet Steve’s wide ones. He starts looking around the room. at your intertwined bodies. You can see him assessing the situation, working out solutions, but a smug part of you notes that he still doesn’t pull out of you. He dick doesn’t soften; you actually feel it twitch inside you.
Your pussy jumps at the realisation that he’s excited by it. Maybe he doesn't even know it yet, but he is. You know it by the way his hips give involuntary, shallow thrusts. By the way his pupils grow impossibly darker.
So you do what any sane woman would do with Captain America’s cock buried deep inside her. You grind down.
Steve eyes snap back to yours with astonishment. He looks wild; entirely out of control and somewhat furious. He brings a hand to your hair, tugs it with a warning that you don’t pay any heed to.
You grind down again, this time removing your right hand from his broad shoulders and bringing it slowly down to your clit. You rub and squeeze there, using his cock to get yourself off. The way his eyes are burning as he watches you only makes it so much hotter. You feel yourself approaching your peak.
The steps get louder until you see a flash of cherry red pass the window and you know it’s Natasha. She’s on her way back to the locker room, perhaps to check if you’re still there. You don’t stop moving on his cock even as she passes by you and the locker room door swings open and shut.
“Are you insane?” Steve spits in a low whisper. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
You just smile back at him because you can see his eyes growing hazy. You not sure he even realises that he himself has begun to thrust into you again. A flush is working its way up his neck and you wonder whether it’s anger or arousal. Maybe both.
You’re halfway through a moan when the door to the locker room swings back open and Natasha begins walking out again with a huff. Steve’s hand goes up to cover your mouth, so large it almost envelopes your entire face. He’s giving you look like he’s disapproving of this development but he doesn’t stop fucking you.
Natasha’s footsteps stop for a split-second. You feel a disinterested sort of confusion, too wrapped up in the way Steve’s cock feels as it drags through your walls.
Something spasms between your legs and you realise you’re about to cum. Your blood freezes. You feel Steve tense, breath snagging in his throat. You’re sweating now - praying that all those gasps you can’t mute are not audible from outside.
You hear Nat let out a long, irritated sigh from outside, but you’re too far gone to even care about the consequences anymore. You squeeze around Steve’s length once and then your eyes are rolling back into your head while she resumes moving down the hall. As she approaches the glass window of the door, you try to crouch, as if that would prevent her from seeing your and Steve’s very naked bodies as he fucks you through your orgasm. You can see the faint shadow of her figure sliding across the frosted glass. For one horrifying second, you’re sure Nat will glance in.
But she doesn’t. She keeps walking, footsteps fading with distance until the hallway is left silent again and your pussy is squeezing with aftershocks.
“You’re seriously fucked up, you know that?” Steve asks, but there’s more awe in his tone than malice. “You really get off knowing someone could walk in here and see me fucking you?”
You don’t even know how to answer him. He’s given you no time to recover from your orgasm, fucking into you again with a renewed vitality. You’re overly sensitive, the pressure of his massive cock inside you bullying your sensitive hole. It shouldn’t feel good, it should be too much too soon - but it’s not because it’s Steve. And you don’t think you could dislike anything that he chooses to do to you.
“You wanna be fucked like a whore? Fine,” he says, pulling his cock out of you with lightning speed and flipping you around on the table so your ass is arched up for him. He takes a second to look at you, squeezing at the skin of your ass, dragging his thumb all the way up from your clit, past your wet heat and through your ass. He’s mumbling something unintelligible. You clench and shudder, a moan breaking out through your lips.
When he fists his cock and presses into you again, all that slow romanticism from earlier is gone. He is fucking you hard and fast, his thick cock pressing into a heavenly spongey spot that you didn’t even know existed. “Fuck Steve!” you cry out, ass working its way back on him of its own volition.
“Such a fucking brat. Couldn’t even wait patiently for me to fuck you for one minute. Too desperate for my cock.”
You want to argue that he was also fucking you, but your brain is not working fast enough to come up with the words. All you can focus on are his dirty words, the obscene squelching noises of him filling you, and how it feels to be taken by him.
“Maybe I should punish you for that. Always so disobedient. Maybe I’ll leave you high and dry here, fill you up and not let you cum.”
“Try it,” you growl, brain suddenly fully operational. “I’ll make you regret it.”
You hear him huff a laugh from behind you. “You’re adorable. Fucked out on my cock and still think you’re in charge. I’ll make you cum sweetheart, but only because I want to see you fall apart. Next time you won’t get this lucky.”
His cock hits a spot inside you that almost makes you see god. His hands are so tight on your hips as he fucks himself into your body that you’re sure you’ll have bruises tomorrow. You hope you do.
“That’s it, isn’t it baby? That’s your spot. Fuck. Maybe I should reward you, now that I think of it. All my sweet girl wanted was to get caught getting fucked by me. You just wanted to show everyone that you’re mine. Want everyone to see me fucking that attitude right outta you.”
Being called his coils your stomach in a way you’d rather not examine. Instead, you twist your head back and scowl.
“Fuck you,” you spit, voice strangled.
He chuckles again, but it’s strained. He’s pounding you with a force that you feel all the way up to your belly, all the way up to your teeth. You know you’re not far from coming again and neither is he.
“Is my pretty girl gonna cum on my cock again?” he asks, patting and squeezing your ass encouragingly. You nod, eyes squeezed shut, not even sure that he can see it from his angle. A desperate whine escapes.
“Good fucking girl. ‘Cause I’m about to come inside you. Want you walking out of here with me dripping out of you. Gonna fill you up so good, keep you topped up for every mission. Make you mine.”
That sends you tumbling over the edge, white-hot pleasure soaring through you. Your cunt clenches down hard on him and you feel him burst, spilling sticky ropes of cum into you. He groans loud, telling you how good you are for him while holding your hips with a bruising power, fucking into you violently. He shudders behind you, and eventually his aggressive thrusts patter out and slow into shallow jerks.
Dark spots are exploding behind your eyes for a while as you come down, chest heaving as Steve drives his cum back into you slowly. You feel your mixed spend dripping down your thighs, spilling onto the wooden floors below. Steve hisses as he steadily pulls himself from your tight heat. He stops momentarily while he, presumably, watches his cum drip out of your hole.
And then he reaches down to grab his underwear. He wipes it across your privates and thighs as a makeshift towel. It is decidedly not romantic, but the fact that he’s willing to go home in soggy underwear just to clean you up makes your chest tighten with affection regardless.
Steve begins to dress but it takes you another minute to gather the strength in your limbs to haul yourself up. Your hands are shaking as you yank up your panties and try to buckle your bra. Steve is fully dressed now, watching you intensely, thighs spread out on an office chair.
You’re feeling slightly awkward in a way you never do around Steve. You’ve never been short of quips or insults to throw at him, but the air has changed now and you’re not sure where you stand or how to navigate this.
You have just tugged on your jeans when Steve leans forward to grab your hips, pulling you onto his lap. You hadn’t realised that you were waiting for him to do it until he does. You go with no objection, curling into his chest. It feels strangely natural for how combative you’ve always been with him. He nuzzles his face into your neck with a shy affection.
“I’m sorry for requesting the transfer. I regretted it immediately after if I’m honest.”
“Why did you? It was kinda fucked up, Steve. And you didn’t even come to visit me when I got shot. It hurt my feelings because I would have been there for you.” You can’t even look at him when you say it. You are vastly uncomfortable being this vulnerable with him, but you suppose if there’s ever a time for venturing into uncharted territory, it’s now. Steve was right about what he said regarding your past relationships - you just never cared enough before. But you do now.
“I stayed there until you were stable,” he says. “I was just so angry that I couldn’t even look at you. The idea that you risked your life for me killed me. I hate the way you risk so much on missions. It makes me feel like I can’t protect you.”
“But sometimes you can’t, Steve. I know I should be less reckless. Being away from you for the last few weeks made me realise that. But I have to be able to make my own decisions too.”
“I know. I know it’s just part of what happens on missions but I can’t deal with you getting hurt for me. Not with you. Because I…”
He swallows hard, eye downturned. He fidgets against your thigh and it makes your heart ache. You’re feeling embarrassingly gushy, watching him be this fragile and open. You’re taken off guard by it.
“Because you want me?”
He gives you a tight, sad sort of smile.
“I want you so bad, I’m not even sure ‘want’ is the right word for it anymore.”
You’re fighting a goofy grin but it’s beaming out of you like sunshine. You kiss him nice and slow, feel his lips move ardently and reverently against your own. Your heart flutters where it presses against his chest, as if trying to fly its way closer to him.
You pour every ounce of your adoration into the kiss and feel Steve's grin against your lips as a response.
You pull away only when your phone buzzes with a text.
NAT: so i see you’re out of the doghouse
NAT: and now i need to find a new partner. goddamn.
a/n: initially this had bucky instead of nat but i kept accidentally creating sexual tension between him and reader lmao i can't help myself with that man
✦summary: You know Steve doesn't see you like that. You know because you asked him, and he said no. So it's not really fair, that he'd reject you and keep making you love him after, is it. ✦
✦warnings/tags: steve rogers x female!reader, modern!au, no use of y/n, pining, rejection (at the start, off page, and steve's a liar about it), no description of reader (pictures for aesthetic only), fluff, angst, love confessions, some plot to get to all that porn, feral level smut, (dry humping, teasing, making steve lose control, fingering, light spanking, praise kink, manhandling, big dick steve, squriting, p in v sex, creampie, breeding kink, soft!dom steve), soft!steveoutside of smut✦
✦wc: 10.9k✦
✦Author's Note: this one hit ME too hard bc i based it on real life too much. oops. all the better for the horny ig. Enjoy!✦
You’re not looking for him in the crowd. And if anyone says you are, they’re a big, fat liar.
Active scanning is not looking. It’s a part of the job, to see who’s here. What kind of interviews you’re going to be able to get, who’s already closing in on who, who’s snuggled up and gossiping and might not notice you eavesdropping. If you’re smart about this—and you always are—you’re going to walk away from tonight with a comment from Secretary Ross, Pepper Potts, or even an Avenger themselves.
But not him.
You have no interest in walking away with a comment from him.
“They’re here.” Your coworker Stacy bumps your shoulders, her eyes wide and fixed across the room. “Holy shit, they’re actually here-“
“It’s their fundraiser.” You mutter, keeping your attention on a senator bumbling about near the drinks. “It would be crazy if they weren’t here.”
“Yeah, but- It’s all of them. I’ve never seen all of them-“
“Yes, you have.”
Stacy glares at you. “Well, not so close.”
You glance over, pointedly only looking at their feet. “They’re not that close.”
“I could touch one.” Stacy breathes, and you snort.
“You should go try that.”
That earns you another glare, and a smack on the arm. And you deserve it, but you just laugh and look back to your target. The tipsy, red-eyed senator who’s going to have a few more drinks, and tells you all about that bill congress is trying to pass about the Enhanced. You’ve read it three times, and it’s a disgusting invasion of privacy, but those documents were off the record. If you can get a Senator, talking about how he wants to force all superheroes to either be sterilized or record their sex lives-
Stacy pinches your arm, and you squeak so loudly it echoes off the domed, ballroom ceiling. Some attention darts in your direction, but everyone quickly loses interest when they realize it’s nothing all that interesting. Your face is burning as you smooth your dress, and it doesn’t stop burning. It feels like someone is tending to the hot embarrassment, fluttering in your tummy and restless in your fingers. Like someone is looking right through you, monitoring you, watching you-
“He’s looking at you.” Stacy hisses in your ear, buzzing with so much excitement you’re sure she’s about to turn into glitter and explode like fireworks, and you’re going to throttle her.
“He is now, because you,” you shove her shoulder. It doesn’t do anything to stamp out her thrill at your worst nightmare. “Fucking made him notice-“
“No, he was looking before-“
“No, he wasn’t-“
“Yes, he was-“
“No, he wasn’t-“
“Who wasn’t what.”
You freeze, and Stacy looks over your head with a fawning, dazed expression. You’re going to kill her. You’re going to cut her up into tiny pieces and burn them all in separate furnaces, and then you’re going to steal her dog and make it forget all about her, and marry her husband and make her cute little kid your Cinderella as bloodline punishment-
“Hi, Mr. Captain Sir.” She giggles, looking back down to you with a wide-eyed it’s him expression.
I’m going to kill you. You mouth. She doesn’t seem all that bothered by the threat.
“Uh- Hi. You don’t have to-“ You hear him shift on his feet behind you. “Steve is alright.”
You can picture him rubbing the back of his neck, trying to look smaller. More humble and approachable, when he’s a modern walking Hercules. A better version, who doesn’t kill his wife and kids. Who gets you drinks and tries to be your friend and is so stupidly polite and kind and you hate him, you hate him so much-
He says your name. You plaster on the widest, most plastic and sickly sweet smile you can manage. You want him to feel like you’re a bit of plastic that’s stuck between his teeth. To give up talking to you, because it’s not fair.
Steve’s just as handsome as the last time you saw him. And the time before that. And the time before that. If anything, he’s more handsome. You don’t know how he does it, changing absolutely nothing about his appearance and looking hotter every time you get eyes on him. His hair is styled the same as always, but it looks so soft. You could run your fingers through it and it would probably feel like a cloud. His stupid, sharp jawline is slack as you glare up at him, and he’s so tall it makes you dizzy, and he’s fixing you with that puppy look that makes you feel like you’re important to him.
And you’re not. You know you’re not.
You went down that road once. You tried to be important to him, and he said no. And he’s Steve, so he was sweet and perfectly kind about it, and still wanted to be your friend, and you’d thought you were already over it so you’d said yes.
You thought you could just be his friend. He hadn’t made anything weird. Neither of you had ever even brought up your failed attempt to ask him out again. And at the time, you’d thought you were over it.
But Steve is Steve. And he’s got some titanic hold over your heart that’s left finger marks dug in through the landscape. There’s a depression over the cavity of your chest, and your ribs have molded to fit it, and now it’s far too late to go back. You only know how to have feelings for him. You’ve tried to get over it. To ignore it. To forcibly re-mold your love into something platonic, or clawed your way through some relationships in the hope they’d help you move on.
They don’t. They won’t. Nothing can.
The big stupid boy-scout standing over you owns you completely, and you can’t even tell him without making it a problem.
Your new strategy had been to ignore him. Stacy ruined that.
She thinks he secretly has feelings for you. You tune her out every time she starts to crow and preach about it, because you know your heart is going to take it as gospel and not parody, and you can’t afford false faith. All you have is what’s grounded between your fingers.
Steve’s right here. He’s smiling at you, all pretty and nice, and you have to smile back or else it will make him feel bad. He’s got a drink in his massive hand for you. You’ve had a million wet dreams about that hand around your throat or cupping your pussy.
You’re aching thinking about it. In an ideal world, this would be the part where you ran without looking back.
In an ideal world, you’d be standing on his arm right now, instead of all stiff and weird in front of him.
You need to get a fucking grip.
“Hi.” You say, and it’s sounds lame and idiotic and pathetic-
Steve’s face splits into a big, happy smile. “Hi. How’s the night going for you, do you have your victim picked out?”
You scowl. “It’s not- They’re not victims-“
“You treat them like they’re victims.” His grin widens. “Sometimes I feel like I should be saving them.”
“They’re all fine. It’s not like I’m drugging them or something.”
Steve’s brows raise. “That makes me think you are drugging them.”
“Nuh uh.” You stick out your tongue, and he laughs under his breath.
“One day you’re gonna say something that actually gets you in trouble, you know.” He holds out the drink he brought you.
It’s your favorite. It’s always your favorite.
You told him what your favorite drink was, the very first time you attended one of these parties. He’s never forgotten since, and it makes you love and hate him all the more.
“I don’t think I will.” You mumble, both trying and desperately failing not to brush his fingers. His skin is warm. He’s warm. He’s like a walking furnace, and you’d like to just bury your face in his pecs and breathe him in and-
“Kid, you already have.”
Steve looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room. His eyes are sparkling, and in the background you think Natasha Romanoff is circling like a shark, trying to get his attention, but if he notices he pretends he doesn’t. He just looks at you and calls you kid, and the word plummets like a cold stone into your gut.
Kid. That’s all you are to him. Kid.
“But if I got in trouble, you’d save me.” You take a long sip of your drink, and you like to torture yourself.
With his presence. His closeness.
How fast he nods. How certainly he answers.
“’Course I would. Already saving you by pretending I don’t see you getting all those Senators drunk.”
You laugh softly, but the sound hurts. When you look over your shoulder, Stacy’s abandoned you for the food table. You catch her eye, and she shoots you an excited thumbs up. She probably thinks this is going great.
“Are you feeling alright?” Steve says suddenly, and he sounds like he really, really cares. “You been looking kind of sick- Not that you look bad- You look good, uh- Really good, but-“
“I’m fine.” You turn back to Steve, and you wonder if he can see it.
The pain, leaking down like a toxin from your eyes. Everything kind of blurry. You’d throw up, if you didn’t think he’d take care of you after.
“Everything’s fine.”
Steve’s lips twitch. You’re not sure he believes you.
But it doesn’t really matter anyway. You’re not his to get an answer out of. He decided that.
And you’re just doing exactly what Steve wants, all the time.
“You do look nice.” He mumbles, taking a sip of his own drink, as if it could even do anything to him.
You smile, and there it is again. The shameful, unrelenting heat in your stomach. “Thanks.”
I dressed up for you.
“I think he’s in looove with you.” Stacy says, spinning around in her chair. You flip her off, not looking up from your computer.
“Is the printer out of paper still?”
“I don’t know, you print everything for me.” She pokes your chair with her foot. “Pay attention to me, I said Steve’s in love with you-“
“No, he’s not.”
“Yes, he is.”
“No, he’s not-“
“Yes, he is-“
“Is this the same thing you were fighting about last time?” Steve’s voice comes from over your shoulder, and you freeze. “Or is that just… How you two talk.”
Stacy looks awfully fucking pleased with herself for a dead woman. “It’s the same fight as last time.”
“Oh.” He pauses. You can hear his concern, and it makes you want to vomit. “Is everything okay?”
“Mhm.” Stacy beams. “Hi, Steve.”
You glance up, and Steve looks properly bemused and adorable about her whole demeanor. It makes you want to hold his face and kiss the tiny, pouting frown off his lips. You smack yourself internally. Get it together.
“Hi, Stacy.”
She almost glows. “You remember my name?”
“Yeah.” He glances down at you. “I try to remember most people’s names.”
Stacy swoons. “Of course you do.”
Steve blinks, and you clear your throat.
“What are you doing here?”
“Uh-“ He rubs the back of his neck, giving you a small smile. “Lunch, remember? We planned it last week.”
Oh. You did do that. “I told you to wait outside, my boss is going to try to interview you-“
“Oh, she already did.” He laughs. “But I’m here for you, not a front page.”
You flush, and Stacy giggles like she’s watching TV.
“So…” Steve shrugs. “Lunch?”
Right. Lunch.
“How’d you even get in the building.” You grumble, grabbing your jacket as you stand. He shrugs sheepishly.
“I took a photo with the guards.”
“Steve, I told you to stop doing that-“
“It made them really happy, okay? And I went through all the metal detectors, same as everyone else-“
“I know, but you hate taking the photos, you can tell them no.”
Steve frowns. “It’s not that big an inconvenience for me-“
“But you hate it.”
“I don’t hate it-“
“Steven Rogers.”
You glare at him, arms crossed over your chest. Steve sighs, slumping like a scolded child.
“I don’t love them.” He mumbles, and you nod.
“Next time, tell them no.”
“But then I can’t come upstairs.”
You shrug, starting at the door, your shoulder bumping against his. “You can text me. Like you’re supposed to-“
“Or I can just do the photos-“
“No-“
“Bye, guys.” Stacy calls from behind you, and you look her with wide eyes. You’d forgotten she was there.
“Um… Bye.” You wave awkwardly, and she grins.
He’s here for you. She mouths, and you roll your eyes.
No hope. It just makes everything else harder.
If Steve wanted you, he’d say something. And you’re a big girl. You can handle just being his friend, because he won’t leave you alone long enough for you to properly avoid him. You can handle it.
His hand finds your lower back, when he opens the door for you. You almost trip over your feet from the dizzying touch.
You can’t handle this at all.
The most annoying part about having undying feelings for Steve Rogers is that it’s Steve Rogers. Captain America. Golden Boy Number One. Mr. Perfect Specimen.
You’re in love with the little blond boy with abs and a dopey smile and sweet blue eyes. You’re obsessed with Mr. Muscles. You lose sleep over the guy who looks like he could crush you in a headlock then kiss you to sleep after.
Incredibly original. Groundbreaking, even. The love of your life is the masculine celebrity who’s respectful and kind. Never before heard of stuff. You’re really shattering glass ceilings with that one.
You want to shoot yourself in the face.
It’s impossible to avoid even thinking about him, when he’s everywhere. You go out to the corner store, and he’s on the little TV mounted in the corner. Avengers brand yogurts line the grocery store, and you glare at Strawberries and Cream and Justice until your head hurts. He told you about that. He was pretty proud of how all the proceeds were going to charities.
“It’s a stupid name, though.” You’d said, and he’d shrugged.
“Tony says the name doesn’t matter, as long as it’s got our faces on it. Apparently that’s what people are buying for.”
He’d frowned at that, and you’d given him an affectionate smile. He hates the glory of all of this. You know he does, and you’d told him gently you’re sure people will also buy for charity.
You’d been lying through your teeth, though. When you grab the yogurt and shamefully shove it into your basket, it’s not for cancer research or orphans or to save the bees. It’s because Steve’s face is smiling at you from the plastic, and you’re no better than the fangirls who get all doe-eyed over his every breath.
Not that you’re much better about that, either.
“I could give you an interview.” Steve offers on day, when you’d been complaining to him about slow news. “It can be about whatever you want-“
“I don’t want your pity journalism, Steven.”
He frowns. “It’s not pity. I’m trying to help you.”
You shrug, wrapping your arms around your stomach. “Well, I can’t accept your help.”
“Why not-“
“It’s unethical.”
“I… don’t think that’s true-“
“Well, I didn’t earn it.”
“You don’t have to earn it.” He says, all earnest and sweet and kind, and you want to die. “You work hard, I know you work hard, and if this can help you- Here, we can do it right now-“
“I don’t have questions ready.” You cut in quickly. Flatly.
Steve just shrugs. “Make some up. I know you can.”
You wish he’d stop believing in you. It makes your heart flutter.
“I have nothing I want to ask you.” You mumble hopelessly, and he frowns.
“I don’t believe that.”
“Why not?”
“Because you always have something to ask me. To ask anyone.”
You flush, turning to the side to avoid his gaze. “Maybe I just know everything about you,” you mutter, and he snorts.
“No. You don’t.”
That gets your attention. You snap your head in his direction, and he smiles at you. Like he already knows he won.
“There she is-“
“Shut up.” You lean across the table, and his smile widens. “What don’t I know about you.”
“A lot.”
“Like what-“
“You have to ask me to find out.”
You narrow your eyes. He keeps fucking smiling.
“You suck.” You grumble.
He shrugs. “I know you think that.”
You’re both leaning across the table. If you reached up, just an inch, you’d be able to trace the line of his nose. He’s so handsome. It’s unfair, and you can feel a smile tugging at your lips in response to his.
“I’m going to punch you in the face-“
“I’d like to see you try, kid.”
Kid.
You lean back, ice water feeling like it was poured through your veins. Steve notices the shift. He frowns, but you don’t give him the chance to question it. You just push on.
“I need a napkin.” You mutter., leaning back into your seat. “To write questions.”
“Yeah. Right.” He rubs the back of his neck. Opens his mouth, then closes it again, shaking his head slightly. “I’ll go get that for you.”
Of course he will.
And when he’s talking to the waitress—paper and a pen in his hand—she twirls her hair and giggles. Same as you would, if you got to know him where he didn’t know you. Where he might just find you pretty, and give you a chance, because you were friends first and you think that’s where you all went wrong.
This all might’ve been easier, if he really was just a celebrity crush. If you loved him because he was Captain America and not Steve. Your Steve. Who brings you back two pens in case you don’t like the first, and shares his food with you while you gloss through the interview—feeling little detached from your own body, like he’s a million miles away—and touches your lower back again when you finally leave lunch.
You might’ve gotten to touch him more, if he didn’t mean something to you.
But you wouldn’t trade knowing him for the world.
And that just makes it all hurt even more.
Steve’s been trying to get you out with his team for years. You’ve said no, over and over and over. You don’t need to feel even more mortal than you already are. Don’t need the reminder that he probably rejected you because you’re not even a quarter of what he and his friends are.
Not that you think Steve would think you’re any less because you’re not enhanced. You know he wouldn’t.
Consciously.
But that doesn’t change the reality of it. He wouldn’t want you, when he’s surrounded by other Gods, like he himself, far more worthy of his attention. You can be mean and sharp, but you don’t have the cool, collected, deadly beauty of Black Window. And you’ve heard the rumors about them.
You’ve heard all the rumors. About Steve with everyone, because people like to talk. There isn’t a pair of people on the Avengers that the public hasn’t theorized about secretly dating.
And you know none of it’s true. Steve’s told you himself.
But that doesn’t make it hurt any less, when you think about him with someone else more worthy. Someone he wants.
Which is why you didn’t want to do this. And Steve had always respected that—because he’s perfect, and he respects everything—so you’d thought you’d never have to. He asks. You say no. He doesn’t push it, or demand to know why. He waits months before asking again, and you know he only does that because he thinks you’re just too busy to go out the other times. That you’re saying no because you simply don’t have the energy, and not because the idea makes you feel itchy. And you don’t want to tell him. You like that he asks you. It makes you feel important.
But you still kept saying no.
Until Stacy overheard him ask you, and said yes for you. And Steve beamed, and you couldn’t stand to burst the delicate little bubble of his joy, and now you’re here.
Huddled in the corner of a bar with the fucking Avengers all around you. Hawkeye and Thor are throwing darts in the corner. Hulk, Black Widow, and Falcon are playing pool. The Vision is eating onion rings, and everything feels like a very, very bizarre dream.
Steve hasn’t left your side since you got here. It’s been the only anchor you have. You’d been able to hide in his shadow and duck under his arm, avoiding pressing questions and conversations you don’t really want to have. It’s not too weird for him to bring a civilian friend, at least. None of them have commented on it, besides throwing you passing looks. Steve mentioned that they all do it, from time to time.
But you’re the only one here right now. And if you could, you’d sew your hand into Steve’s so he couldn’t leave you alone.
And that’s always a little true. You want that all the time.
More than usual right now. But all the time.
“I’m going to get drinks.” He mutters, and you grab his bicep like a scared child.
“Wait- I’ll come with you-“
“Don’t worry, I’ve got it.” He grins down at you, patting your head like you’re a dog or something. “You don’t have to stand up.”
You want to shout at him that this isn’t about him being a gentleman, it’s about him not leaving your sight. But you’re weak. And pathetic. So you just nod, and Steve smiles at you before walking away.
You try to hide in the shadows, avoiding any attention. It doesn’t work.
“You’re the journalist.” A cool, lazy voice cuts through the air, and you look up to find Tony Stark standing over your table.
“I’m a journalist-“
“No. You’re Roger’s journalist.” Stark drawls, sliding into the booth. You stiffen, but don’t dare to move away.
That’ll make it seem even more obvious, when Steve comes back and you don’t inch away from him.
“I understand what he’s been going on about.” Stark continues, looking you up and down slowly. “Didn’t know they made them like you anymore.”
Your eyes narrow. “Like me?”
“Mhm.” Stark smirks, and you raise your chin.
“What am I like, Mr. Stark?”
He chuckles, leaning back. “Little spitfire, aren’t you-“
“Only to people who deserve it.”
That makes him laugh louder. Everything feels more and more like a fever dream by the second.
You look out to the bar, trying to find Steve. Internally begging him to come back. He’s by the bar, your drink already in his hand. It’s the same one you always get. He’s holding it close to his chest, like it’s something priceless.
There’s a woman standing next to him. Just another random girl, in a tiny dress with some pretty good makeup, giggling and batting her lashes at him.
And Steve’s entertaining her. smiling at her.
The same way he smiles at you.
You don’t want to be here. You didn’t want to be here. You don’t want to see how it’s not even the Avengers that he’d want more than you, it’s everyone else. She’s getting the same attention you try to drown yourself in, but you’re not the one who might go home with him. His grin is a little tighter with her, because he’s probably restrained and trying to play his cards right. She looks like she’s talking sweet, and he’d probably want that more than you, poking and mocking him all the time. He’s a God. He’ll say he’s not but he is, and what kind of god would want to be worshipped by someone who shows love with insults and eye rolls.
There’s a tight feeling, around your throat like rope. Your eyes are burning, and the world is blurring, and you don’t want to see this. You can’t see this.
You tried to be his friend. You really tried.
But you can’t.
“What’s wrong with you?” Stark asks, and you look over to find him watching with a strange expression.
“Nothing.” You clear your throat, fumbling for your bag. “I just- Remembered something. That I have to go do.”
You glance over to Steve again. He’s laughing at something she’s saying without shaking his head and tipping his head back, without looking away from her. Like he does with you.
“Right now.” You mumble. “I have to go do it right now.”
Stark hums, tapping his fingers on the table. “Right now, huh.”
“Yep.” You stand up, and he gives you an almost amused look.
“What is it? If it’s so urgent.”
“Stuff.” You snip.
Stark chuckles, shaking his head. “Jesus, he’s batting in a whole other sport with you.”
“What the fuck does that mean-“
“Nothing.” Stark smirks again. Like he knows something. “Go on. I’ll tell Cap you had stuff.”
You scan over his relaxed features, and he just keeps grinning, lazy and unworried. You could get an answer out of him, if you tried.
But you look up, back to Steve. And he’s grabbing his own drink from the bar. Still chatting with the girl. If he brings her back to the table, you’re going to vomit.
You have to go now.
“Thanks.” You mutter, giving Stark a tight grin. “Have a good night.”
And Stark laughs, as you turn away.
“Oh. I’m sure I will.”
You avoid Steve for a week.
Properly avoid him.
He calls ten times, just the night you leave the bar. He texts almost every hour for the days after that, and you mute him. If you look at the messages, you’re going to respond to them. If you respond to them, he’ll convincing you to talk to him. If you talk to him, or see him, or even stand near him, you’re never going to get over him.
You’re going cold turkey on him, like he’s a drug.
To you, he is. And you need to get clean. You need to move on.
Steve doesn’t come into the building to steal you for lunch, but he calls you every day. Your fingers fidget, still trying to pick up the phone.
You don’t know how you manage not to, but you do. When you ask the guards downstairs, they say he’s walked through the door and walked back out five times. You force yourself not to think about it, and somehow manage to do that too. And you’re going to be able to do this. You’re finally going to move on.
Moving on means moving. Not staying in the same little pit, waiting for his sun to change its path and shine on you. You have to climb out, and find a new place to be. Someone new to want.
You’ve done this part before. The whole dance of downloading the apps and going on the dates and telling yourself you want them, even though they aren’t Steve. But this time is going to be different. If you tell yourself that enough, it will feel more and more true.
There’s a guy you’ve been chatting with all week, and he seems sweet. He compliments you, and he was polite when you met for coffee, and he’s far from bad to look at. And it’s not like you’re going to marry him. You just need someone to be close to you that isn’t Steve.
And maybe this guy—you can’t really remember his name, but you’ll learn it—is blond haired and blue eyes and broadly built. Maybe you swiped through photo after photo, looking for a phantom of him, but that’s nobody business expect yours, and your pillow’s. It knows better than anyone that there’s only one way you can fake it.
Which is exactly what this game is. Faking it until you make it. Until you’re over Steve, and there’s never any temptation to look back.
You dress up, telling your brain you’re going on a date with Steve himself so you put in all the effort. Another thing that’s nobody’s business. You’re doing what you need to, and it’s going to get you over him. You’ve got lashes and glossy lips and heels that are going to hurt in the morning, and this guy doesn’t seem strong enough to carry you like Steve would, but that’s where you need to shut your brain up. There’s not going to be anyone who’s like Steve. This guy looks like him enough to get you out the door, but it’s not him, and that’s okay. That’s good. It’s going to help you move on. You’ve got your jacket, and your purse, and you’re going to do this and move on-
You yank the door open, and freeze.
Steve stares at you, hands his pockets, mouth hanging open.
This is usually the part where one of you says hi, but you can’t remember how to speak. He’s here. Why is he here. He’s been giving you space, because he’s amazing and polite, and it had been so much easier to pretend it was just because he didn’t care when he wasn’t right in front of you. Looking like you’d just punched him in the face, all pale with sagging shoulders and sad, dull eyes. As if he’s lost sleep.
He scans over you. Over your revealing outfit and makeover. His throat bobs, and you could swear he slouches further. When he meets your gaze, he doesn’t smile. It makes you want to cry.
“Steve-“
“You’ve been avoiding me.” He mutters, the words thick and low. “And- I’m not here to fight about it. I didn’t think you were going to open the door, I didn’t- I wasn’t going to bother you. Just- Never mind.”
You blink. “I- What are you-“
“You got a date?” He nods to your outfit, and something in his pockets shift. He’s fisting his hands.
“Um-“ You glance to his pockets again, then back to his weighted gaze. “Yeah. I do.”
“With whom.”
Shit. You still can’t remember. “Someone I met on an app. Steve, what are you-“
“On an app.” He echoes, the words sounding hollow. He chuckles under his breath. “You know, Stark made me try those once.”
You swallow. You don’t want to hear about his dating life. “How did that go.”
“Bad. And I tried, I just…” He trails off, shaking his head, and you think you can feel his stare burrowing into your heart, shaping it even further in his name.
This is exactly what you were trying to avoid. Seeing him makes you love him more, think about him more, need him more. He’s got a gravity over you, and he doesn’t know it, and why is he here.
“Is he nice.”
Steve’s voice is low. Pained. You don’t understand the question.
“Who?”
“Your date.” He grunts. “Is he nice to you.”
“Oh.” You forgot about that part. “Yeah.”
“Good.”
Neither of you speak for a second. Steve stares at you so hard our head spins, and you can’t look him in the eyes.
“What did I do?”
His voice breaks suddenly, and you feel the crack in your ribs. It yanks your gaze up, and you’ve never seen him so sad. Frustrated and annoyed, sure. Tense, all the time. But never just… Sad. Defeated. Like even he isn’t sure what to do. It feels wrong. Like the world is bleeding together and caving over itself.
“You didn’t do anything-“
“I must have.” He scans over your features, his own so openly aching. “You’ve never been mad at me before, and- Now you’re-“
He waves to your outfit, and you frown.
“It’s just a date-“
“Just a date.” He mutters under his breath, and your mouth falls open.
“I’m allowed to date, Steven-“
“I know you are!” His voice raises for a second, but he quickly pushes it back down. “I- I know, but that’s not- Why are you avoiding me?”
He’s pleading. It’s almost bleeding out of his voice, staining all over you, and you wrap an arm around your stomach like you can stop yourself from bleeding back. This isn’t fair. Steve’s not stupid. He can’t have just forgotten your mistake of expressing your feelings, he’s not nearly oblivious to be unable to put two and two together, and he certainly can’t be dense enough to not tie together that you’re avoiding him, and going on a date. You don’t go on dates. You’re usually too busy trying to steal some love from his shadow.
Yet here he is. Looking at you like he really doesn’t understand. Being so nice about it, when it’s clearly been bothering him. No demanding to understand. No shouting about how hurt he was. Just pleading.
Because he’s golden and perfect. All respectful, like you’re just another lady to him.
Like you’re not worth enough for him to fight a little dirtier for.
A lump is pressing up your throat. It’s a battle to hold his gaze.
“Why do you think I’ve been avoiding you.” You mutter, and he shakes his head.
“I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking.” Steve rubs his face, working his jaw. “I can’t fix it if you don’t tell me what I did-“
“Steve-“
“And I’ll fix it, whatever I did, I’ll fix it-“
“You can’t fix it!” You shout.
He stumbles back like you slapped him, and tears burn at your eyes.
“You- You can’t fix it, Steve.” You whisper, staring down at his shoes. “Just- Stop.”
“Stop what?” He rasps. “I- I know I messed something up, but-“
“Stop being so nice to me.”
He’s silent for a moment. You don’t even know how to justify that one. It sounds pathetic to your ears.
“I... I’d rather not.” He mutters, and you sigh.
“Then please leave me alone.” The words hurt, but you push them out like an apple lodged in your throat. “I- I tried, okay? I really tried, but I can’t.”
“Can’t-“
“Can’t be your friend.” You whisper. The tears burn on your cheeks. “I can’t be your friend, Steve, it’s too hard. I- I-“
You sniff, and Steve rasps your name. You have to shake your head. He can’t talk right now. It’s already too hard.
“I love you.” You say, barely a breath. It doesn’t matter. He’ll hear anyway. “I love you too much, and- It’s not your fault that you don’t- That it’s not the same. But please.” You shift on your feet, hugging yourself tight. “I- I need space.”
Steve doesn’t say anything. There isn’t anything he could say to make it better, not anymore. But something in you still fractures, when he just steps to the side. Giving you a path out.
Letting you go.
You think it’s hope. The hope that one day he might feel the same, the dream that you’d tried so hard not to feed, but tended to bloom on its own. That one day he’d look at you and realize he made a mistake.
But he steps to the side. And that’s all it’s ever going to be.
A dream.
You bow your head and shuffle past him, face burning and skin crawling with shame. You’re going to go on this date and pretend like everything is fine, if you can even make it out of the hallway without breaking down. Your knees are wobbly and tears are coming faster than you can wipe away, but you just need to get out. Out of this hallway with its suffocating air.
Away from Steve, and your heart, broken at his feet.
You’ll get over it. You’ll get over it. It’s hard to breathe right now but you’ll get over it-
“God- Screw it.”
A strong hand wraps around your wrist. It takes you by such surprise you don’t even think to fight.
Steve spins your around, grabbing your jaw and picking you up in a single movement. You gasp as his lips slam over yours, sudden and demanding. He kisses you like he doesn’t know he’s already got a claim on you. Like he’s trying to brand your lips with a bruising, hungry desire. All you can do is breathlessly kiss him back, scraping at his shoulders and trying to keep up with what’s happening. Steve tastes a little like honey and salt, and you’re sure he ate something earlier but you don’t really care what. His hair is just as soft as you thought, and you’re being crushed under the force of him but it’s intoxicating and exhilarating and you feel like you’re being remade-
It’s over. Just as fast as it started. Steve stumbles back, fumbling with his hands like they’re still trying to reach you against his will. He braces them on his hips, staring at you with wide eyes.
You gape at him, trying to catch your breath. You reach up to brush your own lips, trying to make sure the tingly feeling there is real. Maybe press it deeper in, until you can feel it forever.
Steve clears his throat. You blink at him through the slowly drying tears, not really sure what’s happening.
Neither of you dare to speak. Or move. You’re breathing shallowly, like anything too big is going to tip the whole world over, and it will all slip through your fingers.
He takes an uncertain step forward, and you should take one back.
But you’ve never been all that good at moving away from him before. You have no interest in learning that skill now.
This time, you grab him at the same time he grabs you. You stumble into each other, uncoordinated and desperate, unbothered by bumping noses and smushed limbs. You just need to be close to him. To feel him as much as possible, as fast as possible.
He’s never been a drug. You’d been getting a secondary high, but this-
This is a hit.
And you need to have more.
You grab at his collar, pressing up to meet his every kiss, and you’re quickly making out with teeth and tongue in the middle of the hallway. Steve’s arm wraps around your ass, lifting you effortlessly off your feet, and you moan into his mouth.
He trips as he walks back into the apartment, and you end up pressed against the wall at least three more times before you make it through the door. Every time Steve slams you back, devoting all his attention to kissing you until you’re drooling and sloppy and just trying to push further into his open mouth. At one point he slots his knee between your thighs, and you start to shamelessly grind down as he sucks your lower lip between his teeth.
You giggle, dazed and sore with overflowing need for him. He kicks the door closed behind you, and you think you’re going to end up riding his thigh against the wall, but he starts down the hall. To your bedroom.
He makes it about five steps before you rake your nail through his hair and start kissing over his jaw. Steve moans into your ear, lagging a little sideways, and you shriek as you both topple down onto the couch.
It takes you a second to catch your breath, and that’s all Steve needs to get the upper hand. He grabs your jaw, tipping your head back as he starts to suck and nip at your neck. You squeak, grabbing his head, and he moans against your skin. His knee pushes back between your thighs, and this angle is even better than before. You can’t help the roll of your hips, down onto the muscle of his thick leg.
“St- Steve-“ You voice is high, and he hums, licking up your throat before making out with a soft spot under your jaw. “Jesus fucking- God-“
“I know.” He mutters, dragging his hand down your thigh and grabbing under your knee. He squeezes gently, hiking it up to your chest, pushing his knee down even harder than before.
“Fuck- You-“ You gasp, your pussy clenching around nothing as your clit gets rubbed through his jeans, through your panties.
At this angle, you’re almost exposed to him. Your dress pooling around your tummy, the wet spot on your underwear growing bigger and bigger. You grasp at the skirt, trying to tug it down a little. It’s one thing to be riding his knee, another for him to see you.
Steve grabs your wrist, pushing the fabric further down than it had been before. Your eyes almost cross when he starts to rub his knee back and forth, the pressure overwhelming and perfect. You didn’t think you could cum like this, but there’s a familiar pressure building up in your stomach, and you have to bite your tongue to stop a wanton moan from escaping your lips.
He sits up to look at you, and you’re sure it’s a shameful, lewd sight. Your makeup smudged, your hair ruined, a picture of depravity and sin as you chase pleasure on his leg. This isn’t the kind of thing you thought he’d be into. He’s too perfect, too good, and maybe you’ve wanted to be put in a headlock and manhandled and used, but Steve’s all about honor. You’d been so sure that, even if you got to have him, it would be lovely, vanilla sex that was filled with such emotion it would make up for the simpleness.
But that’s not what you see in Steve’s eyes. They’re hooded and black with lust. His jaw is clenched as he watches you, and he pushes your leg further up with a gentle squeeze.
“Oh-“ You gasp, trying to reach up to grab him.
Steve grabs your second wrist without letting go of the first. Holds him in one hand, and leans over you as he pins them both over your head. Your mouth falls open, breathing fast and needy.
His own chest is heaving. He looks down to his knee against your core, and a deep sound rumbles from his chest. You’re wound so tight you’re certain you could snap, sudden and fast like a rubber band. You strain against Steve’s hold, and his attention snaps back up.
“You’re good, doll.” He coos. “Relax for me.”
You blink at him, shaking your head. You can’t stop grinding against him, but you need him close. Need to be under the pressure of his body, to feel like there’s nothing else in the world.
Steve picks up the speed of his knee, almost drilling it down into your cunt without touching you at all. You gape, head lolling to the side, and he grunts.
“Look at me.”
His voice is deep. Not a suggestion. An order.
You blink up at him, almost drooling, and he leans down until his lips are ghosting over yours.
“I don’t want space.” He mutters. “I want you.”
You swallow, still rubbing your pussy up into his knee. “You- You can’t just-“
“Shh.” He pushes further down, until it feels like he’s almost inside of you. You snap your mouth shut. “Is that all I did?”
“Wha- Oh-“
He drags his knee in slow circles, and you make an incoherent, starved sound. Steve doesn’t even break a sweat.
“You and me.” He mutters, studying your every expression. “That’s it. That’s what was gonna make me lose you.”
“You- You didn’t lose me-“
“Almost did.” He squeezes your knee. “You walked.”
You glare up at him. “You let me-“
“No, I didn’t.”
Steve’s lips slam back over yours, and you can’t really argue with that. Your eyes flutter as you give into the kiss, your body sparking with a million, delighted nerves. Steve groans against your lips, fucking his knee against your core, and he’s hitting your clit just right, the fabric soaked and filled with rough friction.
Your back arches off the couch as you cum, and Steve lets go of your wrists. You grab his face, trying to pull his lips closer, and he wraps around your back, holding you up. Your toes curl, body shaking as the pressure becomes sensitive, your pussy gushing and clenching around nothing.
Steve rubs your spine, kissing along your shoulder, up your neck, over your cheeks. You hum softly, floating down and tucked into his arms. He leans back against the couch, taking you with him. You slump over his chest, burying your face in his neck as his hand slips under your dress. Thick, calloused finger pads gently graze your hips and waist, and you squirm.
“I- I didn’t want to ruin something.” He murmurs in your ear, and you pause.
“Ruin…”
“Us.” Steve’s face presses into the curve of your neck, warm breath tickling your skin. “You were my friend, we work in a lotta the same places, and I just- I didn’t want to risk that.”
You swallow, leaning back and waiting until he meets your glossy, sad gaze. You take his face between your hands, and he covers them with his own.
“I was willing to risk it.” You whisper, and he sighs.
“I know. But-“ He looks away, words choked and low. “I thought it was a crush. That you’d get over.”
You laugh weakly. “Well, it wasn’t.”
“I know.” He sighs. “Mine wasn’t either.”
You lips part with a sharp breath, and Steve looks back to you with nervous, hopeful eyes.
“I love you.” He squeezes both your hands, guiding them to his lips. “It is the same. So- Tell me that fixes it. Please.”
It does.
Just as fast as they’d shattered, your dreams weave themselves back together. They’re clearer than before. More colorful. It’s no longer like looking through a mist, or watching a reflection in the water. When you touch Steve, he doesn’t ripple away. And that’s more than enough.
You lean down and kiss him. It’s slower than the other kisses. Steve grabs your hips, but lets you press his head down. You wrap your arms around his neck, tracing his lips with your tongue, and he hums in content. Drags you further forward in his lap.
Something thick and hard presses right against you, and you almost go limp. Like your body is already trying to get ready to take it. To take Steve’s cock that can’t be as large as it feels, straining against his jeans and twitching when you drag yourself slowly back and forth.
“Hey.” Steve grunts, grabbing your hips firmly. You hope he’s holding tight enough to leave a bruise. “Easy.”
You snort, leaning back to give him a pointed look. “Easy?”
“Yeah, that’s what I-“
“I just came on your knee.”
His ears turn a little pink, and he coughs. “I, uh- Fair.”
“Mhm.” You hum, smiling smugly, and you take all the strength in your jelly legs and grind right now onto his clothed cock.
Steve hisses, his fingers digging into your soft skin. “Jesus- Baby-“
You brace your arms on either side of his head, dragging back and forth as slow as you can. Steve’s eyes flutter, his tongue darting over his lips as he watches you move on him. His muscles flex with the effort not to grab you.
You’d very much like to see him give up.
“Does that feel good?” You whisper, making your voice sweet and innocent.
Steve grunts. You’re going to have handprints on your body in the morning. The thought just makes you move faster.
“I don’t want to go slow, Stevie.” You purr, and his chest heaves under you. “I want you to fuck me. Pleeease.”
You whine dramatically, thrusting forward, and Steve’s face drops against your chest.
“Jesus, woman.” He lips graze over your breast, and you moan. “Come on, ‘s not playing fair-“
“Don’t wanna play fair.” You hum, slowly reaching between your bodies. “Wasn’t fair how you turned me down.”
“’M sorry about that-“
“You should be.” You kiss under his ear. “Hurt my feelings.”
“Thought-“ He grunts as you palm his balls through his jeans. “Thought I was helping-“
“You weren’t.”
“I got that now-“
“But you know what would make it better?” You lean back up, holding Steve’s gaze with a lazy smile.
He nods quickly, and you giggle, wiggling down onto his bulge.
“Fucking me.”
Steve looks down, and a rumble echoes through his chest when he sees it.
You’d peeled off your ruined underwear without him noticing. Leaving your bare, sweet and soaked pussy pressed against him. You moan, watching him as you grind down, and he’s so close to snapping. You can see it in the tension of his jaw, feel how his fingers keep twitching on your hips. You smile at him, licking your lips, and that dark look flashes over his features. The same one from earlier, that had him overtaking you like a storm.
Steve’s a good boy. A sweet boy.
He also doesn’t like things that he can’t account for. Used to pick fights in alleys as a kid, always wanted to be the person everyone looked to for help.
You’re sure that, between the two of you, you can let him have a little fun without compromising his moral compass.
He has to, if you’re begging him for it. Not very chivalrous, to ignore a lady in need.
“Pleaseee.” You whine again, ghosting your lips over his. “Fuck me, Stevie, fuck me until I can’t walk-“
He mutters your name under his breath, and you just pout at him.
“Make me yours, make me cry, fuck-“ You throw your head back, the teasing him going straight to your own core. “God, fucking- Please, Steve-“
That does it. The explicit, wet cry of his name seems to snap something in Steve’s resolve, and he’s on you in a blur of hands and lips. Grabbing a fistful of your ass before hauling you up his chest, kissing you breathless as he stands. He keeps carrying like you weigh nothing, and you want to be trapped in his arms forever.
“Steve- Shit-“ Your jaw drops he tosses you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. “Fuck, slow down-“
“You said you didn’t want to slow down.” He reminds you in a deceptively soothing voice, big hands rubbing on the back of your thighs. “Said you didn’t wanna play fair.”
“I- Um- Ooooh-“
You drop your head against Steve’s shoulder, biting at his shirt as thick, strong fingers tease the lips of your pussy.
“Wet fuckin’ pussy.” He muses, spreading you open so the cold air hits your cunt. “Knew you got soaked for me, princess. Didn’t know it was this bad.”
“You- You-“ He needs to stop humiliating you and touching you at the same time. It makes you feel like you’re burning alive in the best way possible. “You knew?” You squeak, and Steve chuckles.
“Always knew. Told you, thought it was a crush.”
You try to twist and glare at him. “And you didn’t tell me-“
“Like you would’ve wanted me to tell you I could smell how badly you wanted my cock.” Steve smacks your ass with a scoff, and you flop right back over his shoulder.
“Fuck-“ You whimper. He’s right. You can barely even stand that right now. “Steve, please- Please-“
You’re not even sure what you’re begging for anymore. Mercy, maybe. More mocking attention. Anything he can fucking give you, because you feel like you’re about to explode.
Steve spanks you again, this time on the other cheek, and you moan.
“’Course you like that.” He mutters. “Dirty girl, testing me every fucking day.”
He drags his thumb through the mess between your legs, and your pussy clenches, trying to drag him in. He laughs, pushing down for half a second before dragging down to your clit and rubbing in quick, tight circle. You gasp, pushing uselessly at his back, already overstimulated and still needing more.
“Felt that.” Steve flicks your clit, and your whole body shakes. “Greedy, princess. You’ve been waitin’ this long, you can hold it a little longer.”
“Ca- Can’t-“ You gasp, pressing your cheek against the broad muscle of his back. “Can’t, Steve- Can’t wait-“
“Yeah, you can.” He grunts. “Christ, you’re dripping all over my hand. Going to take me no problem, aren’t you, baby.”
He’s playing with your clit like it’s just a little button for his whims, and you have to bite your inner cheek to stop yourself from falling apart all over his hand.
“Steve- I- I’m going to- Oh my god-“
Steve slaps right over your pussy, the wet sound echoing in your ears as he shoves those two fingers right into your pussy. He finds your G-spot in a second, crooking his fingers and dragging them over your sensitive walls. You cum with a cry of his name, sudden and harsh. White dancing at your vision, your body seizing up as Steve dumps you down onto the soft mattress.
He presses his wrist further, folding your body up. You grab his neck for an anchor, and he kisses your wrist as he slides a third finger into your dripping mess of a pussy.
“Getting you ready.” He mutters, wiping some hair from your face. “It’s okay, babydoll, you’re doin’ real good.”
You whimper, the orgasm still shaking through you. You’re struggling to breathe when Steve finally pulls his hand away, and the loss makes you whimper.
Steve laughs softly, leaning down to kiss you all sweet and loving, like you haven’t been turned to a puddle under his hands.
“Breathe.” He murmurs, squeezing your breast gently, and you take a loud, stuttering gasp. Steve kisses your nose, smiling like he’s being offered ice cream, and you watch him in a starry-eyed daze.
You hear the click of his belt, and as much as you’d like to reach down and feel him, you can barely manage to hold onto his shoulders right now. Steve pulls slowly up with one last chaste kiss on your lips, and your breath hitches in your throat.
He’s massive. That’s the kind of dick you’ve only seen in cartoons, because even the porn industry can’t replicate it. You’re not sure how he gets around so easily in his tight suit, with that fucking horse cock acting like a third leg. Thick and veined, already beading with pre-cum as he strokes it slowly in his hand, a sheepish expression on his face.
“I was… Endowed.” He mumbles, ears red. “Before the serum. Then…”
He nods to his cock, and you laugh breathlessly.
“Jesus, Steve-“
“It won’t hurt you.” He says quickly. “I know there are those rumors ‘bout be being a virgin, but-“ He sighs, pouting slightly. “God forbid a man tell Tony Stark he doesn’t want to talk about his sex life, suddenly he’s never even touched a boob-“
“Dude.” You smile up at him, and he cuts himself off. “Look me in the eyes and tell me if I still think you’re a virgin after that.”
You tilt your head to the hallway, but Steve just frowns.
“Dude?”
“Um-“
“Don’t call me dude when I’m about to fuck you.” He grumbles, and you’d laugh at him if that didn’t make your heart skip. e
“Sorry, sir.”
You say it half to mock him, half to test something.
Steve’s jaw ticks, and his already rock-hard cock twitches in his hands. You giggle as his eyes narrow, and you’re still laughing as he prowls over you, that dark, hungry look back on his face.
“You think something’s funny?” He grunts, and you shake your head.
“No, sir.”
Steve groans, dropping his face between your breasts.
“Gonna be the death of me.” He mutters under his breath, and you’re still laughing softly.
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
You laugh again, because you’re really not. It’s hilarious, and he’s adorable, and this is going to yield some fantastic results.
Steve assesses you like you’re a mission to be accomplished. And you know him.
He never does anything halfway.
“Alright, princess.” He mutters, tapping the head of his cock on your clit. “Open.”
You squeak, still giggling, and spread your legs slowly.
The last laugh is pushed from your chest as Steve slowly starts to sink himself into your heat. Your mouth falls uselessly open as you bow off the bed, your body almost unable to rationalize how full you are.
Steve splits you open, his cock slowly driving through you and hitting spots you didn’t even know you had. He grinds slowly down into your pussy, bullying you further open, and you think he’s found a button inside you that just makes you a limp, sensitive fuck-doll, because you whine out his name but it takes everything you have.
“I know.” He grunts, the tip of his cock pressing into your cervix. “You’re taking it, baby, there you go.”
“Steveee-“
“Feels good, doesn’t it.” He presses at sweet kiss to your lips as he bottoms out. His fingers lace slowly through yours, and you nod.
You’ve never had so many pleasure points being hit at once. Steve’s still got a hand on your breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers as you try to breath around him. He’s patient. You don’t want him to be.
“More.” You push out, and he raises his brows.
“Sweetheart-“
“More.” You roll up into him, moaning loudly as he hits even deeper. “Fuck me, Steve- Mmm-“
He kisses you, passionate and messy, and you almost scream in satisfaction as he starts to move.
He’s unrushed. Completely in control of you, and aware of it. His dick pulls almost all the way out before slowly pushing back in, the torturous pace making you feel like a live wire.
“Yeah, that’s it.” He coos, pressing a sweet kiss to your lips. “Pretty girl, you like being stuffed up with my cock, don’t you.”
“Ye- Yes-“ You tip your head back into the pillows, your free hand grasping at the sheets. “Yes- Oh my god, yes-“
Steve’s started to grind against your g-spot whenever he hits it, letting his thickness press and drag over the sensitive, gooey spot until you’re moaning and writhing around him.
“Feel that, don’t you.” He mutters, pushing in a little harder than last time. “Feel my dick inside you, baby, feels so good, doesn’t-“
“So good.” You babble, but who can blame you. “So good, Steve, you’re so-“
Your words turn into a broken moan as Steve drives back into you, and he’s going harder and harder every time. Still pulling almost fully out slowly, letting your arousal gather and drip down your thighs and ass, but then slamming back into you so hard it makes you think the world is shaking.
A breathy sound escapes your lips, maybe a plea, and Steve moves your tangled hands between your bodies, pressing you down into the mattress as he rises up for a better angle.
“You’re so fuckin’ wet.” He growls, pounding into your cunt like he owns it. “If I’d know you wanted me this bad I woulda had you all over this city.”
You whine, squeezing around him. Steve chuckles.
“Oh, you like that. Like the idea of being my good little cockslut, letting me play with you wherever I want.”
Big, steady hands press your knees up, letting Steve hit even deeper than before. A strange, tight feeling is building in your gut, but it feels good. All of this feels so good. You’re spent and cockdrunk, but you feel used in the best possible way. The filth Steve is drawling in your ears makes your brain go all quiet. You’re just a happy, humming bundle of pleasure, Steve’s massive body draped over yours, and you’d probably do anything he wanted, if he just fucked you like this after.
“You were made for me.” He groans, lips wandering all over your face as his cock drills into you. “I’m gonna take such good care of you, baby, swear it, just sing for me, come on-“
You moan, long and loud. Steve grins, kissing under your ear.
“Good girl.” He coos. “There you go, just like that. Come on, doll, I know you’re getting close.”
You are. You’ve been close the whole time, but this feels more and more different by the second. There are wet, sinful sounds filling the room as your skin slaps together, and Steve’s breath is hot in your ear as he starts to lose a little control of himself.
He moans when you start mindlessly humping up to meet him, forcing his cock into the tightest spot into you that makes everything all colorful and hazy. You gasp softly, chasing up from a little more, and Steve wraps and arm around your back.
“Fuck- Fuck- You feel so good,” he groans your name in your ear. “So good, it’s- Christ-“
That strange pressure in your tummy is going to burst. It feels like Steve is driving right against it, daring it come undone.
“Steve.” You breathe out. “Steve- I- I’m gonna-“
He growls, deep in his chest and rolling through you. Steve grabs you and wrestles you down into the mattress, pushing your legs up to your chest and fucking you fast and brutal.
It’s a sight above you. Steve, panting and moaning as your pussy sucks him in, glistening arousal shining all over his cock when he pulls out and smearing on your tummy. Your tight walls are starting to contract, and he doubles over, groaning your name as his thrust become shallow and unmeasured.
Tears start to stream down your face. Steve looks at you like you’re an angel, fucking you like you’re just a toy, and you can’t even remember how to tell him how good it feels.
“Steve…” You wiggle below him, crying out as he just fucks you hard. “Steve- Ooooooh-“
Your eyes roll back, the tears burning on your cheeks from the impossible to handle pleasure. Steve leans down and kisses them off your cheeks, the softness in such contrast with how he’s turning you into a bundle of nerves and tears.
“My pretty girl.” He mutters, kissing your lips sweetly. “Close. We’re so close. You can make it. Make it for me.”
You nod, almost hypnotized into agreeing. And Steve’s abusing that spot inside of you. Sensitive and overwhelming, making your toes curl and eyes cross.
“Steve- I- I can’t-“
“Yes, you can.” Not a suggestion. Steve’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing it back and forth as he ruts into you. “Come for me, now.”
The command rolls through you, and that pressure bursts. Heat washes over you, making you bow off the bed as a funny, wet feeling gushes out between your thighs. Steve groans, slamming his mouth back over yours, groaning your name as you start to milk his cock.
“Fuck,” he groans, and you wrap your arms tight around his neck. Tight enough to strangle him, if he was a normal man. But Steve just splays his hand possessively over your back and moans against your lips, driving home into your cunt as his release rippling through him.
It’s almost as good as your own orgasm. You’re tucked into a shaking, flexing heat of muscle, his deep voice moaning your name in your ear, his cock still thrusting and twitching inside you. Over, and over, and over-
You can barely breathe in the best way. You’ve never had a man cum so much. It starts just hot and sticky, then it’s drooling out, down your ass and onto the sheets. You can feel it in your throat, almost taste it, and even after Steve pulls out it’s everywhere. Painting your pussy creamy and white, branding your abdomen, your tits, your thighs.
Steve stares down at you with a gaping mouth as you both come down from the high. You laugh, hoarse and breathy.
“Woah.”
“Shit.” Steve mutters, grabbing at the remainder of the clean sheets and wiping them over your body. “I- I didn’t- I usually pull out, you just-“
“Steve-“
“We need to get you in the shower, it’s everywhere-“
“Steve-“
“I’m so sorry-“
“Steven.” You smack his shoulder, and he stops dead.
You’re already bridal style in his arms, naked and covered in his cum, some of it dripping all over the floor. You’re going to need to hire a cleaner. Or invest in really, really big buckets that you’ll keep next to the bed.
“Does that happen every time?”
He swallows, and nods.
“Uh- Not that much.” He mumbles. “But yeah.”
Pride glows in your chest. You get the most of him. “Okay.”
Steve blinks. “Okay?”
You nod, and he shakes his head.
“I ruined your room-“
“I liked it.”
He stares. You smile.
Steve rolls his eyes, and presses a kiss to your brow.
“You’re impossible.” He mutters, and you giggle.
“Yeah, but you love me. And you can’t take it back now, you already said it-“
He grabs your chin, turning it so he can fully capture your lips.
“I do love you.” He mutters against your lips. “And no one could make me take it back if they tried.”
You smile. You have no plans to do that.
Steve is somehow more than you ever dreamed. And there’s no way you’re letting him go now.
✦End note: this was so fun for me to write i love a puppy dog man. i hope you enjoyed it!✦
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thinking about maekar's eldest daughter returning to summerhall with her family following the tourney at ashford, only for maekar to turn into a drunken recluse (not unlike his eldest son), neglecting his children and their care, hiding away for weeks on end. he didn't have the heart to send aerion away, so now it's up to his eldest daughter and the two eldest boys to look after their swarm of younger siblings.
maekar's eldest daughter who takes on a motherly role, much as she had before, but now constantly seen with children clinging to her skirts and Rhae in her arms. her father won't give the girls any love, so she must.
maekar's eldest daughter who doesn't notice the way her brother's eyes start following her more, taking in the sight of her doting on their younger siblings, instead picturing the silver-haired children in her arms as their own.
maekar's eldest daughter who thinks the way her brothers seek her attention more is nothing except a reaction to the grief of losing their uncle.
maekar's eldest daughter who lets daeron crawl into her bed late at night, his weeping stirring her from her peaceful slumber. he needs her more and more these days.
maekar's eldest daughter who converses quietly with aerion each night, the pair sharing wine as they rest from the exhaustion of the day.
maekar's eldest daughter who doesn't realise that the lines are growing more and more blurred each day with every small peck on the cheek and tender hug. they're her brothers... they would never want her that way.
maekar who finally drags himself out of his chambers after weeks of hiding away, heading towards aerion's chambers, only to pause at the sound of feminine gasps escaping through the door.
maekar who pries the door open a touch and stumbles upon a scene from his nightmares.
maekar who finds aerion on top of his eldest daughter, muscles rippling with exertion as he fills his sister over and over again with his cock.
maekar, horrified, who notices daeron sitting on the other side of the room, sipping dornish wine as he watches the scene, entranced.
maekar who realises his absence has loosened the control he held over his sons, letting them run wild in his home with no consequence.
maekar who backs away, fearing what he might find if he looks any closer at the tear-stained face of his eldest daughter.
maekar who returns to his chambers, swallowing his sorrows with more wine, falling into his bed in shame and depression. he'd ruined them all. he'd killed his brother, and now he'd unwittingly given his sweet girl – dyanna's baby – over to his sons.
maekar who realises his sons really are dragons, and his eldest daughter is the lamb.
synopsis: whenever you're ovulating, Clark's body goes into baby-making mode
cw: established relationship, porn and no plot, reader is overstimulated, Clark has super stamina, unprotected p in v, breeding kink, sloppy rounds, multiple creampies <3
wc: 841
It happens every time you’re ovulating. His body picks up on it, on the scent of you, and suddenly all he can ever think about is pumping you full of his cum until you give him a baby.
And so, he fucks you often, always hard and deep. He never lasts long during these ruts of his, and somehow, his body finds ways to produce more cum than he normally does. So it ends up just being sloppy seconds, and thirds, and fourths—and so on—all night.
“Oh, baby, so good,” he grunts, his hips rolling into yours at just the right angle, his cock pressing against your g-spot and making you clench around him tight.
He glances down, watching as he stretches you, your pussy all swollen from the hours he’s been fucking you. He watches his cum trickle down, thick and creamy as it gathers beneath you on the bed.
You whine lowly, whatever energy you had left lost on you. Unlike Clark, you don’t have super stamina. It’s a good thing he lets you be his pillow princess, but it’s also extremely overwhelming. In the best way.
He watches as you lie there, body limp as you just let him fuck you. He almost feels bad about it, about how long he’s had you in bed for, about how many times he’s made you come and how many times he’s already spilled himself into your pussy, but you look so beautiful, and you feel so good, that his remorse is lost on him.
“Just one more, baby,” he begs, that animalistic ache in him needing to make sure he’ll get you pregnant. “One more, yeah?”
You nod, half-conscious, half lost to the pleasure. Your arms are feebly wrapped around his neck, his skin already red from where you’d scratched his back before. He leans down and gives little kisses over your jaw, down to your neck.
“I need you to use your words, honey,” he murmurs against your throat. “I need to hear you say it for me.”
“Yes,” you say breathlessly, nodding again. “One more.”
He nods back, his hips moving a little harder now, his cock slipping deeper into you. He groans, nibbling on your shoulder, feeling your inner walls weakly tighten around him.
You just mewl quietly, your body hot everywhere his skin meets yours. You can feel his cum, warm and sticky, where so much of it has pooled against your cervix. Each thrust of his ensures it stays there, right against your womb, ready to take and give you his baby.
Clark can feel it too, and it drives him insane. The mere thought of you with his child, belly swollen, all round and beautiful…
“Fuck,” he grunts, his hips stuttering. “Oh, fuck. God, can you imagine how pretty you’ll look all full of my baby?”
You shiver, letting out a broken moan. He feels you tighten around him and his cock twitches.
“You want that? Wanna be full of my cum, get that tummy nice and round from my baby?” he asks, thrusting faster, almost desperately now.
You squeak, nodding, not really able to say or do much more. You try to hold onto him with what little strength you’ve got left, your thighs starting to shake as that familiar ache of release builds low in your belly.
Clark leans back, pushing your knees up to your chest, folding you in half and fucking into you harder and faster. “Gonna give you my baby, girl. Gonna put my baby in you and make you a momma.”
You whine, squirming, the change in angle making you feel fuller each time his cock is all the way in you. One of Clark’s hands moves to your cunt, his fingers finding your clit and deftly rubbing messy shapes on it.
Between the overstimulation you were already dealing with, and the pleasure he keeps giving you, you don’t last long.
Your orgasm finds you, crashing over you in a burst of white-hot ecstasy. It spreads from your womb all over your body, making you squeal and moan his name, your cunt clenching around his cock tight.
Clark grunts, giving a few last, frantic thrusts before he comes too. He spills himself into you one last time, his cum thick as it coats your gummy walls. The thick head of his cock brushes against your cervix, keeping his release deep in you as he comes down from his high.
He’s panting heavily, black curls sticking to his sweaty forehead. Carefully, he lowers your legs and lies on the bed, spooning you, adamant on keeping his cock in you to avoid a single drop of his cum of going to waste.
He kisses your nape, lips gentle as he murmurs, “I hope it works. I’d like nothing more than to give you a baby. To have a baby with you…it would make me the happiest man alive.”
𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 - if you wanna be added to my Clark Kent taglist, lmk <3
having a quickie in the morning before work with clark but it gets soooo irresistible you both have to keep going and going and going until it’s not a quickie anymore. gradually getting creamier and filthier to draw it out long while he fucks you so good from behind. twenty minutes passes by, then thirty minutes, then forty five…. you’ve made his dick a mess after cumming on it so hard so much but Clark just keeps going like a fuck machine on blast, getting greedy and wanting more of your fluids to get on him until you’re dry mouthed and dehydrated from leaking all that you’ve got. spanking you and jiggling your ass with his hand while he teases just the tip in.
then it’s passed the time he’d normally leave for work, briefcase and tie still hung up by the door waiting for him to go about his daily responsibilities but he just can’t. get. enough of that pussy this morning, his pre cum so slippery webbing between your inner thighs while he’s gasping and humming in your ear while he slides his full dick all the way in. wondering if the wet warmth he’s feeling squeeze him so good was part of your stomach cause he’s so. deep.
then he yanks you up with no effort whatsoever to switch positions so he’s sitting up and you’re on top, getting you ready for you to ride his dick. you can’t help the breathless crying leaving your throat while you slowly sink up and down to fulfill his demands while he praises you for going as long as he wants, calling you his creamy pretty slut. the clock on his nightstand literally shows he should be clocked in sitting at his desk right now. taking phone calls. getting the mountain of paperwork ready for the meeting he has scheduled before his lunch. clark breathily asks that you keep bouncing when his phone starts to ring, work calling him to check in and ask why he hasn’t shown up. if something happened or if he’s on his way, since its so out of character for him to be as late as he is right now. he holds his breath and closes his eyes with one hand holding the phone to his ear, the other pulling on a lip of that sloppy pussy still enthusiastically grinding all up on him.
‘yeah….yeah I’m sorry, just think I caught s…something, not really um. not feeling too good. probably best if I don’t come in today,’ he clenches his jaw when you raise your hips and his dick slips out mid excuse. clark could only put on his best fake-cough to try to keep the act going, squeezing your hip to quietly beg you to put it back in. grip getting more rough by the second until you whimper a sorry and take him to put it all back inside in one go. his boss says to call earlier next time because they need him but tells him to feel better soon and try to get healthy before tomorrow. clark agrees with a yeahyeahyeahmmmhm I’ll take good care of myself today bye and hangs up without another word, throwing his phone carelessly back to the nightstand and slamming his hips so hard his balls nestle up to your puffy used up and exhausted clit.
‘called out of work for this so let’s make it worth it, yeah? keep bouncing, good girl. that’s it. don’t be a bad girl and let it slip out again. I want it on me all day, got it?’
. . . .
yeah I know I’ve wrote morning d!ck before but yum no resistance to post this here I have hella stuff to work on thank you all so much for the love <3
summary: the HYDRA mission was successful. steve's a little off, sure, but medical cleared him forty minutes ago. it's just exhaustion. except his heart won't stop pounding, heat's crawling under his skin, and his jeans suddenly feel far too tight. and every cell in his body is screaming that the only cure is you.
warnings/tags: SMUT, sex pollen (dubcon-ish elements), masturbation (m), oral sex (f receiving), p in v, multiple orgasms, creampies, overstimulation, hyperspermia, mating press, standing sex, aftercare, manhandling, size kink/size difference (reader is smaller than steve, but it's steve he's massive), praise kink, dacryphilia if you squint, sweat kink if you squint, roommates to lovers, guilty!pervy!steve who apologizes but can't stop, PWP but lowkey with plot?, sprinkle of yearning, no use of y/n, 18+ MDNI
word count: 14.4k (wtf)
from maddie: official, diagnosed, terminal case of the yapperitis for this one. i got stressed writing pt. 2 of ocayf, and so decided to take a "little break" from it, and accidentally wrote this instead. it's sort of inspired by this post by @blobfishlol (hope you don't mind the tag!) and it was meant to be a quick, filthy little pwp but apparently my brain said no 🤍 it’s been a hot minute since i’ve posted anything this long and i feel like i forgot how to write halfway through, so pls be gentle with me!! (pls don’t be mad this isn’t ocayf pt2, it’s coming 🥹)
dt: my bb @love-stucky for letting me yap her ear off about this fic, and also for the edit of the steve pic <33
masterlist
Steve's still running through the debrief in his head when he pulls up outside his apartment block.
The bike's engine cuts out with a rumble, but Steve still feels a deep thrumming vibration in his chest that won't quit. His heart's pounding - has been pounding since he left the compound, he realises - and that doesn't make sense for someone whose resting heart rate is forty-five. Frowning, Steve rolls his shoulders like he can physically shake off whatever this is. Adrenaline, probably. Leftover cortisol.
Plus, the mission ran long, the debrief even longer, and he's been running on fumes for the better part of eighteen hours. Maybe this is his body reminding him that he's not actually invincible even if the serum makes it feel that way sometimes. He's tired. That's all this is.
Medical cleared him forty minutes ago. Routine checkup, vitals normal, no injuries to note. Mission success. Another HYDRA facility taken out, mostly inactive but still operational enough to need clearing. A handful of guards, computers full of encrypted files for Nat to sort through, and more dust than seemed reasonable for a place that was supposedly still in use.
It was a weird amount of dust, actually. Steve keeps snagging on that. Active facilities don't accumulate dust like that, yet the lab was covered with the thick powdery kind that coats every surface and blooms up in pale clouds when you move through it wrong.
And move through it wrong Steve had.
When he'd taken down three guards in the main lab, the force of the fight had sent up a particularly thick puff of it. Enough that his throat constricted and his chest went tight. A too familiar tightness, low and stubborn, like he was twelve again when every breath was a negotiation. The kind that used to plant itself behind his sternum on cold Brooklyn mornings and refuse to shift.
He'd actually coughed. Hard enough that he had to step out of the room, hand braced against the doorframe while he caught his breath like some rookie who couldn't handle a little particulate in the air. But medical had checked his oxygen levels, listened to his lungs, found nothing wrong. Probably just particulate irritation, they'd said. The serum would clear it. And they'd been right - his breathing's fine now. Everything's fine.
Steve shakes his head, swinging a leg over his bike, and heads into the building. He's overthinking. Natasha told him he looked like shit and should go home and sleep for once. He'd laughed, told her she was projecting.
But now Steve's starting to think she might've been onto something.
The building's stairwell is mercifully cool and quiet, and Steve takes the stairs two at a time like always. Five flights is nothing. He's done it a thousand times, usually without thinking, but tonight by the second floor he's warm - too warm for the mild evening. The leather jacket that felt fine on the ride home now feels stifling, clinging to his shoulders and back.
By the third floor, he starts pulling at his collar. By the fourth, he's unzipped the jacket entirely. And when he hits the fifth floor, there's a thin sheen of sweat on his neck and his breath is coming harder than it should.
Steve pauses, hand on the door to your shared apartment, and for a second he considers turning around. Going back to the compound, making medical run more comprehensive tests.
But the thought of another hour in that sterile medical bay instead of being home - instead of seeing you, sinking into that easy warmth you always seem to carry with you - stirs something wrong in his chest. Makes something tighten uncomfortably. He needs to be home. Needs the particular brand of domesticity that only exists in your shared space, where he gets to be Steve and not Captain America.
Yes. He just needs to get inside, see you, shower, and maybe eat something if you've made dinner. Then sleep for ten hours. Simple.
He pushes through the door before he can second-guess it, and the apartment wraps around him immediately - warmth, music drifting from the kitchen, the smell of garlic and pancetta that means you’re making his favorite pasta. Dropping his duffle by the door, Steve heads to the kitchen, drawn by the sounds of you humming off-key, moving around, the comfortable domestic soundtrack that usually settles something in his chest.
Some of the tension in his shoulders starts to ease. This is good. Normal. Exactly what he needs.
Until he rounds the corner and his brain stutters to a halt.
You're wearing his hoodie. Stood at the stove with your back to him, intently focused on cooking, and you're wearing his hoodie. It practically swamps your frame. The sleeves are pushed up past your elbows because otherwise they'd swallow your hands, shoulders so broad they slip off one of yours, exposing a lacy bralette strap and the curve of bare skin that Steve wants his mouth on.
And shorts. Tiny black shorts that barely qualify as clothing, just peeking out from under the hem of his hoodie, leaving your legs completely bare from where the hoodie ends.
You're swimming in the hoodie. In something of his. The size difference so obvious it makes his hands itch at this sudden, visceral urge to grab you and see how you’d disappear under him. To see how easy it would be to cage you in, crowd you back against the counter. To get his hands under his hoodie and find out if you're wearing his scent on your skin the way you're wearing his clothes, if you smell like him now, if you thought about him when you put it on, if—
"Oh my god, Steve, you startled me!"
The sound of your voice catches him mid thought, and his brain slams back to room. You've spun around, wooden spoon in hand, and despite the startled words your whole face lights up. There’s genuine relief there, happiness that seems disproportionate to him just walking through the door. "How was the mission? You look exhausted, are you—"
"Is that my hoodie?"
The words come out rough, almost accusatory, cutting across your concern. Steve doesn't even know why that's the first thing out of his mouth, why out of everything he could say - something normal like hello, mission was fine, dinner smells good - that's what his brain latched onto.
You blink, clearly surprised by the abruptness, then glance down at yourself like you'd forgotten.
"Oh. Yeah." When you look back up there's mischief in your eyes. "It's way comfier than all of mine. You don't mind, do you?"
Mind. Right.
Does he mind that you're standing in his kitchen wearing his clothes, drowning in fabric that smells like him, looking so at home and domestic and pretty that something in his chest is pulling tight enough to hurt? Does he mind that this is somehow more intimate than it has any right to be? That the sight of you in his hoodie is doing things to him that he absolutely cannot examine right now?
"No, it's fine." His mouth is dry. When did his mouth get dry? "Keep it."
"Good," you reply, grin widening. "'Cause I wasn't giving it back anyway."
There’s a teasing lilt to it that Steve feels low in his gut. Or lower than his gut. Somewhere he’s definitely not supposed to be feeling things about his roommate, his friend, the person who should feel safe and comfortable in her own home without him losing his mind over a fucking hoodie.
But God, you turn back to the stove and Steve can’t stop watching. Even as you start chattering to him about dinner, about your day, something that would normally have him leaning against the counter asking questions, he's not hearing your words anymore. Instead, Steve's gaze drops without permission, returning to the way the hoodie shifts when you move, how it rides up when you reach for the spice cabinet and shows more of how those shorts cling to your ass.
He takes a step closer without meaning to. Then another. Close enough now that your scent hits him properly and floods his senses - that particular sweetness he associates with you, but underneath it, woven through, is him. His scent.
You smell like you've wrapped yourself in him, like you're marked with it, and the possessive bolt of heat that shoots through Steve nearly buckles his knees. His fingers curl into fists at his sides, jaw clenching as his body responds with alarming intensity to something as simple as you wearing his clothes.
The kitchen feels too small suddenly - too hot, the air too thick, and Steve can't seem to get enough oxygen to his brain. No prizes for guessing where else it's heading.
And the heat under his skin, that constant low simmer since he left the compound, suddenly cranks up to something that makes him lightheaded. His jeans are getting tight, his cock beginning to harden. And there's this clawing need building in his chest that he doesn't know what to do with, doesn't know how to control.
Of course, it's not new, the attraction.
He's been attracted to you since you moved in six months ago. Since Sam had shoved your number at him and told him his apartment was depressing and lonely and that he needed a roommate. Since you'd shown up with boxes stacked in your arms and made some joke about not being a serial killer that surprised a laugh out of him.
Living with you has been comfortable in a way he hadn't expected, all casual dinners and movie nights and inside jokes. And yes, maybe he's spent more time than he'd like to admit thinking about what it might be like to close that distance, to make this more than friendly, to kiss you.
But Steve's not stupid. Asking you out could ruin everything. Could make you uncomfortable in your own home, make you feel like you had to say yes because of who he is, or worse, make you feel like you had to leave if you said no. The risk of destroying this easy, comfortable thing you've built together isn't worth it, no matter how many times Sam and Bucky tell him he's being an idiot and should just ask you to dinner already.
And yet, now his body doesn't seem to care. It's like every nerve ending in his body has suddenly rewired itself to point at you like a compass finding north. Something that's making his hands shake and his brain offer up increasingly detailed images of what he could do if he just closed the distance between you, if he just reached out and—
"Steve? Are you even listening to me?"
Your voice cuts through the spiral once again and he realizes you've been talking. You've turned back to look at him, and your eyebrows are doing that thing where they draw together with worry.
"You look really flushed." You're studying him now, concern sharpening in your eyes, and then you're moving toward him. "And you're kind of just... standing there like something's wrong."
Your hand comes up, and the second your fingers make contact with his forearm, Steve jerks back like you've burned him. Nearly trips over his own feet putting distance between you. The brief touch sends electricity straight through him, and his cock responds immediately, twitching and thickening in his jeans until they feel obscenely tight. He shifts his stance, angles his body slightly away, desperately trying to hide what's becoming impossible to conceal.
This is insane. He's going insane.
Your eyes are darting over his face now, head tilted in that way you do when you're trying to figure him out, and there's genuine worry written across your features. Everything about it - you being this close, smelling like him, looking up at him with those big, concerned eyes - is making everything exponentially worse. The ache low in his gut intensifies, spreading outward until his whole body feels like a live wire.
"Steve, are you okay?" you ask, and he makes the mistake of watching your lips form the words. "You're really worrying me."
"Yeah." His voice comes out wrecked, barely recognizable. He clears his throat, trying again. "Fine. Just tired."
"Are you sure?" You take another step closer and Steve's back hits the doorframe. "You're sweating. Like, a lot. And you're breathing hard."
He is. He can feel it now, a bead of it running down his temple. And his t-shirt is sticking to his spine despite the fact that the apartment isn't remotely warm. What the fuck was happening to him? His skin feels wrong. Too tight. Prickling with something that's not quite pain but certainly is more than uncomfortable. Every nerve ending feels raw and oversensitive.
His jacket is still on and it's unbearable, too tight across his shoulders and trapping heat against his skin. He needs it off.
"I'm fine," he lies, and even he can hear how strained it sounds. "Just—I need a shower."
"A shower?" Your frown deepens. "Steve, maybe we should call Bruce or someone, you're clearly not—"
"I'm fine." It comes out harsher than he meant it to, and he watches you flinch. Fuck. Fuck, he's making this so much worse. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I just—it's just muscle tension. From the mission. My muscles are sore and the serum makes me run hot sometimes, you know that, and I just need—a cold shower will help, it'll help cool me down and—"
He's babbling. He knows he's babbling, throwing out excuse after excuse while you stared at him like you'd never seen him before, like he's a stranger wearing Steve Rogers' face, but he can't seem to stop.
"The mission was intense," he continues frantically, needing you to believe him, needing you to stop looking so worried. "Lots of close combat and I'm just—I'm tense. All my muscles are tense. A shower will help. Just need to cool down and relax."
He turns and practically flees down the hallway, before he can say what he really needs - you, spread out beneath him, wrapped around him, making sounds he's only let himself imagine in his weakest, most shameful moments when his hand is on his cock in the dark and he pretends it's you touching him instead.
Steve stumbles into his bedroom and straight through to the en-suite, shutting the door and leaning against it like something's chasing him. His reflection in the mirror looks frantic. Face flushed dark, pupils blown so wide, chest heaving. His lips look fuller somehow, plumper and pinker, like he's been biting them without realizing.
Guilt churns in his gut alongside the relentless heat. He'd scared you. Snapped at you when all you'd done was try to help. Made you worry. Been completely fucking weird and now you probably think he's losing his mind.
Maybe he is.
Because he's so hard it actually hurts. His cock is straining against his jeans, thick and aching, pressing against the zipper unbearably. He can feel his pulse in it, each throb sending a jolt of sensation through him that was equal parts pleasure and agony. When he shifts his weight, the friction of denim against sensitive skin makes him bite back a groan.
He's never felt like this. This desperate, all-consuming need that won't quit no matter how much he tries to think it away, logic it away, force it down with sheer willpower.
Sweat runs down his temple, his neck. The leather jacket is still on and Steve tears it off with shaking hands, letting it drop to the floor. It doesn't help. Everything still feels too hot, too tight, like his skin has shrunk two sizes and doesn't fit his body anymore.
Steve's fingers fumble with his belt, clumsy in a way they never are. They're shaking now, struggling with the simple mechanics of a belt buckle while his cock throbs insistently behind the zipper.
He gets it open finally, pops the button on his jeans, and the relief of pressure is so immediate and intense that he has to brace one hand against the sink. But it's not enough. Not even close. He shoves the jeans down his hips and they catch on his thighs - still damp with sweat, fabric clinging - and Steve has to peel them off with more force than should be necessary.
His boxer briefs are tented obscenely, a wet patch of precum already visible at the tip, and Steve can't even meet his own reflection in the mirror.
The shirt comes off next, pulled over his head and discarded without ceremony. His dog tags clink against his chest, metal warm from his overheated skin. Every piece of clothing that comes off should make him feel better, cooler, but it doesn't. If anything, being bare makes him more aware of how wrong everything feels. The hypersensitivity of his skin, the way even air movement feels like too much stimulus.
Steve hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his boxer briefs, and just the brush of fabric as he moves pulls a sound from his throat he doesn't recognize. When he shoves them down, his cock springs free, completely erect and already leaking.
This isn't normal. Even for him, even with the serum's effect on his libido, this is excessive. Steve looks down at himself and feels something close to shame.
Turning away from the mirror, Steve reaches into the shower, cranking the cold tap as far as it will go. He steps in the moment the water starts flowing and the cold hits him like a physical shock. For a blessed moment, it cuts through everything else. His overheated skin welcomes the icy spray like a mercy, the temperature difference sharp enough to make him gasp in relief. Steve braces his hands against the tile, head hanging under the stream, and tries to breathe through it.
Tries to think about anything other than you. Anything other than your scent and your touch and the sight of you in those shorts and his hoodie.
The water runs over his shoulders, down his spine, plastering his hair to his forehead. It should help. But his cock is still hard. Still throbbing. And as the initial shock of cold fades, the heat comes creeping back. That insistent burning under his skin that the water isn't touching.
Steve squeezes his eyes shut and immediately regrets it.
Because his mind is flooded with images of you leaning over the counter in those tight little shorts, making dinner. And his traitorous brain doesn't stop there, it keeps going, imagining you in that same position but for different reasons, imagining him behind you, imagining his hands shoving that fabric out of the way to find you wet and needy for him.
"Fuck," he hisses through clenched teeth.
His cock throbs in response, another bead of precum forming at the tip despite the freezing water, despite the fact that he's actively trying not to think about you. He looks down at himself - still achingly hard, heavy between his legs - and feels another wave of confused arousal crash through him that makes his knees weak.
Maybe it's just because it's been so long?
Steve tries to think back to the last time he actually took care of himself. Weeks? No, longer than that. A month at least, maybe two. He's been so focused on missions, on taking down HYDRA bases, on being Captain America, that he hasn't exactly had time for anything "extracurricular."
This is probably the longest he's gone without any kind of release since waking up from the ice.
The serum amplified everything about him, including ramping up his sex drive to levels that had taken some getting used to. Back in the forties, right after the transformation, he'd been blindsided by it. Suddenly he'd gone from Steve Rogers who could barely keep a girl's attention to someone who had urges that were damn near overwhelming.
He'd had to learn to manage it, to deal with needs that were sharper and more insistent than anything a normal man experienced. So he'd figured out his body's rhythms, what it needed, how often. Learned to take care of himself efficiently and move on.
Except now he's apparently pushed too far, gone too long, and his enhanced biology is making its displeasure violently known.
That has to be it. Has to be why he's reacting like this. Not because something's wrong, but because he's pent up and his body is responding to deprivation the way the serum makes it respond to everything: excessively.
And you. God, you in those shorts, in his hoodie, being so sweet and domestic, had just been the trigger. The match to kindling that had been building for weeks.
It's not pervy. It's just biology. Enhanced biology, biology nonetheless. So if he just takes care of it, he'll be fine. The need will ease, his head will clear, and he can go back out there and have dinner like a normal person instead of someone who can barely look at his roommate without getting hard.
Steve's hand drifts down his stomach almost without conscious thought, and when his fingers wrap around his cock he can't stop the groan that rumbles from his chest. The touch sends electricity up his spine, pleasure so intense it's almost painful after being hard and neglected for so long.
He strokes slowly at first, testing, and his head falls back against the tile with a dull thunk. The cold water streams over his chest but he doesn't feel it anymore. All his focus narrows to the heat building in his core, the slick slide of his fist over sensitized skin, the way his cock throbs with every stroke like it's been waiting for this.
And in his thoughts, you're there.
Steve's grip tightens involuntarily and he strokes faster, chasing friction, telling himself to think about something else, anything else. But his mind won't cooperate. It just keeps offering up increasingly vivid fantasies: what you'd look like without his hoodie, whether you were wearing anything under those shorts, if you'd be wet if he checked, if you ever touched yourself in your room late at night thinking about—
"Shit—," he curses, the sound echoing off the shower tiles.
God, what would you sound like? The question burrows into his brain and won't let go. Would you whimper? Moan his name? Would you be loud or would you try to stay quiet, biting your lip the way you do when you're concentrating? Would you beg? He thinks you might. Thinks you might say his name all breathy and desperate while he slowly thrusts into you, feeling you stretch around his cock inch by inch.
A low groan builds in his chest and Steve has to bite down on his lip so hard that he tastes copper. You're just in the kitchen. The walls aren't that thick. And the thought of you hearing him like this should horrify him but instead it sends another bolt of heat straight through his gut.
Steve's free hand slaps against the tile, bracing himself as his knees threaten to give out.
His cock is leaking steadily now, precum making the slide slick and easy, as his hand speeds up, rhythm getting rougher, chasing the sensation. And Steve can't stop imagining it's your hand instead of his. Your smaller fingers wrapped around him, struggling to fit around his girth, looking up at him with those eyes while you learn exactly how he likes to be touched.
Or better yet, your mouth. Fuck, your mouth. Those pretty lips he'd caught himself staring at stretched around his cock, your tongue sliding along the underside, taking him deeper while he threads his fingers through your hair, guiding you, feeling your moans vibrate around him.
A strangled sound escapes his throat before he can stop it, and Steve has to sink his teeth into his shoulder to muffle it. He's so wound up, weeks of neglect and pent-up need making him hair-trigger sensitive. His hips thrust forward into his fist, searching for more friction, more pressure, chasing the orgasm building at the base of his spine with alarming speed.
This is wrong. This is so fucking wrong. You're his friend, his roommate, someone who trusts him enough to live with him and wear his clothes and worry when he seems off. And here he is jerking off to fantasies of fucking your face. While you wait for him to come back for dinner.
But he can't stop. Can't make his mind go blank or think of anything else.
"Fuck—" His forearm isn't enough to muffle it and Steve bites down on his own arm as his orgasm slams through him. "Oh god, fuck—"
His cock pulses in his grip, and your name tears from his throat. Thick ropes of cum paint the shower wall, more than seems possible. The serum already makes him produce more than normal, but this is excessive even for him. It's almost painful in its intensity, pleasure so sharp it makes his legs shake, and he has to brace both hands against the wall to stay upright while it works through him.
For a few blissful seconds, pleasure drowns out every other sensation in his body
Then reality crashes back in, and with it comes the guilt.
Steve stares at the evidence of his release being washed away by the spray, chest heaving, and feels the shame burn through him hotter than the need had been.
"Jesus Christ," he mutters, scrubbing both hands over his face. "What the fuck is wrong with me?"
But even as guilt churns heavy in his gut, even as he tells himself he's disgusting and inappropriate and a terrible friend, he looks down and his stomach drops. He's still hard. Not just half-hard, not softening. Fully, achingly erect like he hadn't just had one of the most intense orgasms of his life. The relief he'd expected, the clarity that should have come, was nowhere to be found.
Steve stares in disbelief. The serum gives him a faster refractory period than normal, sure, but this? This isn't normal. Even for him.
He wraps a hand around himself experimentally and has to bite back a groan. The touch sends sparks through his overloaded nerves, pleasure bordering on unbearable, but underneath it the need is still there. Still clawing at his insides, unsatisfied and demanding more.
If anything, the ache in his gut feels worse now. More insistent. Like his body is genuinely angry that he came and it wasn't inside you, that it was his hand and not your body taking it, not your pussy clenching around him and milking him dry.
"No," Steve says out loud, voice hard like he's ordering a subordinate. Like he can command his own body back into line through sheer force of will. "Stop it."
This can't be just pent-up sexual frustration. Something else is happening. Something must've happened at that Hydra base. It has to that - the dust. The way it had hung in the air, gotten in his lungs, made him cough like his body was rejecting it. What if it wasn't just particulate irritation? What if HYDRA had something in that lab, some kind of bioweapon that got into his system?
Steve's jaw clenches. He should call Bruce. Should've called him an hour ago instead of convincing himself this was normal. Bruce would run tests, figure out what he'd been exposed to, synthesize a counter-agent if needed. Or Tony. Tony has access to SHIELD's entire database on HYDRA weapons, might recognize the symptoms.
But the thought of making that call, of trying to explain, "Hey, I can't stop thinking about fucking my roommate, I'm hard enough to cut diamond, and I just jerked off in the shower while moaning her name," makes him want to die. Tony would never let him live it down, would make jokes about it for the rest of Steve's natural life.
He'd probably tell Natasha, who would tell Clint, and then the entire team would know that Captain America got dosed with some kind of HYDRA sex drug and spent the evening jerking off to thoughts of his roomate.
Maybe it'll pass on its own. The serum processes toxins faster than a normal metabolism; whatever this is might just need time to work through his system. He can get through dinner, make some excuse about not feeling well, go to bed early. Wake up tomorrow back to normal.
Turning off the water with more force than necessary, Steve reaches for a towel. Even the act of drying off feels like too much. The terry cloth dragging across his oversensitized skin makes him grit his teeth. He manages his chest and arms with rough, perfunctory swipes, but when the towel brushes his cock he actually hisses, the sensation sharp enough to make his vision blur.
He abandons the towel halfway through, still damp, and pulls his boxers back on, hissing at the friction of fabric against sensitive skin. The compression just makes him more aware of his situation. He's tenting the boxers obscenely, the outline of his erection impossible to miss, a damp spot already forming again where he's leaking. There's no hiding this. No way to pretend everything's fine when his body is advertising exactly how not-fine he is.
And the thought of putting anything else on makes his overheated skin crawl. Maybe he could manage sweatpants. Loose ones that won't cling. And then he'll return to the kitchen, try and act normal for dinner.
Steve takes a breath that doesn't quite fill his lungs, braces himself, and opens the bathroom door.
You're in his bedroom.
Standing there with frozen peas in one hand, and a pill bottle and bottle of water in the other. The shock of it - you, here, in his space when he's barely holding himself together, when he's standing here in nothing but his boxers with his cock still straining obscenely against the fabric - roots him to the spot. Your head snaps up at the sound of the door, eyes going wide.
"Oh! Sorry, you'd been a while and you were so weird earlier and I got worried..."
The words trail off. Steve watches it happen, the way your gaze catches on his bare, dripping chest. You're trying to be subtle, he thinks, trying to make it look clinical, concerned, but there's nothing clinical about the way your focus catches on the water beaded across his chest.
Your lips part slightly as you track a single droplet running down his sternum, over the defined ridges of his abs, following its path like you're memorizing it until it disappears into the waistband of his boxers.
And then your gaze drops lower.
Steve watches your pupils dilate the moment you see what’s impossible to miss, impossible to misinterpret. Time stretches. Your breath hitches just loud enough for him to hear, and neither of you moves.
"I thought—" Your voice comes out different. Breathier. You swallow so hard he can see your throat work. "I thought these might help. For your muscles."
You hold up the peas and pills like they explain why you're in his bedroom, but your gaze hasn't moved back to his face. It's still tracking over him - shoulders, chest, the V of muscle at his hips - and Steve can see the flush creeping up your neck in real time.
He should grab something to cover himself, should apologize, should do literally anything other than just stand there letting you look at him like that.
You start rambling now, that nervous spillover of words you do when you're flustered. "Frozen peas for the soreness, and Bruce made these painkillers specifically for your metabolism, remember? For when—"
"You didn't have to do that." His voice sounds like gravel.
"Sorry," you say quietly, and your eyes finally drag back up to his face. "I'm just… you really scared me earlier. I've never seen you like that."
The concern in your voice is palpable. But then you shift your weight and he catches the way your gaze dips again, just for a second. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips - unconscious, he's sure, but it doesn't matter because the sight of it sends heat straight through him so fast it makes his head spin.
Did you hear him? In the shower? Is that why you came to his room? Because you heard your name, heard what he was doing? The thought should mortify him. Should make him want to disappear through the floor. Instead, his cock gives an interested twitch that he knows you can see.
"Steve?"
Your voice pulls him back. You've moved closer. When did that happen? The peas and water are on his nightstand now and you're right there, close enough that when Steve pulls in his next breath, your scent floods his senses again. But there's something else now. Something sweeter, headier, that makes his enhanced senses lock onto you like a target.
Arousal.
You're aroused. The realization slams into him with physical force. He can smell it on you, subtle but unmistakable, and every instinct in his body that's been screaming at him all evening suddenly focuses with laser precision on that single fact.
"You're still really flushed," you say, and your voice has gone soft. Worried. "And you're breathing so hard. Are you sure nothing's wrong?"
Everything's wrong. You're too close and you smell too good and he can see your pulse fluttering in your throat and all he can think about is closing that last foot of distance and finding out if you taste as good as you smell.
"I'm fine," Steve lies, and it might be the most blatant one yet.
You turn to face him fully, and the genuine worry etched in your features makes his chest tight for different reasons.
"You do so much, Stevie," you probe, and the nickname lands like a caress. "You hold so much in. You've been working so hard lately, mission after mission." You step closer and Steve's breath catches, every muscle in his body going rigid with the effort of staying still. "I'm worried about you. If there's anything I can do to help, anything at all, please tell me. I'll do it."
Anything at all.
Steve's mind immediately offers up about a dozen graphic answers to that - vivid, explicit images of exactly what you could do to help, each one more detailed than the last. He has to close his eyes against the onslaught, has to physically fight back the thoughts of your mouth on him, your body under his, the sounds you'd make if he just gave in and took what his body is screaming for.
You don't mean it like that. You're just being kind, being a good friend, offering comfort the way you always do. You have no idea what's running through his head right now, how close he is to snapping.
"You don't—" His voice cracks and he has to clear his throat, has to force the words out. "You don't need to worry about me."
But you're not listening, or maybe you're just too concerned to care about his protests, because your hand comes up toward his face and Steve's reflexes take over before his brain can catch up. His hand shoots out and catches your wrist mid-air, and the second skin touches skin everything goes white-hot.
The touch sears through him like lightning. He can feel your pulse under his fingertips, quick and fluttering, can feel the softness of your skin, and it takes every ounce of willpower he possesses not to yank you against him right then and there.
"Let me see," you protest, and before Steve can process the words you're pulling your wrist free of his grip. A determined tug that his lust-addled brain doesn't think to resist. Both of your palms come up to cup his face, cool against his burning skin.
Steve's lungs stop working. Your hands on his jaw, your thumbs at his temples, the way you're studying him with those worried eyes while standing close enough that he can see the individual flecks of colour in your iris is obliterating what's left of his control. "Oh my god, you're burning up. Steve, you're literally…"
He can't hear the rest. Can't process words when your hands are on his face and your arousal is flooding his senses and the coil of need in his gut has pulled so tight he thinks it might actually snap him in half. All he can think about is grabbing your wrists, pulling you flush against him, finding out if your mouth tastes as good as he's imagined when he finally stops being careful and takes what he wants.
Your fingers move to his neck - checking his pulse - and Steve stops breathing entirely. His cock throbs so hard it's painful and he can feel his control dissolving like sugar in water, going from solid to nothing in seconds.
He needs. God, he needs. Needs to touch you, taste you, needs to rip those tiny shorts off and find out if you're as wet as you smell, needs to bury himself inside you until this relentless burning finally stops, needs to pin you to his bed and fuck you until you're screaming his name and all of a sudden he can't remember why he was fighting this in the first place.
"I'm calling Bruce—"
"No!"
The word comes out too loud, too violent, and Steve watches you jump. He's scaring you again and he hates it but he can't stop, can't make himself be gentle when his whole body is screaming.
"You need to leave." The words sound strangled, barely human. His control is hanging by a thread and that thread is unravelling fast. "Please. You need to go. Right now."
"What? No, Stevie, I'm not leaving when you're clearly—"
"Please." It comes out like a whine, and some distant part of Steve registers that he's begging but he's too far gone to care about pride or dignity anymore.
He takes a step back, needing distance before he does something unforgivable. "You don't—you don't understand. You need to go back to your room. Lock the door. Don't come near me."
Your expression shifts to hurt and confusion, brow furrowing in that way that makes his chest ache even through the haze of need. "Why? Steve, I just want to help!"
"You can't help with this!" Too sharp, too harsh, and he watches you flinch like he's struck you. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, just—please just go. Please."
"You're scaring me." Your voice comes out small and it kills him, absolutely kills him. "Just tell me what's wrong. Whatever it is, we can figure it out togeth—"
"I can't stop thinking about you." The confession tears out of him before he can stop it, raw and desperate and too honest. "I can't—fuck, I've been trying, I've been trying so hard to hold it together but I can't think straight and all I want—all I can think about is—"
He cuts himself off with a harsh breath but it's too late. The truth is out there now, hanging in the air between you like something physical.
You stare at him with your eyes wide, and Steve can see your chest rising and falling rapidly. Can see the exact moment his words register. The shock flickering across your face, then understanding, then something that looks dangerously close to want. Your scent spikes so sharply it makes his knees weak, that sweet arousal flooding his senses until he can barely think through it.
"Steve," you breathe, and there's something in your voice he's never heard before. Something breathless and urgent.
You take a step closer. Then another. Your hand comes up to rest against his chest, right over his hammering heart, and Steve's breath stops entirely. He can feel the tremble in your fingers, can see the way your eyes flick to his lips, and he knows with sudden, devastating certainty what you're about to do.
You push up on your toes, tilting your face toward his, close enough that he can feel your breath ghost across his lips, and Steve's last thread of control frays to nothing.
Lunging that last inch, he captures your mouth in a kiss that tries, briefly, to be gentle - some buried instinct trying for something tender, wanting to do this right. But the moment your lips part under his, a deep rumbling growl tears up from his throat and his hands are suddenly everywhere. One hand fists in your hair, gripping tight to angle your head exactly where he needs it, while the other clamps onto your waist. Tight enough that you know you'll feel the imprint of his fingers tomorrow.
God, you want to feel it tomorrow.
He yanks you flush to his body and you stumble into him with a gasp that's his undoing. Your mouth opens for him and Steve takes immediate advantage, greedy for it, greedy for every breath you'll give him, tilting his head to seal his mouth over yours properly.
His tongue sweeps past your lips to finally taste you properly, and you're even sweeter than every fantasy promised. Better than anything he imagined in that shower with his hand on his cock and your name in his throat.
When he sucks your bottom lip between his teeth and releases it slowly, you make this small wounded sound that goes straight to his cock. You feel it twitch against your stomach through the thin cotton of his boxers, and he's so big, so overwhelming, radiating heat and the salt musk smell of his sweat that makes your head spin and your thighs clench.
Heat floods his system at the knowledge that you can feel how hard he is, how much he wants you. And he knows he can't satisfy the clawing need in his gut through your mouth alone.
Steve tears himself away from your mouth and every cell in his body revolts violently like he's ripping off his own skin. A needy little protest escapes you as you chase after him without thought, lips wet and swollen and so devastatingly pretty he almost stops caring.
"You don't," The words come out between ragged pants, his voice wrecked, barely recognizable as his own. "You don't understand." His chest heaves against yours, breath coming hard and fast as he presses his forehead to yours, hand still fisted tight in your hair because letting go simply isn't something his body knows how to do anymore. "I'm not in control right now. I don't know if I can be gentle. Don't know if I can stop once I start—"
"Then don't stop," you whisper against his lips, and your hand slides up his chest to curl around the back of his neck. "Take what you need, Steve."
And there’s no universe, no timeline where Steve Rogers could survive hearing that from your mouth, not even if he were perfectly himself.
His last thread of restraint frays to nothing.
Steve's mouth crashes back into yours with bruising intensity, all desperate hunger and zero control. You open for him instantly, no hesitation, just pure wanting, and the primal satisfaction that rolls through his chest is almost violent in its intensity.
Then his arms slide down to grip your thighs, fingers digging into soft flesh as he hauls you up against him like you weigh nothing. You're so light in his grip, so easy to position exactly where he wants you, and the rush of it - the physical proof of how easily he can manhandle you - sends a dark thrill surging through him. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively and your body moulds to his perfectly, soft curves yielding to hard muscle, and he can feel everything.
The frantic beat of your heart hammering against his chest. The clench of your thighs around his hips. The damp heat between your legs settling right against his cock through the layers separating you, and it makes him throb so hard he groans into your mouth.
But still, it's not enough. He needs you impossibly closer, needs to consume every inch of space between you. One hand shifts to palm your ass with a possessive squeeze that makes you whimper and roll your hips against him. It's an instinctive, needy grind that drags your core along the length of his still covered cock.
"Steve, please," you whine against his mouth. "I need—"
Your desperation makes Steve's pupils blow completely black, swallowing the blue entirely. He turns and presses you against the wall, pinning you there with the weight of his hips, using the solid surface to hold you exactly where he wants you.
"God, I know, sweetheart. I know you do," he rasps against your neck, teeth scraping your pulse point. "Tried to be good. Tried not to think about this. But so damn sweet I can’t think straight." His hands tighten on you possessively, fingers digging into flesh. "'m gonna take care of you now, I promise. Gonna make you feel perfect. Gonna stretch you open on my cock and fill you up until you can't take anymore. Fill you up so good you'll feel me for days."
Heat curls low and tight in your belly at his filthy promise, and your body reacts instinctively, clenching around nothing so sharply that a needy little moan slips out before you can stop it. Your fingers clutch at his bare shoulders, desperate for something to anchor yourself against the overwhelming reality of finally having him like this.
All that heated muscles under your palms, slick with sweat. He’s so much bigger like this, crowding every inch of space you have, caging you in, and your head swims with the sheer physicality of him.
But it’s the heavy, hard length of his cock grinding against you through thin cotton that nearly undoes you. Thick and insistent, pressed exactly where you’re throbbing for him, dragging against you with every subtle shift of his hips. The friction makes your breath stutter, your thighs tightening helplessly around him, trying to draw him even closer, to get more of that impossible, intoxicating pressure.
Steve moves with urgency that borders on frantic, carrying you the few steps to his bed and laying you down with slightly more care than the desperation vibrating through his body would suggest. But the second you're on the mattress, that restraint evaporates. He follows you down like he's magnetised, covering your body with his.
Heat radiates off him in waves, overwhelming, consuming. His breath fans over your cheek, uneven and ragged, and when his hips slot between yours, you feel just how hard he is. Thick, straining against the thin cotton of his boxers like he’s seconds from losing his mind entirely.
"Jesus," he groans, almost a choke, forehead dropping to your shoulder as if the contact alone might save him. "I need—sweetheart, I need you, I need you so bad."
He kisses you again, harder this time, nothing gentle left in him. His mouth is hot, frantic, stealing your breath as his hands slide over you in frantic sweeps, already pulling at your clothes. It's rougher than he intends - though he’s trying, god he’s trying - but whatever is burning through him is stronger than his control.
His hoodie is the first causality, tugged over your head and tossed aside without care for where it lands. Immediately his mouth is on your bare skin, lips and teeth working down your throat to your collarbone while his hands slide up to cup your breasts through the thin bralet.
The delicate fabric does nothing to hide your peaked nipples straining against it, and the sight combined with the feel of them hard beneath his palms makes him groan low and desperate against your skin. His fingers hook under the elastic, pulling it up with greedy, impatient hands before it can register that he should probably slow down, be more careful with you.
But he can't. His mouth trails lower, hot and demanding as he sucks one nipple between his lips, tongue circling the sensitive peak before his teeth graze it lightly, teasing. Your fingers thread into his hair, tugging. He groans at the sting of it and sucks harder, alternating between your breasts with ravenous attention. Licking, sucking, nipping until both nipples are peaked and glistening with his spit, until you're squirming beneath him and making those breathy little sounds that drive him insane.
His hand palms and kneads the soft flesh while his mouth works, and every arch of your back, every tug on his hair, every whining plea that falls from your lips just winds him tighter. Normally could spend hours here, mapping every response, learning exactly what makes you fall apart.
But it's not enough right now. None of it is enough.
The need burning through Steve's veins is almost painful now, an ache so deep and consuming he can barely think past it. He needs more. Needs all of you. Needs to be inside you with an urgency that's rapidly shredding what little control he has left.
His mouth trails down your stomach, open-mouthed kisses that quickly become bites, small sucks that leave wet heat on your skin. He’s losing the thread of gentleness entirely, hands already at your shorts, fumbling with the waistband for half a second before impatience overrides coordination entirely.
He doesn't mean to - or maybe he does, he can't think straight enough to know - but his enhanced strength rips through the fabric like tissue paper, taking your panties with it. The startled sound you make is half protest, half arousal, because the ease of it, the sheer strength, makes heat pulse between your legs.
"Steve—!"
"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he rasps into your skin as he chucks the ruined scraps aside. "I'm sorry, I'll replace them, I promise, I just—" His hands grip your thighs, spreading them wider for him. "I need—I can't—"
But the words die in his throat completely because the sight of your pussy, slick and glistening for him, combined with your scent flooding his heightened senses, makes something in Steve's brain simply stop working. Every coherent thought evaporates, consumed by primal need. He's gone. Completely lost to whatever's burning through his veins.
All that exists is the need to taste you, claim you, bury himself so deep inside you that he forgets where he ends and you begin.
"Look at you," Steve breathes, tongue flicking out to wet his bottom lip absently, like he can already taste you. "So fucking pretty and wet for me."
His biceps flex as he drags you down the bed effortlessly, hauling you closer with enough strength that a startled gasp tears from your throat. Your thighs end up over those broad shoulders and he settles between your legs like he's exactly where he's meant to be. His breath ghosts hot over where you're aching for him and you arch involuntarily, seeking and retreating all at once.
He's staring at your exposed pussy with an intensity that borders on feral, like you're something he wants to devour. Like's he's been starving for you longer than he'll admit.
Your cheeks burn. Heat pools low in your stomach as you try to squirm away under the intensity of his gaze, suddenly hyperaware of how exposed you are despite how desperately you want this.
"Don't," he growls against your folds, the word a dark, commanding rasp in a tone you've never heard from him before but makes heat flash down your spine.
His arms clamp tighter around your thighs, spreading you wider, pinning you in place easily. Utterly at his mercy. The possessive dominance of his grip steals what little breath you have left.
Then his mouth seals over you and any coherent thought you have dissolves into nothing. There's no teasing; whatever's burning through Steve's veins has burned away every shred of patience. He buries his face between your thighs and devours you like a man who'll die without his mouth on every inch of you.
His tongue drags through your folds in one long, devastating stroke that punches a broken cry from your chest that you barely recognize as your own voice. Steve's answering moan is one of pure relief, rumbling from deep in his chest and vibrating against your cunt. Your hips buck helplessly in his arms as he licks and sucks with focused, consuming desperation, and within seconds you're gasping his name.
Broad strokes of his tongue work through your slick folds, greedy in his pursuit of your pleasure and you're writhing against him, biceps flexing to keep you where he wants you. He finds your clit and sucks it between his lips with perfect pressure, circling the swollen bud with his tongue, and you grind against him shamelessly, fingers twisted so tight in his hair it has to hurt.
But Steve just groans his encouragement and you feel it everywhere, feel the way he's grinding against the mattress below seeking his own friction, aching for a bit of relief from the pressure, while he loses himself completely in the taste of you.
God, the sight of him. All flushed skin and flexing muscle, sweat making his broad shoulders gleam, chin glistening obscenely with your arousal. And those perfect plush lips are pink and swollen now, parted around another appreciative moan that makes you clench around nothing. His eyes are closed like he's savouring you, and when they flutter open to meet yours they're so dark and blown wide with need it sends another pulse of heat straight through you.
The flat of his tongue drags up again, licking up through your folds before spearing inside, and the obscene wet sounds of it mix with your gasping moans and his rough growls. One of his hands shifts from your thigh to spread you wider with his thumb, opening you up so he can fuck you with his tongue properly while his nose grinds against your clit.
The combination makes your back arch violently, pleasure spiking so sharp and quickly it's overwhelming.
"Steve—fuck—Steve, oh my god—" The words tumble out incoherent, your brain shorting out under the onslaught.
But he doesn't slow down. If anything, your babbling spurs him on. Two thick fingers slide into you, curling immediately to stroke that devastating spot while his tongue works in tight, merciless circles.You're shaking now, thighs trembling uncontrollably in his bruising grip, that coil winding tighter and tighter until you think you'll actually break apart from it.
"Need you to come," he rasps against you, and there's desperation in his voice that matches the frantic grinding of his hips against the bed, like making you come is the only thing keeping him tethered to sanity. "Please, sweet girl, need to have it."
The raw pleading in his voice is what does it. That broken desperation, the way he's begging you like he needs this more than air, sends you over the edge so hard and fast you don't even have time to warn him.
Your orgasm crashes through you like a tidal wave, violent and all-consuming. Your back arches clean off the bed, thighs clamping around Steve's head as you cry out his name - or try to, the sound coming out more like a broken sob. White-hot pleasure explodes through your nerve endings, radiating out from where his mouth is still working you relentlessly, and you can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything except shake apart in his grip.
But Steve doesn't let up. He keeps his mouth sealed over you, licking and sucking like he wants to devour every aftershock, like he's trying to pull more from you even as you're already flying apart. It's too much, bordering on overwhelming, but when you try to squirm away his arms lock you down harder.
"Stevie—'s too much—I can't—"
He finally pulls back just enough to press open-mouthed kisses to your inner thighs, your hipbones, working his way up your body as you try to remember how to breathe. His hands roam restlessly over your skin and when he reaches your face his lips are glistening, hair dishevelled from your grip, face flushed and chest heaving.
"Perfect, you're so fucking perfect," he rasps against your mouth, kissing you deeply enough that you taste yourself on his tongue. "But I need to be in you, need it more than I've ever needed anything." His hips grind against you unconsciously, the hard length of him pressing insistently through his boxers, now soaked through. "Need it so bad I can't think, can't breathe. Please, pretty girl, need you so bad I'm losing my mind—"
He's already moving, pushing himself up just enough to shove his boxers down with shaking hands. The elastic catches on his cock and he makes a frustrated sound, yanking the fabric down his thighs and kicking them off entirely. When he springs free, your breath catches.
He's big. Thick and flushed dark, curving up toward his stomach with prominent veins running along the length. The head is already leaking, a bead of precum glistening at the tip, and he's so hard it looks almost painful. Your eyes widen involuntarily as your brain tries to process how that's supposed to fit inside you.
Steve notices your stare, follows your gaze down, and a sound rumbles from his chest that's pure male satisfaction. The visual does something to him, you can see it in the way his pupils dilate even further, the way his jaw clenches, the way the muscle ticks. How much bigger he is than you, how easily he could manhandle you, how small and vulnerable you look pinned beneath all that muscle and raw strength.
"It'll fit," he promises, voice rough and absolutely certain despite the tremor in his hands. He settles between your thighs, caging you in completely with his body, surrounding you with heat and want. "I know I'm big, sweetheart, but you can take me, 'm gonna make sure you do."
One hand drops between your bodies and the thick head of his cock drags through your folds, gathering your slick, and the sensation punches a desperate sound from both of you. Each time he rocks forward your hips chase the friction instinctively.
His mouth finds your neck, lips and tongue working over your pulse before he sucks with an impatience that you know will bruise. You gasp and tilt your head without thinking, offering more, and Steve groans his approval against your skin. Teeth scrape over the sensitive tendon before biting down hard enough to make you whimper, and he soothes the sting with his tongue only to move lower and do it again. Marking you deliberately. Claiming you.
He keeps talking in between - words tumbling out of him like he’s not even talking to you anymore, just spilling whatever delirious need is consuming him.
“Fuck…'m gonna stretch this pretty little pussy open on my cock,” he babbles, almost dazed, eyes locked on where he’s lining himself up with you. “Fill you up so good… so fucking full. You'll feel me for days, sweetheart. Days. Gonna make sure you never forget what it feels like to have me inside you."
He's so hot and hard against you, and when he notches himself at your entrance - just the tip of him pressing in - and even that has you whimpering at the stretch. Your arms fly up to wrap around his neck, nails digging into his shoulders as you try to anchor yourself against the overwhelming sensation.
Oh god—Steve—" It comes out high and shaky, almost a whine. "Please—"
The plea tears from your throat but you don't even know what you're begging for. For him to go slower? For more? For relief from the burning stretch that's somehow perfect and too much all at once?
"I know, baby, I know," Steve coos against your throat, pressing kisses between words, and there's that desperation threading through his voice again. "Shh, I've got you, pretty girl. Just breathe for me."
But even as he's soothing you his hips press forward incrementally, working himself deeper, and you can feel every thick inch as he pushes in and your body struggles to accommodate him. The stretch burns and you bury your face against his neck with a sound that's embarrassingly close to a sob.
"Wait—Steve, you're too big, I can't—"
"You can," he pants, his voice is strained, shaking with the monumental effort of going slow when everything in him is screaming to just thrust home, to bury himself completely in your wet heat. "You're doing so good f'me. So fucking good. Just a little more—fuck—just need you to take a little more."
His hands grip your hips tight enough to bruise, holding you still while he rocks forward another inch. You're so full already and he's not even halfway in yet, your body struggling to accommodate the sheer size of him, and the whine that tears from your throat makes him groan and press his forehead to yours.
"That's it, that's it," Steve breathes, kissing your jaw, your cheek, your temple - anywhere he can reach. "I know it's a lot, baby. But you're taking me so perfect. Look how good you're opening up for me." Another shallow thrust and you whimper against his mouth, nails raking down his back. "You're doing so perfect. Gonna make you feel so good, I promise. Just let me in, baby. Let me fill this tight little pussy up like you need."
The combination of his words and the relentless stretch is overwhelming in a way that makes your head spin and your nerve endings spark. Your body reacts instinctively, walls clenching tight around the thick length of him already inside you.
Feeling your wet cunt constrict around hi breaks whatever fragile restraint Steve had left. With a low, guttural sound he slams the rest of the way in, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust that punches the air from your lungs.
The cry that rips from you is sharp and broken - pain and pleasure so intense they're indistinguishable, blurring together into something that has you arching violently against him. You're so full you can barely breathe, stretched impossibly wide around him, and the sensation is so overwhelming you almost come from that alone.
Your walls flutter and clench around his length, desperately trying to adjust to the sheer size of him. Tears spring to your eyes, spilling over to track down your cheeks.
"Fuck—I'm sorry, I'm sorry—" Steve's voice cracks as he kisses frantically at your tears, lips pressing to your cheeks, your eyelids, the corner of your mouth. "I'm so sorry, pretty girl, I didn't mean to—you just felt so good, I couldn't—"
But even as he's apologizing his hips are already moving, pulling back and rocking into you with needy thrusts. He's not giving you time to adjust, can't seem to stop himself, his body operating on pure need now.
"So tight," he gasps against your skin. "So fucking perfect around me. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I just need—" Another thrust, deeper this time, and you sob against his shoulder. "Need you so bad. Can't stop. Please tell me you're okay, please."
You try to speak. Try to form words through the overwhelming sensation of being so impossibly full but your brain can't form coherent words. All that escapes is a pathetic, whimpering "Stevie."
It's all you can manage before he shifts his hips slightly, angling deeper, and on the very next thrust the blunt head of his cock grinds right against your g-spot.
Pleasure detonates through you so suddenly you can't even cry out, mouth falling open on a silent gasp as he thrusts into you again. Your eyes fly wide, a shocked gasp tearing from your throat as white-hot sensation explodes through every nerve ending.
You're coming before your brain can even register it's happening. Two thrusts, maybe three, and your orgasm rips through you like lightning.
Your whole body seizes, cunt clamping down violently around his cock as you gush around him, soaking his length and making the slide obscenely wet. The sounds falling from your lips are helpless and incoherent, your back arching clean off the bed as wave after wave of pleasure shorts out your brain completely.
"Fuck—oh fuck, that's it, that's it—" Steve's voice breaks on a groan as your walls spasm around him. "Good girl, such a good fucking girl, coming all over my cock—"
You can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything except convulse in his arms while your pussy milks his cock with desperate, rhythmic pulses that has Steve following you over the edge. With a guttural snarl he buries himself as deep as he can go as his cock throbs inside you, pulsing violently as the first rope of cum floods your pussy. Then another. And another. And it doesn't stop.
"Fuck—oh fuck!" Steve's voice breaks on a groan, hips grinding into you as he empties himself, and there's so much. Too much. Your walls are coated, flooded, completely painted white with his release, and he just keeps coming. Spurt after thick spurt filling you beyond capacity until you can actually feel it. Hot and excessive and so overwhelming your body can't contain it all.
"Steve—Steve—oh god." You try to squirm away instinctively, whimpering at the overwhelming sensation of being pumped so full. "I can't—there's too much, I can't—"
But Steve's hands lock onto your hips like a vice, fingers digging in bruisingly as he holds you in place and grinds you down harder onto his cock, forcing you to take more.
"Shh, shh, you can," he hushes against your neck, pushes you down harder onto him, forcing himself impossibly deeper even as his cock continues pulsing, and more cum floods into you. "You can take it, sweetheart. Take all of it. Every fucking drop, just a little more."
Cum starts leaking out around the thick base of him, even though he's still buried deep, still pulsing, still pumping more into you. It spills out of you despite how tightly your pussy is stretched around his length, dripping down your ass and pooling on the sheets beneath you.
"Please," You're babbling now, tears flowing freely as you shake your head helplessly. "Steve, please, 's so much, I'm so full."
"Fuck, you're dripping with it," Steve pants against your neck, hips still rocking through the aftershocks, trying to fuck his cum further into your already overflowing pussy. "Taking all of it. Every drop. Knew you could. Knew this sweet pussy was made for me, pretty girl."
His cock gives another violent pulse and you whimper helplessly, completely stuffed, cum sloshing inside you with every tiny shift of his hips.
Your limbs feel boneless, trembling with aftershocks, and you expect him to soften now, to give you both a moment to recover. But Steve doesn't slow down. Doesn't even pause. His cock is still rock-hard inside you and his hips keep moving - pulling back and thrusting in with the same urgent intensity, maybe even more now that you're slick with both your release and his excessive cum.
A broken whimper falls from your lips as oversensitized nerves spark with each thrust. You're so full, so overwhelmed, you can barely process that he's still going, still hard, still needing.
"I know, baby, I know—I'm sorry," He sounds almost pained, teeth scraping over your pulse point before biting down. "I'm sorry, I can't—fuck, just need one more from you—just one more, yeah? Need to feel this perfect pussy clench around me again. Can you do that for me? Please, baby, just one more."
His rhythm picks up, hips snapping forward with primal desperation. You can barely nod, can barely do anything except take it as he pounds into you, the wet obscene sounds of his cum squelching with every thrust filling the room alongside your breathless whimpers and his desperate groans.
But it's still not enough for him. With a frustrated snarl Steve pulls back, and before you can even whine at the loss of him, he's grabbing your legs, pushing them up and back. Your knees press to your chest as he folds you completely in half, and when he sinks back in this new angle has you seeing stars.
"Oh god—" The broken cry tears from your throat as he sinks back in, and he's so much deeper like this. Impossibly deeper.
"That's it—yes," Steve's voice is guttural as he starts moving again. "Need to get deeper, need to—fuck, you feel that? Feel how deep I am?"
You're completely pinned beneath him, folded in half and utterly helpless, unable to do anything but take the brutal pace he sets. The new position has gravity working against you too, his weight pressing you into the mattress, and you're babbling - words tumbling out that don't even make sense.
"Can't—oh god, Stevie, you're—'s too deep, I can't—fuck—s'good—please."
Your hands scrabble frantically at his back, nails digging in and dragging down, leaving angry red crescents that make him hiss and thrust harder.
Sweat drips from his temples onto your chest, your neck, and he leans down to lick it off with a groan, tongue dragging over your heated skin. His hips never stop that relentless grinding, working himself as deep as physics will allow. Driven by something beyond his control to keep fucking into your used, dripping pussy like his life depends on it.
"Taking me so well," he pants into your neck between messy kisses. "Look at you, so good for me. Letting me use this perfect cunt."
One of Steve's hands snakes down between your bodies, finding your clit, and the second his thumb makes contact you cry out - sharp and broken - because you're so oversensitive, swollen and puffy from two orgasms already
"Steve—no, I can't—can't again, 's too much."
"You can," he insists, and his fingers start circling that abused bundle of nerves with just enough pressure. "Can feel you getting tighter already. You're gonna come for me again, pretty girl. Need to feel you squeeze my cock one more time, please."
The stimulation is so intense you need to escape it. Every muscle in your body wants to flee the overwhelming sensation, but pinned beneath him like this there's nowhere to go, no way to twist away. You're utterly trapped, unable to do anything but take it. Take his cock pounding into you and his thumb working mercilessly over your puffy clit until pleasure starts building again despite your body's protests.
"Oh god, oh my god—Steve please." You're sobbing now, tears streaming as sensation builds too fast, too intense.
But your body betrays you. The combination of his fingers and his cock and being trapped beneath him with nowhere to go builds faster than should be possible when you're this wrung out. Your pussy flutters around him, clenching weakly, and Steve groans like it's the best thing he's ever felt.
"That's it, come on, give it to me."
And you do. Your third orgasm rips through you with less intensity than the others but somehow more devastating because you're so oversensitive every nerve ending feels raw. You clench around him with a broken sob, thighs shaking violently where they're pressed to your chest.
But this time when you come down, gasping and trembling, Steve doesn't stop. Doesn't even slow down. If anything he gets more frantic, more desperate, like your orgasm just made the need worse instead of better.
His rhythm gets more erratic, more brutal, like he's chasing something just out of reach and it's driving him insane.
"Not deep enough," he mutters, almost to himself, and there's genuine frustration in his voice. "Still not—fuck—need more, need—"
Without warning he pulls out completely, ignoring your confused whimper, and his hands are on you - gripping, lifting. You barely process what's happening before you're airborne, completely off the bed, and Steve is standing with you in his arms like you weigh nothing.
"Wrap your legs around me," he orders, voice rough, and you obey on complete instinct, the words not even processing in your brain. The moment you do he's lining himself up and pulling back you down onto his cock with brutal force.
The angle is devastating. Gravity works against you, impaling you on his full length, and the depth has you choking on a scream. You can feel him everywhere, so deep and stretching you in ways that shouldn't be possible.
"There—fuck yes, there." Steve's head falls back on a guttural moan as he starts using you, biceps bulging as he fucks you on his cock like you're a toy made for his pleasure. Lifting you up and pulling you back down with ease that should be terrifying but instead has you clenching around him.
You're completely helpless, just a ragdoll as he manhandles you exactly how he needs. Your hands scrabble desperately at his shoulders for any kind of stability. Every time he pulls you down gravity does half the work, driving him impossibly deeper, and all you can do is take it. You can't form words anymore, just needy little sounds as he uses your body.
Your brain is completely gone, drunk on the feeling of him, on being so full, on the obscene wet sounds of his cum leaking out with every brutal thrust and dripping down both of you to splatter on the floor.
"Look at you," Steve rasps, eyes wild as they lock onto where you're joined, watching himself disappear into you over and over. "Fucking look at you taking my cock. So small I can just—" He emphasizes with a particularly brutal drop that has you wailing. "Use you however I want."
Your thighs are shaking violently, muscles screaming, but it doesn't matter because Steve's holding you up effortlessly. Using his strength to fuck you on him at whatever pace he wants, and right now he wants it hard and fast and deep.
"Shh, I know, I know," he coos even as he doesn't slow down at all. "But you're doing so good f'me. My perfect girl, letting me use this tight little cunt. Can feel myself in your stomach, can you feel it? Feel how deep I am?"
You can only whine in response, completely overwhelmed, pleasure bordering on too much but your body keeps responding, keeps clenching around him like it can't help itself.
The last of your strength gives out entirely. Your head lolls against his shoulder, too heavy to hold up anymore, and you're just gone. Completely boneless in his grip, every muscle turned to liquid, unable to do anything except let him use you exactly how he needs. Arms hanging limply around his neck, your legs barely maintain their grip around his waist; if it weren't for Steve's hands on you, you'd slide right off him.
"Can't—can't—Stevie I can't." The words slur together, muffled against the sweat-slick skin of his neck, your brain too fried to form anything coherent.
"I know, baby, I know, almost there." Steve assures, his rhythm getting choppier as he gets closer. "Just a little more, need—fuck—need to fill you up one more time."
His muscles flex and strain as he bounces you faster, using you like you're weightless, like you're nothing but a warm sleeve for his cock. The wet sounds are obscene - cum and slick squelching with every brutal thrust.
You're not even moaning anymore, just making these small broken sounds with every impact, completely and utterly spent. But your body still responds, still clenches weakly around him when he hits that spot deep inside.
"That's it, that's—fuck—" Steve's breath hitches and his grip on you turns almost painful. "Gonna—fuck, I'm gonna—"
His hips slam up one final time, burying himself as deep as gravity and anatomy allow, and then he's coming with a snarl, sinking his teeth into your shoulder. His cock pulses violently inside you and somehow - somehow - there's still more.
Hot thick ropes of cum flooding into your already overfull pussy, and you can actually feel this time, the way it has nowhere left to go, just gushing back out around his length to run down your thighs, down his, pooling on the floor. It's insane. He's already filled you once and yet he's still pumping more into you, his body shuddering with the force of it, and you can only mewl meakly against his throat as he empties himself completely.
His hips slow gradually, the frantic rhythm finally easing as his cock gives one last weak pulse inside you. Steve's breathing is ragged against your hair, chest heaving, but something shifts - you can feel it in the way his grip on you gentles, the way the manic edge bleeds out of his muscles.
The burning under his skin that's been driving him insane for hours finally starts to fade. His temperature drops, the desperate clawing need loosening its grip on his chest, and for the first time since he walked through that door he can actually think.
His cock softens inside you, and the relief that floods through him is so intense it's almost dizzying.
"Shit," he breathes, and his voice sounds like his own again. Clearer. "Oh god, sweetheart, I—"
You make a weak, mewling sound against his neck and Steve's heart clenches with immediate guilt. You're completely limp in his arms, trembling, and guilt crashes through him so hard it nearly takes him to his knees.
"Hey, hey, I've got you," he murmurs, voice going soft and gentle as he carefully lowers himself to sit on the edge of the bed with you still in his lap. His hands, which had been bruising just minutes ago, turn tender as they stroke up and down your back. "You're okay. I've got you now, baby."
He's still buried inside you and he knows pulling out is going to be uncomfortable, so he takes his time. One hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your sweat-damp hair, while the other supports your back.
"Gonna pull out now, okay?" He waits for some sign you've heard him - a tiny nod against his shoulder - before carefully lifting you just enough to slip free. You mewl at the loss, at the feeling of his cum immediately starting to leak out of you, and Steve makes a soothing sound. "I know, I know. I'm sorry, baby. Just let me take care of you now."
He shifts you in his arms, cradling you against his chest like you're something precious, and presses a kiss to your temple. His heart is still racing but it's slowing now, the frantic edge gone, replaced with bone-deep exhaustion and worry.
"You still with me?" he asks softly, pulling back just enough to look at your face.
With gentle fingers, Steve brushes the strands of hair plastered to your sweat-damp forehead, tucking them behind your ear with a tenderness that's almost painful after the brutality of moments before. Your head lolls without the support, too heavy for your exhausted muscles, so his hand slides down to cup your chin, thumb stroking your jaw as he carefully tilts your face up to meet his gaze.
"Look at me, sweetheart," he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. "Need to see those pretty eyes."
Your lashes flutter, and when you finally manage to focus on him, Steve's chest constricts painfully. Your eyes are glassy, still wet with tears that cling to your lashes, pupils blown wide and unfocused in a way that speaks to exactly how far gone you are. The cloudiness there, the fucked-out haze, it's beautiful and devastating all at once.
Another wave of guilt crashes through him so hard he has to close his eyes briefly against it.
Keeping one hand cupped under your jaw to support your head, he reaches blindly for the nightstand with the other, fingers finding the water bottle you'd brought for him earlier - back when you'd been worried about him, before he'd lost complete control. The thoughtfulness of that gesture, the care you'd shown him, makes his throat tight.
"Gonna get you some water, okay?" He uncaps the bottle one handed, bringing it carefully to your lips. "Small sips, sweetheart. Just a little."
You make a small sound of protest, like even that is too much effort, but he persists gently.
"I know you're tired. But you need it, pretty girl." He tips the bottle carefully, supporting your head with his other hand, and relief floods through him when you part your lips and take a small sip.
The cool water touches your lips and you drink instinctively, slow and uncoordinated, and Steve watches with laser focus to make sure you don't choke. Some of it spills down your chin and he wipes it away with his thumb, murmuring praise the entire time.
"That's it. Good girl. Just a little more."
He coaxes a few more sips into you, before setting the bottle aside. And then his hands start hovering over you like he's not quite sure where to touch, if he should touch. The contrast between how he'd been manhandling you minutes ago and this careful hesitation would be almost funny if the guilt wasn't eating him alive.
"What do you need?" he asks quietly, and there's an edge of desperation to it. "I can—do you want food? A bath? I should probably get you cleaned up." His thumb strokes almost absently along your jaw, the only point of contact he seems to allow himself. "Just tell me what you need, sweetheart. Anything. I'll give you anything."
There's an edge of desperation in the offer, like he's trying to make up for everything, trying to fix what he broke.
With what little strength you have left, you burrow closer into his chest, nose finding the warm curve of his neck, and the small movement seems to surprise him. Your breath ghosts over his skin as you mumble, words slurred with exhaustion but unmistakable.
"Jus' want you," you mumble against his throat, words slurring together. "Don' go."
Steve goes very still. Then something in him seems to unlock, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders, the frantic worry in his eyes softening into something almost reverent. His arms finally wrap around you properly. Securely. Like he's allowed to hold you now.
"Okay," he murmurs, voice rough with emotion. "Okay, baby, I've got you."
Carefully, like you're something infinitely precious, he shifts you both down onto the bed. He rolls onto his side and gathers you against him, pulling you flush to his chest with one arm wrapped securely around your waist and the other sliding up to cradle your head. You immediately melt into him with a soft, appreciative sound that's almost a purr, and Steve feels some of the horrible tension finally start to ease.
"That's it," Steve whispers, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. "I've got you, pretty girl. Not going anywhere."
His hand trails down from your hair to stroke along your thigh with soothing, repetitive motions. Soft and steady, like he's trying to ground you both. Another kiss to your forehead, then your closed eyelids, his lips lingering there as you start to drift.
"Sleep, sweetheart," he murmurs against your skin. "I'll be right here when you wake up. Promise."
You make another small sound, already halfway gone, and Steve tightens his arms around you. As your breathing evens out and your body goes completely slack against him, Steve presses his face into your hair and tries not to think too hard about what happens when you wake up. Tries not to wonder if you'll regret this, regret him.
He should probably be planning how to explain what happened. How to apologize for losing control. How to convince you this wasn't just whatever got into his system, that he's wanted you for months, that this meant something.
But exhaustion is pulling at him too, and you're so warm in his arms, and he's too tired to fight the way his body wants to curl around yours like he can keep the world out if he just holds on tight enough.
He'll figure it out in the morning.
For now, he just holds you closer and lets himself have this - your warmth, your weight, your trust - even if it's the only time he gets it.
more mads: thank you so much for reading this absolute filth fest (like… 7k of it is smut. i’m unwell.). i hope you loved it!! if you did, please hit like or, even better, please consider leaving a comment/reblog bc it would genuinely make me grin like an idiot. my leo moon means i will literally perish without external validation. i’m tinkerbell coded. love u <33 p.s. i hope someone got the panic! at the disco reference in the title 🙂↕️
taglist: @juniebjonesin @heldbybarnes @/love-stucky @badbitchsincebirth05 @phoenix-in-writing @tw1sters @blowingbarnes @sassandscribbles @alpinebarnesworld @sheriff-bodecker @buckybsdoll - if you’d like to be added to my taglist, please leave comment here!
𝙋𝙖𝙞𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜: frat!Rafe Cameron x innocent Pogue!reader
𝙒𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: dark, dubcon, unhinged inner monolog from rafe, misogynistic rhetoric, classist rhetoric (in the context of kooks, pogues etc), daddy kink, innocence kink, loss of virginity, smut (oral + p in v), oral (female receiving, fingering, MAJORR size kink, spanking, daddy issues, condescension, babying, dirty talk, swearing, very unbalanced power dynamic, which rafe gets off on, slut-shaming, derogatory name calling, manipulation, college au, reader is a freshman and rafe is a senior, 18+ only, mdni
𝙎𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: Rafe bets his friends he can fuck you in one week.
𝘼/𝙉: It's here! The full fic. Word count: 23k. Please let me know what you think - reblogs and feedback mean the world to me. Read the warnings before you read, and enjoy!
“Her.”
Rafe looks over at the Pogue girl Topper’s nodding at and smirks. “Been there, done that. Pick a different one.”
Topper scoffs, “She literally moved here last week.”
“And?”
“OK… What about her?” He brazenly points at a leggy blonde that stands out in her group of Pogues.
“Last weekend at the beach party you threw. She gives good head.”
“Jesus Christ dude, is there anyone left??”
Rafe chuckles, leaning back and stretching his legs out while his friends stare at him in disbelief. He sometimes wonders if they know how stupid they look. Like followers. His followers. Hanging on to his every word, oohing and aahing at whatever he did. Making him feel like he was a God among men. Which he may as well be, considering that’s how most people at this college looked at him.
That’s why he loved fucking the Pogue girls. Almost exclusively. There was something about the power imbalance. Most of them came from poor families, looked at Rafe like he was a God. It didn’t take much for them to spread their legs for him, impressed by his power, turned on by his wealth. Hell, even the Kook girls were the same. But Rafe hardly ever took them home. They were spoiled sluts who hung around the country club wasting their lives and spending their daddies” money. Yeah, they didn’t pique his interest at all. Not as much as the Pogue girls who worked at the country club. In their little housekeeping outfits, deliberately teasing him in the hopes he’d take one of them home.
Yeah. It was safe to say Rafe Cameron had a type.
“Well, what about that one?”
Rafe rolls his eyes, about to say that yes, he had indeed fucked whatever girl Topper was pointing at this time. Because he’d fucked all of them. Because of who he was. Because of what he was capable of. Because of the family he came from. Because of what being a mere notch on Rafe Cameron’s bedpost meant to every single slut he’d ran through.
Except he doesn’t. Because Topper is pointing at you. And he’s never seen you before in his life.
You look so out of place, despite the fact you’re with a group of Pogues. And he knows you’re a Pogue. Like a shark with blood and a predator with its prey, he can always tell. And yet you stand awkwardly on the outskirts of the group, smiling yet not quite participating in whatever conversation is going on. You push your glasses up, straighten your skirt, pretend to look for something in your book bag. You’re shy. Self-conscious. Insecure. Rafe smiles.
“Who is she?”
“Aha! You haven’t slept with her!” Topper cheers like he’s won the fucking lottery. Sometimes Rafe wonders why he’s friends with him.
“Who is she?” He repeats like he hasn’t even heard him.
“She’s the new chick,” Kelce says, “except she’s not exactly new in town.”
“I heard she was home-schooled,” Topper snickers, “That’s why she’s fucking weird and has no friends. Even the Pogues don’t want her.”
Rafe observes you some more. Watches the bright smile on your face, how you try to chime in to whatever conversation the girls around you are having. They nod at you politely yet dismissively. They’re not your friends. As Topper said, you don’t have any.
Insecure. Weak. Vulnerable.
He licks his lips.
“How long?”
“Huh?”
He runs a hand through his hair impatiently, “How long do you wanna bet it takes me to get her into bed?” He nods in your direction.
Topper raises an eyebrow.
“You can’t be serious, man. She looks like she doesn’t even know what sex means.”
Kelce laughs, “She looks like she can’t even say it. Like she spells it out every time, s-e-x.”
They’re right. You look very innocent, but all that does is incense him. Rafe’s used to easy sluts who spread their legs after one drink or a ride on his motorbike. But you. He can tell you’d be harder to crack. But there’s something so fucking hot about how naive you look. How shy and sweet you are. How ruined he could leave you. Splayed out on his bike, legs quivering, all sweaty limbs and shy pants after he’s done having his way with you—
“How long?” He repeats, not in the mood to waste time and already getting hard picturing innocent little you with your tiny skirt flipped up and his head buried between those soft thighs, your sweet little confused cries because no one’s ever touched you like that, and—
“A week.”
“Mm?”
“A week to fuck her. With proof.”
Rafe stands up and stretches, licking his lips as he watches you retreat to a small bench, getting your little book out and burying your nose in it.
“That’s too easy. What do I get when I do it?”
“If you do it, you can decide what you get then. But as I said before, we’d need proof.” Kelce says.
“Yeah, proof,” Topper echoes, a glint in his eye as he looks over at you, “Pictures.”
Rafe shrugs, already kind of bored, “Sure.” He’d taken plenty of pictures of his conquests in the past. Him and his boys had a group chat where they shared that kind of shit. And the idea of taking pictures of you in such a vulnerable position gets him harder than anything. Sweet little freshman baby fucked dumb by the big bad senior, posing for pictures afterwards all teary-eyed but submissive. They all got submissive for him, even after he was done using them.
You flip a page, completely engrossed in your book and looking every bit the naive baby he’s imagining you as. A little lamb who has no idea she was in the presence of a fucking lion. And he bets you’re a virgin. Homeschooled with no friends? Forget virgin, you probably haven’t even had your first kiss. And that gets him so fucking horny, right there in the middle of the campus courtyard. The idea that you’re so pure, so untouched. So happy, so unassuming. A little fucking baby.
He’d have fun ruining you.
***
“You sure do love reading, don’t you?”
It’s the following day when Rafe finds you sitting by yourself in the corner of the library, with nothing but your book to keep you company.
You jump like a little mouse, pushing your glasses up your nose and gulping up at him, fear briefly flitting across your face before you force a small smile. And he likes his girls jumpy, he likes them slightly afraid of him. He knows he has that effect on people in general, but he wonders who’s told you about him.
“Sorry, were you — uh — were you talking to me?”
Rafe smirks, “Yes. Who else would I be talking to?”
“Oh, uh, I’m not sure…”
“It was a rhetorical question.”
“Oh, of course,” you look embarrassed, and he watches you squirm under his gaze for a good few seconds. “I… um…”
“You find books more interesting than people?”
“Huh?”
He chuckles, pulling up a chair next to you, noting how your eyes widen as he takes a seat, “Why are you always reading?”
“I don’t know, I guess I just like to read,” you shrug.
“You sure do.” He wonders if he could get you to read your precious book out loud while he went down on you, licked your virgin cunt while you cried because it felt too good. And then he’d spank you if you stopped or messed up a word, and like a stupid dumb fucking baby, you’d sniffle and wail through each paragraph, hold back your moans while he went to town on your little pussy till you wet yourself, and he’d suck your—
“Are you making fun of me?”
You pose the question so innocently— hell, you practically whisper it, and it knocks Rafe straight out of his daydream to find you blinking up at him with Bambi eyes.
“What?”
You bite your lip, “I’m sorry, it’s just that I’m not so good at understanding if someone’s joking or not. I’m not… uh… I’m not used to being around so many people, and it makes me nervous and I can’t tell if someone’s being genuine or if they’re making fun of me.”
“You were homeschooled, huh?” Rafe stares at you intently, noting how you play with your hair nervously, and your fingers tap against the hard cover of your book. How you can barely make eye contact with him for longer than a few seconds.
“Yes. My mom taught me and my older brothers.”
Rafe nods, taking his time to answer. He looks at you some more, enjoying how it makes you uncomfortable. You fidget nervously, and it amuses him every time you peek up to meet his gaze before a look of alarm crosses your face and you divert your eyes down to your book once more.
“You’re a shy little thing, aren’t you?” He says finally, chuckling at the embarrassed look on your face.
“I… I guess. I do want to make friends but it’s pretty overwhelming.”
“I’ll be your friend.”
He does a good job of hiding his predatory, wolfish smile. And he wonders if you can see the glint in his eye as he mentally undresses you. You look so small and weak, especially compared to him. Gullible too. Too innocent for your own good, the way you gape up at him as if he’s offered you gold on a platter. It makes him want to stroke your soft cheek, pat it and tell you what a good little girl you are. For being so naive.
You shake your head as if trying to straighten out your thoughts. He can tell, he has that effect on women too.
“Oh, you don’t have to, I uh—”
“Rafe Cameron?! In the library?!” An annoying, high-pitched voice shrieks, making you jump as it cuts you off mid-sentence.
It’s a kook girl. A cheerleader. Rafe can’t be fucked to remember her name but he’s sure he’s hooked up with her. She’s one of those ones, the ones that hang out at the country club and try to catch his eye. One of the desperate sluts who thinks if she spreads her legs enough times for him, that he’ll make her his girlfriend or some stupid shit like that.
“Rafe, what are you doing here?” The cheerleader sidles up to him, her hand on his chest and batting her lashes in his direction in some pathetic form of seduction. She ignores you, and you shrink into yourself, hastily burying your face in your book.
“What do you want?” He asks, not quite as interested in her answer as he is in continuing to stare at you. How you try to act like you don’t care, but he knows you’re hurt from being ignored, from being treated like you’re invisible.
“Nothing. Just wondering what you’re up to.” But she flashes him her fuck me eyes, her nails scraping suggestively against his chest. Rafe yawns, considering it. He has time before his next class (not that he could be fucked to turn up to class half the time) and his dick’s hard from talking to you. And since you probably don’t even know what the word blowjob means…
“Go in there,” he nods at one of the private study rooms in the far end of the library, and the fucking slut nearly trips as she scrambles to obey him. Rafe takes his time, stretching his legs before slowly getting up.
You peek up from your book, “Are you guys gonna go study in there?”
He could’ve bust a nut then and there from how fucking innocent you sound. Batting your little eyelashes at him like you’re trying to seduce him without even realising it. He knows he’ll be thinking about you, weepy and on your knees, while the kook girl blows him. Fuck, and if he plays his cards right, he’d have you by the end of the week. And he always plays his cards right.
“You could call it studying.”
You nod, “OK, well, goodbye then.” You look back down at your book, but risk a glance up at him again, which he finds very amusing.
“What’s your name, homeschool?”
You tell him.
He sounds it out, before shooting you one last smile, “Well, I’ll see you soon. Won’t I?”
You give him a puzzled look, but it’s replaced by your usual wide-eyed Bambi stare when he pats your hand, his thumb lingering, stroking your skin. He wonders if you’ve ever even touched someone of the opposite sex before. Judging by how your breath hitches softly, he doubts it.
Fuck. He can’t wait to ruin you. Play the slow game and enjoy that sweet virgin snatch before any other man ever could.
That’s what he’s thinking of when he’s got the cheerleader on her knees in front of him. That sweet little look on your face, the look of curiosity mixed with shyness and that little hint of indignation. Fuck, he wants to ruin you. And he would. With proof.
***
Day two. Rafe finds you walking down the hallway, your books clutched to your chest and eyes trained to the floor. Cutest little skirt making your perky ass pop, winking at him enticingly with every step as if you’re deliberately seducing him. Makes him want to slap your cute little ass, reprimand you for teasing him and half the men on campus without even realising it. He wonders what you’d say if he just did it. Spanked you in front of everyone. You’d probably start blubbering like a little baby. He has to forcibly stop picturing it before he gets uncomfortably hard.
You’re alone. As usual.
“Hey, homeschool,” he falls into step beside you, eyebrow raising in amusement when you don’t slow down nor look at him.
“Oh, h-hello, Rafe.”
“What’re you up to today?”
“Nothing, just going to my next lecture.”
He grabs your wrist, watching as your breath hitches, and yet you still don’t look at him. Damn, what had gotten Bambi so scared?
“You’ve got time to talk to me, don’t you?” He asks, but it’s not really a question. And you know it, judging by how you swallow harshly.
“I’m so sorry, I don’t want to be late—” You attempt to tug your little hand out of his grasp but you’re so small and weak that it barely has any effect.
“C’mon, homeschool. That’s no way to treat your one and only friend.”
He’s walks you into a corner, and he likes how you gape at the wall before turning and looking up at him. He’s so much taller than you, bigger than you in every single way.
“Rafe, I…” you sigh, shifting from one foot to the other, “My friends said some things…”
“Friends?” You don’t have any.
“Some of the girls I know. They saw us talking yesterday at the library and they…” you sigh, “They said you were probably just playing a joke on me.”
Fuckin’ jealous pogue bitches.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yes. They said there’s no way you’d talk to me for any other reason apart from as a joke. And they…” you bite your lip, looking so cutely distraught and it goes straight to his dick. “They said some other things… about you.”
Of course they fuckin’ did. Always talking behind his back, but never to his goddamned face. Nothing but a bunch of jealous, gold-digging whores.
He doesn’t say anything, just merely looks at you as if he expects you to tell him. And he knows you will. You’re too innocent to keep secrets.
“They said that you… that you’re scary sometimes.”
Rafe remains impassive, waiting for you to continue.
“That you… that you pick on a lot of us Pogues. E-Especially the boys. That you and your friends bully them.”
He snorts. Bully. What a juvenile word. Sure, he pushed the dipshit Pogues around here and there. They deserved it for all the trouble they ran around town causing, disrupting the natural order of shit. And he could fuck their girls better than they ever could. Especially that fuckin’ idiot JJ Maybank…
“They also said that… never mind.” Again, you try to tug away from him but to no avail.
“Tell me.” He likes how you struggle under his scrutinising gaze.
“It’s… it’s not appropriate.”
“Say it. Now.”
You lower your voice, “They said you like to use the girls. The pogue girls. Th-That you have a kink for them.”
The scandalous words have hardly left your mouth before you duck your head down as if embarrassed. God, you were so fucking innocent. Rafe wonders how he should play this.
“Huh. Is that so?”
“Y-Yeah. One of the girls I talk to… She said that you…” you swallow, biting your lip, “that you’ve been with her and all her friends too. That you tell them all the same thing but it’s always a lie and you just end up using them.”
Rafe nods, “Hmm.”
“I’m sorry, Rafe, but I don’t think we should—“
“That’s funny. I thought you were smart. You know, with all your books and the glasses and shit.”
You blink, “What?”
He shrugs, “I didn’t think you’d go ahead and pass judgement on someone without even getting to know them first.”
“It’s not that–”
“I mean, here I am, wanting to be friends with you. And I’ve been nothin’ but nice, haven’t I?”
He’s still got you backed into a corner, and he watches as you flinch when he emphasises his words. He knows people get intimidated by his intensity, but there’s nothing he hates more than people talking shit behind his back. Especially low-life Pogues. And he likes how scared you look right now, pouty lips all downturned and alarm in your eyes.
“I asked you a question, homeschool.”
“Yes, you’ve been nothing but nice! It’s just, I heard all these things, and–”
“And you chose to believe them.” He steps back abruptly, “I’ll see you around, I guess.”
He walks away, about to count to three in his head but you beat the count before he can even begin.
“Rafe, wait! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to judge you.”
He stops, allows you to catch up.
“You’re right, I…I shouldn’t listen to other people.”
“You shouldn’t.” Rafe agrees, easily taking your heavy textbooks from where you’ve been balancing them in your arms. You gape, but he just continues smoothly: “Where’s your next class?”
You tell him, “But you don’t have to walk with me or anything–”
“I’m your friend, homeschool. That’s what friends do.”
*
Day 3. You’re eating your lunch on a bench outside all by yourself. Rafe’s heading to his car with his friends. They usually cut classes most days to hit the beach or the country club. Rafe doesn’t see the point of college anyways, not when he was poised to inherit all of his father’s businesses, money and property. And with the ideas he had, he’d expand tenfold on whatever Ward was doing now, make a shit ton more money than his old man ever did. That would show him…
”How’s the bet coming along, Rafe?” Topper asks.
“Wait till the end of the week.” Is all Rafe says. He doesn’t need to give progress reports to his dumb fuck ass follower friends.
“That means he’s nowhere near cracking that virgin pussy.” Kelce chuckles. “No worries, brother. She looks like she’s got a stick up her ass anyways. Not loose like the rest of the Pogue whores.”
He ignores them as they laugh. But they’re right. You’re not like the rest of the Pogue girls. They’d grown up wild, promiscuous, loose. Trained to catch the attention of a rich Kook like himself, filled with self-serving motivations to marry into money. But he can already tell you’re different. With your cute little outfits and respectful, quiet demeanour. You look like you’d fit in where he was from.
Too bad he was only going to fuck you before discarding you like he did the rest of them.
“I’ll catch you guys later.” He says, making a beeline for you.
“Hey,” he chucks you under the chin, smirking when you jump.
“Oh, hey Rafe.” You look beyond his shoulder, “Your friends are all leaving.”
“Yeah. The waves are good this time of day.”
You gape, “But don’t you have classes?”
He takes a seat next to you, making sure to stretch out while you shrink into yourself. Still so nervous around him. He snickers, “You gonna tell on us?”
You look aghast, “No! I would never–”
“I’m just kidding, homeschool.”
“Oh,” you look embarrassed, “Sorry. Sometimes I–”
“Can’t tell if someone’s joking or not,” Rafe completes, “I remember. I’ll be more straight up with you.”
You nod, and he can tell you’re trying to think of something else to say. But you’re too nervous, too awkward. And so you just bury your head in your book again, all while he watches you. You’ve got a bottle of apple juice and a half-eaten sandwich of some kind on the table next to you. Cut up into little triangles. He bets you’ve done it yourself. Fuckin’ cute.
“You dress cute.” He says, and again, widened Bambi eyes stare up at him. He chuckles, “You know, the little skirts and plaid and shit. It’s cute.”
“Thank you.”
“You do it on purpose?” He can’t help but ask, because he wonders if a part of you knows what you’re doing. Knows you’re dressing like a sexy little angel out of his wettest dreams. All little and cute and innocent, so much smaller than him. Weak. All pastel and pretty, like you’d look so fucking sexy on the back of his bike. On his arm. On his dick.
“I don’t know what you mean by that,” you say, sounding every bit as innocent as you look. Damn, homeschool must’ve done a number on you. But he likes how sheltered you sound. It gets him so fucking hard, and a part of him almost feels sorry for how primed you are to be taken advantage of. “I wear my mom’s old clothes, or stuff I find in the charity shops.”
He’d had maids and housekeepers who shopped in places like that. He remembers him and his siblings giving them their old clothes once they’d grown out of them.
He nods, “You look pretty.”
Your breath hitches, and you really don’t know how to respond to that, because you slam your book shut and stand up, “I, uh, I have to go. I don’t want to be late for my next class.”
He watches you leave, distracted by your ass again but not enough to miss the little smile that quirks on your lips as you bid him farewell and walk away.
*
On day 4, Rafe walks up behind you in the busy hallway, pressing his huge hand on your lower back and pushing you into another secluded corner. He smirks when you squeak, but he likes how easily he can push you around because of how weak and small you are.
“Hey.” He told himself he’d take it slow (well, as slow as he could take it in the span of one week) and yet he can’t help but press into you a little bit. It’s innocuous enough, but your eyes widen as per usual, and the feel of your hot little body against his much larger one is enough to give him a boner. It’s how he could easily push you into an empty lecture hall and have his way with you if he so wanted to. Sure, you’d cry and resist at first, but they all gave in in the end. And if someone caught them, he’d pay them off.
Rafe Cameron owned the world. Nothing could stop him.
“Hello, Rafe.” You breathe, and he loves how his name sounds when you say it. He imagines you moaning it when he has you on his lap, pressing you down on his dick while you cry and whimper because it’s too much, it’s too big. But your greedy little virgin pussy would take every inch of his fat dick, and he’d do all the work, of course. You’d be too busy crying, and he’d bounce you up and down on his dick while you grabbed at his arms, his hair, his face. He’d tell you to scrape your nails down his back, leave a fucking mark or two so daddy could remember you.
“Come for a drive with me? I’ll buy you lunch.”
Despite your shyness, a fire flashes in your eyes, “I can buy my own lunch!”
He raises an eyebrow. As if on cue, you lower your gaze.
“Sorry, I mean… thank you for your offer, Rafe. But I can buy my own lunch.”
Surprisingly though, you agree to the drive. And he still has his hand pressed against your back, guiding you out to where his car’s parked. You ogle at it, probably never having seen anything as expensive. He wonders if your family even owns a car, or if you even know how to drive. It would be hot if you didn’t, it made you look even more helpless. In need of someone like him to protect you, take care of you. Someone powerful and wealthy like himself.
“Wow, I’ve never been on this side of the island before!” You say, oohing and aahing as you stare out the window. Rafe’s never seen anyone so easily excited by the neighbourhood he’d grown so used to. But he supposes the mansions, sports cars, country clubs and private beaches would be impressive to anyone who hadn’t grown up with easy access to all of that.
“No?”
“No, but my brother’s friend works there, I think.” You point to the vast golf course at the back end of one of the clubs. “He says the tips are really good.”
Rafe frowns. You were talking to other men? No, not you. You were too sweet, too innocent. He was sure he was the only man you spoke to. Or even if you were speaking to others, he doubts a golf caddy pathetically running after balls would be much competition. And yet, he bristles, wanting to change the subject.
“Do you have a job?” Rafe asks.
You shake your head, “No. I sometimes tutor some kids in the neighbourhood but nothing permanent. I’d love to have a part-time job with proper wages like the country club or library or something, but my family’s kind of protective of me.”
“Mm?” He’s deliberately being quiet, wanting to hear you talk, wanting to learn more about you.
“Yeah. That’s why I was homeschooled. My mom’s scared someone’s gonna take advantage of me.” You pause, before giggling, “It took a lot to convince her to let me apply for colleges, but I think she’s finally starting to see me as an adult who can make my own decisions and protect myself.”
The irony isn’t lost on Rafe, but he finds himself leaning closer. You have this way of talking, so soft and breathy, yet energetic and full of life at the same time. Like you’re a storybook character, like you’re someone out of this world. Like an angel dropped down from heaven and sent just for him. You’re his type to a tee. God, he wants to fuck you so bad.
“What would your mom say if she knew you were out with me?” His hand creeps up to rest on your knee. You’re wearing jeans, which he doesn’t approve of but he decides to give you a pass since it’s windy today.
You don’t notice his touch anyways; you’re too busy pondering over his question. But there’s a glint in your eye, “Sh-She wouldn’t approve. But that’s only ‘cause she doesn’t know you.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, his thumb rubbing circles against the denim of your jeans. “And you do?”
You swallow, finally realising he’s got his hand on you. Surprisingly, you don’t move. It’s almost like you’re frozen, those big fuck me Bambi eyes making a comeback, “Uh…I…We’re friends, aren’t we?”
He smirks, “Yeah. Friends.” His hand creeps up higher, stroking your thigh softly, wishing you were wearing one of your little skirts so he could feel your bare skin. But it’s thrilling anyways, touching your quivering body while you’re defenceless inside his car. He could lock the doors and have his way with you right now. Hell, people outside would get quite the show but it wouldn’t be the first time he’s fucked in public.
Poor little you. Losing your virginity in the front seat of his car. He’d drag you into his lap, bounce you up and down on his cock. But not before making you beg for it first. And you’d cry so fucking bad, because it would hurt. Because he’d promise he’d be gentle but he knows himself, he knows he’d lose control like he always did. Fuck you so goddamned hard, he’d have to lay you down in the backseat afterwards because you wouldn’t be able to stop shaking. Then drive you back to his house, carry you into his bed and have his way with you again. And again. And again.
“Rafe?”
“Yes?”
“You’re not hanging out with me because you feel sorry for me, are you?”
That grabs his attention, “Why would you think that?”
You shrug, “No reason. I just… Well, you have so many friends. I guess I don’t quite understand why you’re hanging out with me.”
“I like you.” He shifts even closer, his hand steadily stroking your leg while you remain stiff, “Do you like me?”
“H-Huh?”
“You heard me, homeschool.” And yet he knows you’re distracted by his fingers tracing shapes on your thigh. Not random shapes, though. It’s his initials. Over and over again. R.C., he wonders if you can tell.
“I, uh, y-ye–” You’re having trouble getting your words out, and it amuses him. He can see you visibly shaking, and he wonders if it’s out of fear or anticipation. Or both. He leans down, bringing his face close to yours.
“I didn’t quite get that.” He licks his lips at how weak and intimidated you look. “Say it again.”
It’s an order, and you clear your throat, shake your head as if to clear your thoughts.
“Yes,” you whisper, as if it’s something scandalous, “Y-Yes, I like you.”
He pulls back abruptly, leaving you gaping at him.
“Let’s get something to eat. I’m starving.”
He buys you a panini from a little artisan bakery, with a strawberry iced tea and a packet of chocolate hearts with a cherry cream filling. You protest at first, unzipping your bag to pay for yourself, but he’d sooner roll over and die than let a woman pay for anything.
“Toss me one,” he says, and you throw a little cherry-filled truffle at him. He catches it between his teeth, and your eyes light up, clearly impressed.
“Wow, that was cool!”
“C’mere, you’ve got a little something…” He grabs your chin gently, pulling you forward before rubbing his thumb against the side of your lip, wiping away a bit of chocolate. “Messy girl.”
Your breath hitches, but you stay still for him like a good little girl. His thumb lingers, and he wants to press it into your mouth, make you suck the chocolate off it. Then tell you he had something else for you to suck on. Push you down and make you warm his cock with your mouth while he drove you back to campus. One hand on the steering wheel, the other pressing your head down, making you take his big cock despite you whimpering and panicking because you can’t breathe.
He rubs your lower lip with his thumb for a moment before pulling away. You clear your throat, snapping out of whatever reverie you’ve been in, straighten up against the seat and put your seatbelt on. You still look like you’re in a daze, however, and he wonders if you’re wet from him wiping your face clean.
“I-uh-we should head back please, if that’s okay?” you say, voice slightly shaky as you avoid eye contact with him. “I don’t want to miss my afternoon class.”
He grins, “You a teacher’s pet?”
That makes you smile, and you shrug shyly. It almost enamours him.
He gets you back to campus on time, and you give him a little wave before you jump out of his car and walk inside. And god, it’s insane how hot you are. Even in your jeans, which have cute little embroidered flowers on the butt. Makes your ass look insane. Like it’s begging to be grabbed, smacked, fucked.
He breathes out heavily through his nose, slumping back against his seat. His dick is uncomfortably hard. God, you didn’t even realise how much you’d teased him tonight. Sitting tight and pretty in the passenger seat of his car, so quiet and pretty. So innocently impressed by Figure 8, and by him. How shy you’d been when you’d admitted that you liked him…
He gets his phone out, blindly texting one of the desperate girls on his phone. He needs a release. And he’d be thinking of you the whole time.
*
On day 5, Rafe tells you to give him your number. From his peripheral, he can see a bunch of Pogues whispering and watching while he takes your phone and puts his number in.
“Have your little friends been talking more shit about me?”
You flinch. He can’t help the intensity of his tone sometimes, and he’s noticed you never swear and, like a jumpy little mouse, probably feel intimidated when he does.
“No, I haven’t really spoken to them in a while.”
Rafe grins, “Yeah?”
“Yes. I’ve been busy with schoolwork.”
He saves his number on your phone before pressing it into your back pocket for you. You gape, eyes darting around to see if anyone saw. He wonders just how prim and proper you are, and how quickly he could get you to come undone once he got you comfortable and behind closed doors.
“You’re not too busy to text me, right?”
You smile, looking down and fidgeting with your binder. He notices you’ve got little stickers on it, like cupcakes and hearts and shit. What a fuckin’ baby.
“Text you? I don’t really– I have to a test tomorrow that I need to study for.”
But he knows you’ll text him. They always did. You weren’t any different.
“What are you smiling at?” Kelce asks, pulling up beside him as Rafe watches you head into your next class.
Immediately, he straightens his face, “Nothing man.”
“You falling for that homeschool freak Pogue?”
He snorts, “You wish. I have standards.”
“You sure about that?”
He whips his head sharply to stare down at his friend, “You want me to repeat myself?”
Rafe doesn’t miss the flicker of fear in Kelce’s eyes. They’d never admit it, but he knows his friends are afraid of him. Of his mood swings, his unpredictability. He doesn’t care. In fact, he prefers it this way. They weren’t like him, they were weak-minded, beneath him. He kept them around because of semantics, because of who their parents were and who his dad was. And because they proved to be minorly useful sometimes when he needed help to get shit done.
All the girls he’d been with had been afraid of him too. When he fucked them, he often lost control. But it turned him on, how they’d swallow their fear in case they offended him, or set him off. Once, he’d fucked a girl who just wouldn’t stop shaking. Sure, he’d showed her his gun right before he’d bent her over, but it was her problem if she was frightened by something as mundane as that.
You weren’t scared of him. Yet. Intimidated, sure. But he’d kept that side of him well under wraps when it came to you. You were too sweet, too pure. And you were a good girl, incapable of crossing him in any form. He didn’t have to scare you to get what he wanted from you. No, you’d give it to him, like the good little girl you were. Naïve, innocent little girl.
*
Rafe: Hey.
Y/N: Hi, Rafe. How are you?
He finds himself smiling at his screen. There’s a party going on downstairs, but Rafe couldn’t care less. It’s the same thing every other night. His friends showing up at his house and bringing along a whole entourage of people he doesn’t give a fuck about. Sarah used to do it a lot before she moved out, invite her fuck ass Pogue friend group into his house as if they were ever welcome there.
Rafe didn’t want any Pogues inside his house. Unless they were girls that he intended to sleep with. But he appreciated it when they showed themselves out once he was done using them.
Rafe: What are you up to?
A minute passes by, then another one. Fuck, he hates that you’re making him wait. What a fuckin’ tease. He wonders for the hundredth time if you’re doing it on purpose. No, not you. You’re too innocent.
Y/N: Nothing, I just finished cleaning my room. Wbu?
It’s insane how the visual of that gets his dick hard in less than a second. The thought of you doing something as domestic as cleaning. The good little college girl, who went home straight after school and spent her evenings dusting and vacuuming or whatever it was that cleaning entailed. Unlike the Kook sluts his friends were probably fucking downstairs. They were pathetic party girls who’d easily spread their legs for a line or two.
He calls you, losing patience with this texting bullshit. He runs a hand through his hair impatiently when you don’t immediately pick up, huffing and gulping down the remaining whiskey in his glass. Slamming it down on his desk when you still don’t pick up. Fucking tease. He grabs a baggie from one of the drawers, prepares a neat line; despite promising himself he wouldn’t do it tonight. Fuck that. Ten seconds have passed; you still haven’t picked up. He snorts it quickly, about to throw his phone out the fucking window, except you choose that moment to pick up.
“H-Hello?”
“Hi,” he sounds slightly breathless, but who the fuck cared. He refills his glass with more whiskey, taking a sip to calm himself down. “Took your time to pick up, huh?”
“Yeah, sorry about that,” you say hastily, “I got distracted.”
He feels a sudden surge of jealousy so violent, he doesn’t know how to act for a moment. Distracted by fucking what?
“The lights went out, so I had to go reset them,” you explain, and he barks out a laugh. Jesus fucking Christ.
“Y-You sound kinda breathless, Rafe,” you say, “Is everything okay?”
“Why wouldn’t it be okay?” He downs his drink and sets it aside before his hand slips down. God, you sound so hot. All breathy and innocent, even just over the phone. “Tell me what you were doing.”
A pause, and then you force out a chuckle, “I told you, I just finished cleaning.”
“What like vacuuming and shit?”
“Yes.”
Over the years, Rafe had slept with a number of maids Ward had hired on multiple occasions. He’d fucked Wheezie’s babysitter a few years ago, the housekeeper too. His father had a knack for hiring hot Pogue girls, and maybe that’s where Rafe’s kink for them started.
He could imagine you working for him – he’d make you wear the sexiest little barely-there maid outfit. You wouldn’t question it because you were too innocent. With your little feather duster, trying to clean except you’d be too small to reach certain areas. Fuck, he wouldn’t last five seconds in the same room as you. And he wouldn’t have to because you’d be his hired help, his property. He’d have you bent over his desk, fuck you so hard till you couldn’t stop shaking, till you were crying like a baby and apologising for not focusing on cleaning all while he carried you up to his bedroom. Locked you up in there so nobody else could see you. His girl. All his.
“Uh, Rafe?”
“I wanted to talk to you,” he says.
A pause.
“Really?” You clear your throat, “Where are you? I can hear music.”
“Shit, yeah. Like, there’s a party or whatever going on downstairs. My friends came over unannounced.”
“Oh.” He can sense a level of dejection in your tone. He bets you’re thinking about it, thinking how it’s just a reminder that he has his own group of Kook friends. And you’d never be one of them. You’d never truly fit in. You were either one or the other. Hell, Sarah had proven that when she’d transitioned into the slums. But maybe there was a way to bring you into his world, a way that would stick.
He has to forcibly shake his head to remind himself you’re just part of a stupid bet.
“I’d rather speak to you than them.”
“That’s not true, Rafe.”
“I like how you say my name.” He’s palming his dick now, knowing he’s treading over the line and could easily scare you off now if he’s not careful. But fuck being careful. He’s never really been careful before in his life. He hasn’t had to be. “An’ I’m serious. I told you, I like you.”
“Rafe, I… I just can’t shake the feeling that–”
“That what?” He spits into his palm before resuming touching himself. And shit, he doesn’t know if it’s the drugs or if it’s really just the sound of your voice that’s got him so goddamned horny. He wonders if you’ve ever touched yourself before. If you even knew how to.
“That you’re just playing a big joke on me. I mean, even the people from the Cut think I’m this weird, homeschooled freak.” You laugh, but he can tell you don’t find it funny, “It’s just hard to believe that you’d want to be my friend.”
“They think I’m a freak too,” he says, being honest for once. “Only difference is they don’t talk shit about me because they know I’d kill them.”
“You’re funny, Rafe.”
You’re too innocent to realise he’s not kidding. Not in the least.
“And if anyone says anything about you, I’ll kill them too. I’m serious.” Fuck, he feels like his dick’s gonna goddamn explode. The thought of protecting you like that, like he was responsible for you. Like you were all cute and helpless and he was the one taking care of shit, the one protecting you. That’s all he’s done his whole life, take care of shit and get shit done. And nobody’s ever fucking appreciated him for it.
“Well, thank you, Rafe. I’ve never had anyone stick up for me like that.”
He likes how you keep saying his name now that he’s told you he likes it when you say it. Means you’d be real good at taking instructions. He can imagine telling you what to do when he finally has you in his bed. Order you to get on your hands and knees. Then he’d spread your cute little ass, eat you from the back while you moaned his name over and over, thanking him for taking care of you, weeping how much you appreciate him, how much he means to you. How much you need him.
“A-Are you still there?”
“Shit, yeah. Yeah, I am.” His dick’s red and painfully hard, and he’s still trying to pump it steadily but now he’s imagining your tight little virgin cunt wrapped around it. Soft like velvet, warm and wet. Pulsating around him. Never had even a finger up there but you’d take his big dick, because he owned you, because he was your protector, because you were too weak and helpless without him, and–
“Could you, uh, fuck, say my name again,” he orders you, not caring in the least if he scares you off.
“Rafe?”
He cums into his fist like a goddamned teenage boy, biting down to keep from making any noise. God fucking dammit, you’d listened again. What a good fucking girl. He wants to tell you that, tell you how good you were for him just now, how obedient and submissive you were without even realising it.
“If you’re busy, it’s okay and you can go,” you say softly.
“No, wait…” he clears this throat, grabbing a bunch of tissues from his desk. He can’t believe you hadn’t caught on to him jacking off. “I wanted to ask you something.”
“Yes?”
“Do you want to come over tomorrow? To hang out?”
“Like, uh, at your house?”
“Yeah.” He needs you in private, needs you on his turf where he can control just about everything. God, was it even about the bet anymore? Or just this newfound fucking irrevocable need to fuck you just for his own personal satisfaction? Maybe both.
“I don’t know, I’ve never been to a guy’s house before.”
That just makes him even more determined to be your first.
“C’mon, it’ll be fun. We can go after your classes finish or whatever, and I’ll drive you home afterwards.”
“Rafe…”
He shuts his eyes for a moment, savouring the sound of your voice. He wonders if he can get you to call him daddy. God fucking dammit, just the idea of that was getting him hard again.
“Look, we’ll order some food, watch TV. Whatever you want. It’ll be fun. And it’s what friends do.”
That last part gets to you. He can tell. He knows how badly you want to have friends. He knows you’ve never had any. Not good, permanent ones like you saw in movies and TV shows. Hell, Rafe’s not sure he himself has real friends. But he doesn’t care. The idea of friendship means nothing to him. He’s best when he’s on his own because nobody else could be trusted. But what is important is having a girl like you in his bed. A girl like you who looks up to him with shining eyes, like he’s your goddamned entire world. A girl he plucked up from poverty and saved, and you’d appreciate him more than anyone in his dumb fucking family ever did.
“Say yes,” he all but orders you, but he already knows the answer before you say it.
“O-Okay, yeah. Yes, that sounds like fun. I’d love to come.”
*
“What do you mean you’re not coming?” Topper frowns, crossing his arms over his chest, “You were supposed to bring the, you know…”
Rafe rolls his eyes, wondering why he’s friends with a fucking loser who can’t even say the word coke. That’s why nobody on the goddamned island wanted to sell to Topper. Hell, even Barry refused to.
“I have plans.” Rafe answers, checking his watch for the tenth time. Your final class of the day was due to end any minute now, and he couldn’t wait to get you into his house.
“What plans? You were gonna help me with Sarah tonight.” Topper was a whiny fucking bitch, but even Rafe had to admit he was a better fit for his sister than that lowlife John B.
“I’m not helping you with shit, man.” He mutters disinterestedly, although he had promised a few nights ago that he’d help him. He’d been high as a fucking kite, though. So it didn’t exactly count. “Look, she’ll get bored eventually when she realises his broke ass can’t provide shit for her. Then she’ll come crawling back.”
Topper shakes his head, “No, Sarah’s not materialistic like that.”
Rafe smirks, “You don’t know her.”
“Well, speaking of broke, how’s it going with that homeschool girl? You guys sure seem to be hanging out a lot.”
“Do you have brain damage, Topper?”
“What?”
Rafe corners his friend against a wall, relishing the immediate fear in his eyes, “I seem to remember you placing a bet a week ago.”
“Well, yeah, but –”
“So why the fuck,” he hits the locker lightly behind Topper’s head, “are you asking me about hanging out with her a lot?”
“Chill, dude. It’s just,” he looks hesitant, scared as he’s barely able to make eye contact, “It’s okay if you like her, you know?”
Rafe feels a wave of emotion, something he can’t quite pinpoint. And that makes him mad, because what the fuck was he feeling? He has to clench his fists by his side to stop from slapping the taste out of Topper’s mouth. Why did him bringing you up irritate him so much? Jesus, reign it the fuck in.
He takes a deep breath and steps back, forcing a chuckle, “You think I’m gonna slum it like that?”
Topper grins nervously, as if Rafe hadn’t had him pinned against a locker like a little bitch just a second ago. He straightens up, “I mean, it’s not exactly a secret what your type is.”
Rafe laughs, and Topper relaxes and joins in after a moment or two. That’s when Rafe slams him against the locker again.
“Get it through your thick fucking skull, Topper. I may fuck a Pogue but I’d never date one. Got that?”
“Yes, okay, Jesus Christ, man.” Topper pushes Rafe off him and backs off, “Do whatever the fuck you want.”
That’s when Rafe starts laughing again. “I will, pussy.”
Topper fucks off after that. Sometimes, Rafe wonders what his deal is. He acted up in front of the rest of the group, then tried to act all sensitive and understanding in private. Like Rafe had time for that shit. And how dare Topper insinuate that Rafe had feelings for you? Hell would freeze over before he ever caught feelings for a Pogue.
He realises a bunch of people are staring at him. Goddamit. Fuck all of them. When he was younger, Ward had sent him to see a therapist once a week. He’d quit going once he’d realised it was everyone else who was the problem, and not him. But one thing the shrink had taught him that had stuck was to breathe slowly and count to ten whenever he felt angry or overwhelmed.
That’s what he’s doing when you arrive.
“Hey, Rafe. I’m sorry I’m late. The professor held me back.”
“Why?” He barks out before he can contain himself. He’s already on edge, and now some dumbass professor is keeping you back in class because you undoubtedly get his old, shrivelled dick hard and you’re too innocent to even realise it.
You blink, “He really liked the essay I submitted last week. He even said he wants to use it as an example for his other classes!”
“That’s great,” Rafe plasters a smile on his face but he’s only half listening, “Let’s go.”
He calms down some as he guides you out of the hallway and toward the parking lot. He almost grabs your hand when it gets a bit too crowded, but remembers himself just in time. He couldn’t be caught holding hands with a Pogue. It was too intimate, and like he’d said to Topper, he’d never let it get to that point with a Pogue. Instead, he places his hand on your lower back and pushes you forward. You smile at him, and it goes straight to his… well, not his dick, surprisingly. But it goes somewhere within him, and he feels it again. Something he doesn’t really recognise or know how to deal with. So he forcibly pushes it back inside himself.
“You look cute,” he says once he’s got you outside and there’s more room to breathe. You look like an angel in the afternoon sunlight, dressed in the cutest little sundress he’s ever seen. It’s this pinkish-orange, like the colour of the sunset, and you’ve got matching ribbons in your hair. Like you’ve really made an effort to get all dressed up just to go to his house.
“Thanks,” you look down as if you’re embarrassed, like you don’t know how to take a compliment, “It’s my mom’s dress.”
“It’s really pretty,” he says softly, before clearing his throat and looking away.
He gets you to his car, lifting you up by your waist and helping you into it. And that turns him on so much, how small and sweet you look. Like a little fairy in his arms. None of the other girls were like you. Not at all. He wonders what you’re wearing underneath, and feels his cock thicken in his slacks with anticipation when he realises he was probably going to find out today.
You don’t say anything when he pulls up into the driveway of his house. Ward had fucked off on some business trip and taken Wheezie and Rose with him so he had the place to himself. That’s how he liked it best, it gave him space to think and breathe without the constant noise of his family. Well, Wheezie was an exception. He didn’t mind her too much.
“Wait here,” he says, getting out the car and walking around to open the door for you. You allow him to lift you out again, this time your hands landing on his shoulders. And it’s fucking insane how that tiny, voluntary touch does things to him that no other girl has ever done before.
Now, he doesn’t think twice before grabbing your hand and pulling you down to the large, ornate wooden double doors. You’re distracted anyways, eyes wide as saucers as you ogle the mansion that Rafe’s never thought twice about. But he reckons it’s a step or two above whatever shacks the people from the Cut lived in, so he allows you to remain silent and let it sink in.
Finally, you exhale slowly, “This is… uh… wow. I can’t believe there’s people in this world who live like this.”
Rafe smirks, squeezing your hand, “Yeah. Do you want a drink?”
He leads you to the bar in the corner of the living room, again lifting you up and placing you on one of the stools. You giggle, “I can climb on myself, you know.”
“Yeah? You seem to like it when I pick you up, though.”
He winks, and notes how you duck your head and smile shyly, your hands wringing together on your lap like you’re nervous. God, you were so fucking cute.
“What’s your usual drink of choice?” He asks, going behind the island to inspect the liquor. His friends had gone through a lot of it at the party the night before, but the house help had restocked everything this morning.
You blink, “Um, water?”
He stifles a laugh, pouring himself his usual whiskey with ice, “You’re a good girl, huh?”
“I tried some of my mom’s wine once but it tasted horrible,” you shrug, “I don’t know why people like it so much.”
“Try this.” He pours you a Peach Schnapps with lemonade and ice, “It’s sweet like you.”
You hesitate, but end up taking it. And he watches as you take a tentative sip, and he knows you like it because you take another one. And then another. He can’t help but feel proud for introducing you to your first alcoholic drink.
“You’re not as bad as people say you are,” you say out of nowhere, and his expression immediately sours.
“People have been talking about me to you?”
“No, it’s just the stuff I’ve heard. Like what I told you before. But it can’t be true, because you’re so nice to me so it just doesn’t add up.”
He grips his glass tight, about to lose it because yet again people were talking shit about him behind his back and never to his fucking face. Because they were all a bunch of pussies who knew he’d beat the shit out of them or kill them if they said anything to his face. But then you speak again.
“Do you always drink after school?”
“Huh?”
“Like, alcohol. Do you drink a lot? Like every day?”
“No.” He lies. “Only sometimes.”
He takes you out to the patio, where the sun is shining and you look so fucking pretty in your little sundress. Like you fit right into his world, next to the pool with a drink in your hand, sat next to him and looking at him with sparkling eyes as if he was your god. He wonders if you’ve naturally grown more comfortable with him through the course of the week, or if it’s just the alcohol. Probably the alcohol, since no one was ever really comfortable around him.
Either way, he puts his hand on your leg just like he had a few days ago in his car. Your breath hitches, but you don’t make a move to stop him. Instead, you opt to take another sip of your drink, and he wonders if he can get you drunk tonight. Shit, did he even want to? It was no fun fucking a drunk girl.
“Tell me more about you,” he strokes the soft skin of your bare thigh, feeling your goosebumps underneath the pads of his fingers. “You ever had a boyfriend or anything?”
Your eyes widen, “No. I, uh, you don’t tend to meet any guys when you’re homeschooled.” Embarrassed, you giggle before looking away. He reaches out, grabbing your chin lightly and making you look at him again. Fuck, your lips were so sexy. So pouty and perfect, begging to be kissed. “What about…what about you? Have you had any girlfriends?”
He shrugs, “A few.”
You nod, “Of course you have. That was a stupid question. Sorry, I forget not everyone’s as far behind in life as I am.”
“You’re not far behind.” He says, although you are and he prefers it that way.
“I am. Every other girl my age has had all the experiences you’re supposed to have. Drinking, partying, boys, all of it.” You sigh, “Sometimes I feel like I’m so far behind that I’ll never catch up.”
Rafe inches his hand upwards, till he reaches the hem of your dress halfway up your thigh. He plays with the fabric, and he can tell you’re acutely aware of what he’s doing. You don’t make a move to stop him, but you do press your legs together.
“There’s still plenty of time to catch up,” he says softly, “I can help you.”
You smile up at him, holding up your drink, “You already have. I’d never drank with friends before now.”
“Congratulations,” he says, clinking his glass with yours, “To one of many firsts.”
He downs his drink and so do you, and he’s quick to get a refill for both of you. He’s guessing you’re a lightweight, and again the thought of getting you drunk crosses his mind. But that would be way too easy.
“I’m capping you after this one,” he says, handing you your second Peach Schnapps.
You giggle, “Are you gonna cap yourself too?”
“No.” He chucks you under the chin again, “But, see, I’m not a baby.”
“Hey!”
He kisses you. And shit, he hadn’t planned on catching you so off-guard. Hell, he’s caught himself off-guard. But he couldn’t help it. Couldn’t help how kissable your lips looked, all pouty and bitten. And you taste like cherry lip gloss mixed with peaches and lemonade, and you’re so pliant underneath him, and he’s kissed a shit ton of girls but it’s never felt like this.
You pull away with a start, shocked as you stare up at him. Breathing hard and biting your goddamned lips before they turn into the shape of an o.
“I’m sorry,” Rafe says, although he’s not, “I’ve been wanting to do that since the day I first saw you.”
Your breathing is shallow, and with a shaky hand you put your glass down on the crystal table in front of you. “I’ve never, uh, I’ve never kissed anyone before.”
“Well, it’s easy. I could show you.”
You swallow, “I don’t want this to be like, a pity thing.”
Rafe exhales slowly, “You’re here in front of me in this tiny fuckin” dress, acting all cute and innocent and you think I want to kiss you out of pity?”
Your jaw drops, “Hey, it’s not tiny!”
He kisses you again. And sure, maybe he should’ve asked permission since it’s, well, your first kiss. But frankly he’s never had to ask permission to do anything in his entire life, and he wasn’t about to start now. The way he sees it, you wouldn’t have worn a slutty dress and agreed to come to his house if you didn’t want him to make a move on you.
Again, you pull away, “Rafe, I– don’t… I don’t know how to kiss, I’m sorry–”
He cups your face in his hands, pulling you closer and pressing his lips against yours again. Just to feel your soft, quivering lips against his confident ones. He kisses you once, twice, three times. Coaxing you to open your mouth, to let him in. Fuck, a part of him just wants to shove his tongue down your fucking throat, show you what it means to really be kissed. But he’s already pushing his luck right now.
“I’ll teach you,” he says, “But you need to do exactly what I say, okay?”
He can’t believe his goddamned luck when you nod. God, you were just so fucking hot, prancing around his house in your little dress, all impressed by his riches and shit, drinking your drink he made you like a good little girl, and now here you were, agreeing to whatever he said.
He taps his leg, “Get on my lap.”
Your eyes nearly bug out of your head, “Wh-What?”
Rafe smirks, “Didn’t you just agree to do exactly what I say?”
He’s surprised with the amount of patience he has with you. If you were another girl, he’d have thrown your ass out to the curb for asking too many annoying questions. Or bent you over, shoved your face into a pillow to shut you up and had his way with you. God knew he’d done that more times than he could count over the years. He was aware of how much bigger and stronger he was than you and every other girl, and that fact turned him on more than anything. The fact that he could, if he wanted to, completely take advantage of you however he wanted. And all you’d be able to do is cry and beg him to stop, which would just turn him on more.
“I did, I’m sorry, but I don’t–”
Easily, he grabs your hips and lifts you up onto his lap, makes you straddle him with one leg on either side of him. Your dress is just about long enough to still cover your modesty, but now he’s acutely aware of your panty-covered pussy just inches away from reach. Fuck, he wonders what kind of panties you’re wearing, and if you’d let him look…
“There. Comfy?”
“Well, I guess, but…”
He pulls you into another kiss, this time catching you mid-sentence so he’s able to slip his tongue into your mouth. And you’re so fucking shy, just rigid while he explores your mouth. But he doesn’t mind. You taste so fucking sweet, and it’s getting him so hard, knowing he’s the first man you’ve let touch you like this, kiss you like this.
He can feel your breath hitch as he strokes your face, his thumbs running across your cheeks before his hand tangles into your hair. He yanks you closer, grazing his teeth against your plump bottom lip. You gasp, and he chuckles into your open mouth. His tongue plays with yours, coaxing you to kiss him back, but not really caring too much if you don’t.
And god, he wants to thrust up into you so bad. You’re sitting right on top of his fucking hard dick, and you don’t even seem to realise it. In fact, you shift around, that cute little peachy ass rubbing against his boner, and he wonders if you even know what a boner is.
When you pull away this time, your eyes are bright and excited. And he loves how he’s kissed the gloss off your lips, and how he can still taste you on his tongue.
“Wow, that was…” you giggle, breathless yet excited from finally having your first kiss, “I don’t have anything to compare it to, but that was good!”
Rafe has to crack a smile at your innocence, and his hand lands on your bare thigh, tracing his initials on it again, “Yeah? You like kissing me?”
“I…um… yeah I do,” you say shyly, before closing your eyes for a moment and taking a deep breath, “Could we uh, could we try again? Could I try?”
Well, shit. He’s never devoted this much time and energy into just kissing a girl, but his dick grows even harder at how you’ve plucked up the courage to ask him that. And so he simply nods and sits back, lets you figure out what it is you want to do.
Your cute little hands hold on to his broad shoulders shyly. And you lean up, fluttering your eyes closed like it’s some kind of fairytale for you and you’re the little princess kissing her prince charming. It’s part enamouring, part pathetic. But Rafe feels it again, that unfamiliar feeling bubbling up in his chest. He shakes out of it, focusing on your plump lips that hesitantly press against yours.
He sits still; lets you explore his mouth. Your tongue pokes out, swipes against his. And the feeling goes straight to his dick. And then he’s kissing you back, because he doesn’t have the goddamned willpower to just sit there and do nothing. There’s an animal inside of him and you’ve awoken it, more than any drug or alcohol ever could.
And he gets rougher, biting your lip till you gasp into his mouth. His hands slip up and down your bare arms before he takes your hand, squeezes it before pressing it down on his chest, wanting you to touch him, feel how much bigger he is than you.
“Good girl,” he mutters when you don’t move your hand, and then he fingers the hem of your dress. “Gonna let me touch you a little bit?”
“Rafe, maybe not too much–”
“C’mon, princess, you have to touch while you’re making out, right? That’s lesson number two.” He distracts you with another rough kiss, grabbing your jaw and squeezing while he brings you closer to his mouth. Kissing down your jaw and neck before returning to your lips, smirking when you squeak out a little involuntary moan. That’s when he slips his hand up your dress and cups your ass. Perfect little handful of your bubble butt, and he gives it a little squeeze to test the waters. You’re too distracted with kissing him, and so he squeezes harder. God, so fuckin’ soft and pliable, just like how he’d imagined.
“Nice ass,” he murmurs against your lips, and that’s what jolts you out of it. He curses inwardly when you pull away, pushing against his chest when he doesn’t immediately stop. And a part of him knows how easy it would be to just pin you down on this fucking sofa and have his way with you. Tell you how it’s your fault for wearing this fucking dress, your fault for seducing him in his own home, acting so sexy and innocent and getting him so riled up. Teasing him with your shy little kisses and squeaks till he had no choice but to hold you down and fuck you.
“I’m sorry,” you say as you slide off his lap, straightening your dress, “I just… I got overwhelmed.”
He blinks, and he’s this close to pulling you back on top of him, telling you he didn’t give you permission to stop, that you had to listen to him because this was his house and he’d been kind enough to invite you over. And he could make you feel so good, if you just stopped being a goddamned little prude.
Instead, he forces a smile, “You’re a pretty good kisser for someone who claims she’s never done it before.”
You beam, relaxing immediately, “Oh, you’re just saying that. I bet I was really bad.”
“My memory’s kinda foggy, I think you’re gonna have to remind me,” he pulls you back into him, and you giggle as he presses light kisses on your lips, his arm going around your shoulders while your hands tangle into his hair.
It doesn’t go any further than that, though. You stop him when he tries to touch you again, and a part of him wants to slam his fist down on the glass patio table in frustration. And yet, something stops him from just overpowering you and taking what he wants. No, that would be too easy. He’s about to crack you, he can tell from the way you look at him with those big eyes, now full of trust and comfort. He just needs more time.
Too bad he only had one day left to complete the goddamned bet.
“You should come over again,” he says when he’s done up your seatbelt for you in his car. He finds he likes doing all that shit – opening the door for you, lifting you into your seat, clicking your seatbelt into place, all of it. A stark difference from other girls, where often he’s tossed their clothes at them and motioned for them to leave after he’s done hooking up with them.
“That sounds nice,” you say, waiting for him to come round and get into the driver’s seat, “And I told you; you don’t have to drive me all the way home. I could’ve just got the bus.”
He blinks. He didn’t realise buses even functioned in Figure 8, but either way, he can’t have you on a public bus. Especially not in that dress, where every man would be leering at you and you’d be none the wiser about it. The control freak in him is itching to be let out, to tell you exactly what you were and weren’t allowed to wear in public, tell you how you weren’t allowed to speak to any men except him. And you weren’t allowed to argue or contest any of this, because he was in charge of you now, and–
“No buses,” he says firmly, his hand resting comfortably on your thigh as he drives, “Anyways, come over again tomorrow. We can go in the pool or whatever.”
He feels you go rigid, “Th-The pool?”
He glances at you, “Yeah. It’ll be fun.”
You laugh nervously, “Uh, I’m not too great with water. I don’t really swim or anything.”
Rafe has to do a double-take, “You realise you live on an island?”
Even he knew that every child born in Kildare could swim before they could even walk. It’s just the way it was. They were surrounded by water. Rafe doesn’t even remember learning how to swim; it was almost like he knew how to do it by default.
“I know how to swim, I just don’t like water,” you say, and there’s something off about your tone. Something he can’t pinpoint, but you turn to the side and look out the window. Silent for the rest of the drive. Rafe doesn’t push it, although your odd behaviour has piqued his curiosity.
It’s only when he’s pulling up into the pitiful dirt road of a street where your house is situated that you clear your throat.
“Look, Rafe, you’re my friend now. And I don’t really like keeping secrets from you. I’m sorry I was so quiet just now.”
Cute. He likes how much you apologise to him. It shows how respectful you are, how much you respected him as an authority figure.
“That’s okay,” he says.
You take a deep breath, “I used to go out in the water a lot when I was younger. With my dad. He had a boat, and I would help him. But…”
Your voice trails off for a moment. Rafe thinks he knows where this is going, and a part of him is touched you’d share something like this with him. A tiny, obscure part of him, that is. He can’t help but squeeze your leg reassuringly, and you clear your throat again and blink several times. Like you’re trying not to cry. And Rafe’s never had the patience for emotional chicks, but it’s different with you.
You force out a little laugh, “I don’t want to go into details. But one time we were out pretty far, and the weather was bad. Like, really bad. The waves were rough and…” You swallow, looking down into your lap and wringing your hands together, your chest rising and falling rapidly, “And… Well, I was fine but… my dad…”
Shaking your head, you don’t say anymore. You don’t have to. Your eyes are wet and glistening, the muscles in your face working overtime to stop the tears from coming out. He parks the car in front of your house, turning to face you. He’s never been in a situation like this before, and he’s not sure how to act.
Fiercely, you wipe away the one or two rogue tears that have escaped down your cheeks, “It happened so long ago, I barely remember it. But I’ve been scared of the water ever since.”
He nods, “It’s just you and your mom now?”
“Yes. And my brothers. But they’re always working, so it’s just me and her. That’s why she’s so protective of me… I, uh, I don’t have a dad anymore.”
Rafe knows what it’s like to lose a parent, but he can’t fathom ever talking about it or voicing his feelings on it or some shit like that. His loser therapist had tried to get him to talk about his mother, but he hadn’t. He couldn’t. It was just muscle memory at this point, to force any thoughts of her straight out of his mind. It was easier that way. And now, it was like he could barely remember her. And he hated it, but it made it easier too.
He’s never been good at comforting anyone else. And a part of him is glad you’re not sobbing your eyes out right now, because he’s not sure how he’d handle that. So he’s happy when you clear your throat again and smile up at him.
“I’m not sure why I told you that, I’ve never had a friend to tell that to before. I guess I just feel comfortable with you, Rafe.”
What the hell had he done to make you so trusting of him in the span of less than a week? God, you were like an innocent little angel, sitting in his car all tiny and vulnerable. Making him feel like a goddamned fucking monster for the thoughts he had towards you, what he planned to do with you. Suddenly, the bet feels so stupid and insignificant. God, this was why Rafe didn’t speak to the women he fucked. They went all emotional on him, and now he wasn’t sure how to act.
“I feel comfortable around you too,” he says carefully. He’s never been great with his words, but he grabs your hands that continue to wring nervously together. His big, warm hand dwarfing your tiny ones, and he realises you’re shaking. And there’s a part of him that wants to protect you against everything. Take you back to his place, lock you up in his room so he could keep an eye on you and keep you away from anything and anyone who could ever hurt you and make you cry.
Even if the only person who could hurt you the most right now is Rafe himself.
You leave after that, thanking him again and again for giving you a lift home. He wants to walk you to your door, but you run off quickly, and his mind’s too distracted to follow you. He drives off once he sees you’ve safely closed your front door behind you, his mind moving a million miles per minute.
Jesus Christ, why’d you have to go and open up to him like that? This would be so much fucking easier if you hadn’t done that. He hates that he should know better, that he knows that he should leave you alone. You were too innocent, too vulnerable for his bullshit; to be caught in the middle of some dumbass bet he’d made with his friends. God dammit, he hates himself for agreeing to that stupid bet, seems so fucking juvenile looking back. Wished he’d picked a different girl at the very least, someone not as lovely a you.
Most of all, he hates himself because he knows that despite everything he’s just found out about you, he still has every intention of fucking you. Daddy issues and a phobia of water. It was almost like fate was handing you to him on a silver platter. He had to fuck you. He’d figure out the rest later.
*
Kelce: One day left, loverboy.
Topper: Can’t wait to see the pictures.
Rafe mutes the groupchat before throwing his phone aside. He’d goddamn throttle his friends if they were in front of him right now. Sometimes, he gets these violent tendencies. He doesn’t really know what to make of them except it feels good to have some kind of release. Usually that comes in the form of pushing around a sorry ass Pogue, but that option’s not really available right now.
Instead, he searches blindly for the coke he’s stashed in his bedside drawer. Again, he’d promised himself he’d cut down, but this was just to take the edge off. It didn’t count. Not really.
He wonders what you’d think if you knew how often he took drugs. Well, you wouldn’t because he’d keep you well away from that part of his life. Even when he made you his girlfriend, he’d keep you separate from all the partying. And he’d never allow you to even look at any type of Class A drug. And who knows, maybe he’d become better for you, maybe he’d go stone cold sober if you wanted him to.
That makes him laugh. Going sober for a Pogue. It was insane of him to even consider it.
Again, he has to remind himself to take his emotions out of it. All you were was a stupid Pogue, and a part of a bet he was going to goddamned fulfil. And he wouldn’t allow himself to think anything more of it. He may have had a momentary lapse of judgement yesterday, but today was a new day, the last day of the week he had to fuck you.
How? He wasn’t too sure. Reports of a storm meant you couldn’t come to his house again like how he’d planned. Even now, Rafe could hear the harrowing winds outside. Like a goddamned cyclone. And the rain pelting down unforgivingly, and the distant roar of the sea, waves crashing like they’d taken on a life of their own.
The weather on the island was usually all sunshine, but once in a blue moon a storm would hit like now. Residents were always told to wait it out and stay inside. For Rafe, that meant copious amounts of drugs and alcohol. Sometimes a girl or two to keep him company. But the idea of fucking anyone that isn’t you right now makes him sick.
He thinks about texting you, but what would be the goddamned point? If he couldn’t physically be with you today? He knows the weak, pussy part of his mind just wants to talk to you in whatever form he can. But he needs to bury that bullshit down deep inside him and never back, and–
His phone vibrates. It’s you. And he hates how he feels his heart jump to his fucking throat. You’ve called him all on your own, which means you were thinking about him like how he was thinking about you.
“Rafe?” You sound sexy like you always do, all breathy and weak and needy. A bit panicked too.
“Hey,” he says, trying to sound nonchalant, “What’s up?”
“Hey, calm down.” Rafe barely recognises the gentle quality of his voice as he straightens up, “What’s wrong, princess?”
“I’m scared.”
You say it so softly, with an air of embarrassment and shame, that at first he doesn’t quite get what you’re saying. But then he does, and something kicks in inside him. This innate need to protect you. You sound so small and needy on the phone, and you called him. You need him.
“What happened? Did someone hurt you?”
“No, no. Oh, Rafe, it’s the storm. It keeps getting worse.”
He chuckles in relief that you weren’t in any immediate danger, “Well, shit. Yeah. Looks pretty wild, huh?”
“I hate it,” you whimper softly, “and I’m sorry I called. But my mom’s stuck at work, and my brothers are crashing somewhere else. So it’s just me, and, and…”
“Hey, calm down. It’s okay, you’ll be okay.” He’s never had to comfort anyone before, but it comes naturally with you. “As long as you stay inside, the storm should pass. Just watch TV or something.”
“The lights are gonna go off any second,” you sniffle, “They always do when the weather gets bad.”
They did? Rafe never noticed shit like that. Then again, he doubts you had the luxury of backup generators where you lived. He pauses.
“Gimme twenty minutes. I’ll come over.”
“No!” You say quickly, “Rafe, it’s too dangerous.”
He snorts. He’d been in far more dangerous situations than a little bad weather. But the less you knew about that, the better. “I think I’ll be okay, princess.”
“B-But we’re not allowed out. You’ll get a fine.”
Rafe can’t count on one hand how many times he’d been fined by the dumbass police on this goddamned island over some petty bullshit reason or another. A fine meant nothing to someone with money. He was above the law, and most people on this island knew it.
“Stay put. I’ll see you soon.”
Rafe actually enjoys driving in the storm. The roads are deserted, and he can speed without worrying about anything else. And he does speed, and he runs more than one red light too. Gets to your house quicker than he thought he would. Past all the other tiny shacks all boarded up because they weren’t built well enough to withstand the storm.
“Rafe! You came!”
You sound like a fucking needy little baby, but something pulls at his heart when you hug him harder than you ever have before. And you’re so small, on your tippy toes so your arms reach around his neck. Automatically, his arms wind around your waist and he holds you close, and he can feel you trembling, your face buried in his chest as you hold on to him tightly.
“Yeah. Roads were empty. Didn’t take long.” He mutters, looking around the inside of your house. Pitiful. And pitch black, because you were right, the power had gone out. He hates that you live here. You’d fit in so much better at Tannyhill, in a pretty pink silk dressing gown and dripping with diamonds he’d buy for you. And you’d be so thankful for him, tell everyone that he saved you, how well he took care of you. How he gave you everything you could ever want, and how much you appreciated him.
At that moment, a clap of thunder makes you jump and squeal. Quickly, you pull him inside and shut the door. That’s when he notices that you’re crying.
“Hey, it’s okay. C’mere.” He pulls you into another hug, and he’s never seen another human being look so scared, so vulnerable. It makes him feel so powerful, like the man he knew you needed. “You’re safe now, I’m here.”
It feels natural, his lips pressing a kiss into your hairline. Like you’re his little baby, like he’s been trusted with something so precious and now he has to protect you. And you’re too scared to be your usual jumpy self, and you just snuggle closer into him. A flash of lightning lights up the whole room, the storm relentless against the weak confines of this sorry excuse of a house.
“Maybe we should head back to mine.” He suggests, but you whimper again.
“No, no, we can’t go out there. It’s not safe. Rafe, please.”
He doesn’t think he’s ever seen another human being so scared before. Not even when he was fucking that one girl after he’d showed her his gun. Even now, he consciously tucks his gun further down the waistband of his chinos. Of course he’d brought it with him, he wasn’t going to enter the Cut without a piece on him.
“Okay, okay. We’ll stay here. When’s your mom coming home?”
“Not till tomorrow once the storm’s died down.”
He licks his lips. It was too good to be true.
You’re still holding on to him as you lead him into your bedroom. He wonders why you’d take him straight there, but he guesses it’s your safe place. And you’ve got candles lit up, and they brighten the room enough for him to notice how small it is. The size of a shoebox, with a single bed covered in pink sheets and a bunch of stuffed animals.
Despite everything, his dick hardens.
“You’re a really good friend, Rafe.” You say honestly, “Nobody else would’ve come over like this.”
He shrugs, sitting on the edge of your bed and patting the mattress next to him. It’s not even his house and yet he feels like he needs to take control. And you obey, taking a seat next to him. But you’re preoccupied with your own fear, doing that thing where you fidget with your hands in your lap.
“I wouldn’t do it for anyone else.”
You look up at him with wide eyes, biting your lip like you can’t quite believe what he’s said, “I-I’m not special, Rafe, I–”
You’re cut off by another clap of thunder, this one so loud it makes the whole house shake. You scream bloody murder, and honestly, if you were anyone else Rafe would’ve laughed. But it’s you, and so he just watches. It’s fascinating, the way you clutch onto him like he’s your saviour, and he wonders just how this opportunity had basically just fallen into his lap.
He pulls you into his lap, knowing you won’t protest. Not in the state you’re in. You’re wearing a pair of black leggings and a little white tank top. No bra, because he can feel your nipples, hard and poking out from the fabric of your top. He can feel them against his chest as he hugs you again, and he can also feel you shifting on top of him. Your peachy little ass rubbing against his dick like you’re a fucking tease except he knows you’re none the wiser, that you have no idea the effect you have on him.
He’s so turned on, it feels like he might explode.
“I’m sorry,” you apologise for the umpteenth time, “It’s just so scary. Wh-What if the storm gets worse, Rafe?”
“It probably will,” he says, feeling slightly wicked. He holds you tighter against him, wanting to feel the brush of your breasts against his chest again. Fuck, he wants to cop a feel so bad. “They were saying something about a severe weather warning on the news. Not like anything we’ve ever seen before.”
“Noooo,” you moan like a goddamned baby, cuddling into him even more.
“It’s okay,” he says, running his hand up and down your back, “You ever, uh, you ever think of distracting yourself from the storm?”
You hiccup and blink up at him with wet eyes, “Nothing works, Rafe.”
He smirks, “I could distract you.”
“H-How?”
He runs his thumb over your lips. They’re wet with your salty tears, and yet like muscle memory, you part them for him. You watch him in wonder, your breathing shallow as he pushes his thumb into your mouth, his other hand holding you in place by your hip.
“Suck.” He instructs gently, and your eyes are as big as saucers. But in your frightened, vulnerable state, you obey immediately. And it feels like he’ll bust a nut right there, watching as you suck his thumb on command like a little fucking baby. Like he’s your daddy.
“Good girl,” he says, stroking your hair out of your face so he can watch you better. “Now listen to me, I can help you. I can distract you so that you forget all about the storm. Do you want that?”
You nod slowly, almost like you’re entranced by him. Not that he needs the green light from you, but it’s hot to see you agree so easily to whatever he’s saying. Fuck, you really were just like an angel fallen straight from heaven and into his lap. Perfect for him in every single way. So soft, so impressionable. Completely untouched. Ready to be ruined.
“That’s good,” he mutters vaguely, thinking of everything he was going to do to you. He takes his thumb out of your mouth, noticing how you pout involuntarily, like you’d gotten used to the feeling of sucking on it. Fuck, he could give you something else to suck on. “Give me a kiss.”
“H-Huh–”
“Do it. Just like how I taught you yesterday. You remember our lesson, don’t you?”
You nod, “Yeah, but will that really work? I mean–”
It’s like God himself is on Rafe’s side because there’s a loud boom of thunder at that exact moment. And you jump in his lap, tears welling in your eyes. Your chest rises up and down, and you bite your lip again, your gaze zeroing in on his mouth. Slowly, you lean up, shyly pressing your lips on his. But there’s a desperation to it, and Rafe’s returning kiss completely envelopes you whole.
He makes out with you for a while, smirking through your little pants and moans mixed with a whimper every time the weather gets especially brutal outside. He’s never been with such a goddamned scaredy cat baby before in his entire life, and it turns him on beyond belief. In the state you’re in, he could get you to do anything.
Rafe’s hands slip up to grab your little top, tugging it upwards. And this time, he almost loses it in frustration when again, you stop him.
“Rafe, Rafe no stop.” You push his hands off, straightening your top back over your midriff. “Couldn’t we just… just kiss?”
He presses his lips together in a thin line, “You trust me?”
“Of course, I just don’t know if I want to–”
“Look, didn’t I say I would distract you? I mean, shit, I could just leave.”
Your jaw drops, a flash of fear glimmering in your eyes. Instinctively, you grab onto his bicep with your tiny hands, a pleading look on your face, “No, don’t!”
He smirks, “I won’t leave. But you need to trust me to do what I need to do to distract you. Because the storm’s just gonna get worse.” He grabs your chin when you avert your gaze, forcing you to look at him, “Hey, c’mon. Who has more experience with this shit, you or me?”
“Y-You.”
“Yeah. And who’s older?”
“You are.”
“That’s right. Which means you need to trust me to make these kinds of decisions, because I know what’s best for you. That’s why you called me over, right?”
You don’t say anything, but this time when he tries to take your top off, you don’t protest. And Jesus fucking Christ, he was right. You’re not even wearing a bra, almost like you were deliberately trying to seduce him. Acting like a whiny little damsel in distress, pulling him into your pitiful little pink room, all candlelit and shit, on your little bed with your stuffed fucking animals.
Your nipples are hard, and he can’t help but cup your breasts. They’re so tender, so soft just like you. He’d imagined this exact moment many times over the course of the week whilst he’d jacked off to you, but nothing could compare to now. The way you tremble beneath his touch, knowing no one’s ever touched you like this before. He squeezes gently, watching how your breath hitches.
He’s overcome with animalistic instinct in just a second, and leans down to take your breast into his mouth. Sucks your nipple sweetly, before biting down. You cry out, arching your back so prettily, feeding him more of your nipple as you push it into his mouth. He bets you probably don’t even understand why it feels so good, having never been touched like this ever before.
He pinches your other nipple and you gasp. He smirks and does it again, looking up at you to see you gazing imploringly down at him.
“Th-That hurts,” you say pitifully.
“Yeah, but you like it, don’t you?” He takes your hands in his, bringing them up to his hair. Like a good little girl, you get the message. Your hands fist into his hair as he continues to play with your tits, licking and sucking all over them, pushing them together, biting your nipples and sucking the sensitive skin around them, wanting to leave his mark everywhere.
“Rafe, I, that… oh… oh my–”
“Stand up, baby.”
You squeak at the pet-name that falls so naturally from his lips, and he can tell you like being called that. It’s from the way your eyes widen, and how you scramble to obey. God, you were a little tease but you took instructions so fucking well.
You stand between his legs, and it gets him so fucking hard that you’re still barely eye level with him even when he’s sat down.
“Take your leggings off.”
You open your mouth to argue, but this time he just flashes you a look and you’re quick to shut the fuck up. That, and he distracts you with his hands running up and down your sides, squeezing your waist, then your hip. Finally landing on your ass with a light slap as if to tell you not to keep him waiting.
You push your leggings down and step out of them, till you’re standing between his legs in just your pink flowery panties and nothing else. And he feels a hunger he’s never ever felt before, looking down at you ravenously as if you’re a piece of meat and he’s a goddamned starved lion. A part of him just wants to grab you and stick his cock inside you while you scream and thrash and beg him to stop while you secretly enjoy it and cum again and again.
“Turn around,” Rafe says slowly, because despite his animalistic thoughts, he wants to savour this. And you do, letting him see your sexy butt adorned in just your panties. He hooks his thumb under the elastic, snapping it against your skin and laughing crudely when you yelp. “God, you’ve got such a perfect ass. I knew that since the moment I saw you.”
“Wh-What?”
“You heard me. You’re always wearing the cutest little outfits, like you were showing it off just for me.” He grabs your left ass cheek, squeezing it hard while you moan in pain or pleasure, right now he doesn’t really give much of a fuck. His other hand palms his cock through his pants at the sight.
“I wasn’t!” You say indignantly, as if he’s accused you of the absolute worst. “I wasn’t showing off, Rafe!”
“Sure you weren’t,” he snorts, “Now bend over, lemme see it better.”
He can’t believe it when you don’t hesitate this time, almost like you’re seeking his approval. Like you’re under some kind of submissive spell now, making everything even easier for him. You bend over, and your cute little ass is directly in his face. He pushes your panties to the side, gives the soft flesh a feather-light kiss before spanking you again. You yelp all cutely, but stay in position for him. What a good fucking girl.
“Stand up straight, look at me again.”
You turn back around, biting your lip as you look at him anxiously. Around you, the whole room seems to vibrate as another boom of thunder strikes. You make a noise in your throat, before grabbing onto his bicep again. You keep doing that, and it makes him feel strong, big, important. Like you’re a little baby seeking protection from her daddy.
“I’m gonna take your panties off now, okay?” He doesn’t know why he tells you before he does it, but he watches as you relax. There’s a war going on behind your eyes, he can tell. He knows part of you is liking how he’s making you feel, and part of you is desperate to distract yourself from the storm, and it’s battling the part of you that wants to keep your modesty, the part that knows this is a bad idea, that itching fear that he’s not a good guy, that he’s taking advantage of you.
Slowly, he slips your panties down your shaking legs, and you keep holding on to his arm like you’re scared to let go. Like the storm would come and get you the moment you stopped holding him like a little baby. He lets you, liking how weak you feel against him.
And then you’re completely naked in front of him, stepping shyly out of your panties that are left on the floor in a heap along with the rest of your clothes. And he’s still fully dressed, and that juxtaposition turns him on beyond belief. He can smell your pussy, and it’s driving him crazy. Makes him want to just pin you down and have his way with you. It incenses him in a way he’s never really experiences before.
His hands grab your hips, yanking you closer. He feels a wave of impatience, pushing you down till you’re sitting on the bed. He gets up, pushing your legs apart with one of his own. You gasp, and he sinks down to his knees, pressing a soft kiss to the skin just below your belly button.
“It’s time for lesson number three, baby,” Rafe murmurs softly, “this is how I’m gonna distract you, okay? Shit, I’m gonna make you feel so good, you’ll forget all about the storm. You gonna let me do that?”
You swallow, “H-How, Rafe?”
God, you were absolutely clueless. Made him feel like a fucking monster for taking advantage of you like this. But he liked it, liked how good and sweet and innocent you were, even now when he had you naked on your pretty princess bed with your legs spread for him.
“I’m gonna kiss you down here for a while, alright baby?”
“Down there?” You suck in your breath prettily, as if the very idea of that sounds so insane to you. God fucking dammit, just how much had your mother sheltered you?
Instead of explaining further, Rafe spreads your folds with two of his fingers, smirking when he sees you glistening and wet. And God, what a pretty and perfect pussy you had, all slippery and wet, like it was begging to be fucked. And even now, as you sit there breathing heavily, your pussy seems to get wetter just by him spreading it. You’re leaking down onto your pretty pink sheets, and it’s all because he’s merely touched you there.
You’ve gone silent, the storm seemingly already forgotten as you just watch him. Your chest rises up and down, and it’s like every other part of you is frozen in place. In awe, until he notices a slight movement in your pelvis. Involuntarily, you hump the air, like your poor pussy is begging for some type of contact or friction. He smirks.
“You have an accident, princess?”
You look absolutely aghast, “No!”
Rafe leans forward, inhaling deeply. And you smell so goddamned sweet, and he can’t wait any longer. He lays his tongue flat against your virgin cunt, and he can feel you throbbing with anticipation. He licks upwards, and you grab onto his hair, tugging hard as you yelp.
“Oh my God–”
He looks up, “Not God, baby. Just me.” Absentmindedly, he flicks your clit with his thumb and your entire body jerks. He chuckles, “And there’s another thing I’m going to need you to do.”
“What?”
“You’re going to call me daddy while I eat your cunt, okay?”
For the fifth time this evening, your jaw drops, and you gaze down at him in indignance, “What? But Rafe, you’re not my–”
“Your daddy? I mean, you do want me to take care of you, don’t you?” He smiles when you don’t immediately respond, “That’s why you called me today. Because you felt unsafe, like how you’ve felt your whole life ever since you lost your real daddy, isn’t that right?”
He half expects you to shove him off you, scream, lose it, slap him, kick him out of your house for going there, for trying to take advantage of your obvious daddy issues. But it’s like you’re in a trance, and he keeps going, “You want someone to take control, to reassure you that everything’s gonna be okay. That’s why you’ve let me take care of you this whole week, right? Because you need me, you like how I make you feel.”
He softly strokes your bare thighs, noticing that you’re shaking under his touch. And you look like you’re about to cry, in your most vulnerable state in front of him. And yet he keeps going, his voice like a calm lull, almost hypnotic with how you look at him with your huge, unblinking eyes.
“I can be your new daddy, princess. You’re gonna let me, aren’t you?”
Rafe doesn’t wait for your response. Instead, he grips your thighs harder, spreading them as far as they’ll go. He spits on your mound, watching his saliva drip down to your pussy. You’re watching too, with stricken, hooded eyes. Like you’re frozen in time and space, and he’s the only constant.
Leaning forward, he envelopes your clit between his lips, giving it a harsh suck. Your entire body convulses, and you moan the loudest he’s ever heard you. Thunder claps at the same time, but you’re louder than it, and your hands grab on to his hair, and you press your cunt into his face, practically smothering him but he fucking loves it.
“Tell daddy to lick your cunt,” he orders, his voice deeper and lower than it’s ever been, and a slight threat in his tone, “say it, or else I’ll stop everything.”
“L-Lick it, please,” you beg so prettily, keeping your voice barely above a whisper. Rafe sits back, looking at you expectantly till you make the prettiest little noise of impatience. You shoot him a pleading look of desperation, but he doesn’t let up. You cry out, gripping his hair harder before ducking your head in shame, “P-Please, okay? Please lick my cunt, daddy.”
Rafe could’ve orgasmed right there at the sound of your sweet, delicate voice pleading with him, finally addressing him as daddy. Instead, he sucks hard on your sensitive, engorged clit, and you scream bloody murder. He snickers against your soaking folds, grabbing your thrashing hips, stilling them slightly but allowing you to rock them against his face till it’s shining with your wetness.
“Messy little girl,” he mutters, “excited, aren’t you? Never had this virgin pussy eaten, huh?” he grows sloppy, messy with his licks. Tonguing your sensitive nub till you’re a writhing mess above him, incoherent little gasps and moans tumbling out of your mouth as you continue to hump against his face because you’re a goddamned virgin who doesn’t know how to act because you’re feeling so good.
Rafe’s practically making out with your pussy, and he’s never enjoyed going down on a girl as much as he is right now. It’s how responsive you are, it’s how this is all so new to you so you don’t even know nor care to hold anything back. You’re rubbing your pussy on his face like all you can think of is how good he’s making you feel. And he fucks you with his tongue, unable to quite believe how sweet you taste. Like an angel, his angel. All his.
“It’s…It’s too much, Rafe!” you cry out, and yet you’re rolling your hips with abandon, riding his tongue while he sucks and licks you out like he’s starved.
“You can take it,” his voice is muffled, and you try to wrap your thighs around his head except his grip on them is too strong. It’ll leave bruises in the shape of his fingers all over your soft skin, but he likes that. He wants to bruise you, mark you, make you his in every way possible. So next time when you wore a slutty little sundress, every goddamned man on this island would know you’re taken. Fuck, he’d get his name tattooed on your goddamned pussy, and–
You cum, squeaking so prettily he wants to bottle up the sound and keep it safe in his memories forever. Your first orgasm, and all it took was a couple of minutes of him eating your cunt. And your muscles squeeze around his tongue, and you cry and moan like you don’t even know what’s happening. Your grab at his hair, pulling so hard because you’ve probably never felt like this before.
And Rafe doesn’t stop, his tongue swirling circles while you hump and grind against his mouth, riding out your orgasm, moaning his name over and over again. Outside, the weather gets worse, and at one point he notes the whole room shakes as if the goddamned roof’s about to blow off. You don’t give a fuck though, and he doesn’t either.
“Oh, Rafe, oh, oh oh, it’s too much!”
Now, you’re trying to push him off you, but selfishly he keeps tongue-fucking you. His thumb rubs your engorged, sensitive clit. He knows it’s too much for you, but he’s too fucking turned on to stop.
“C’mon, baby. Don’t be like that. Lemme give you another one.”
“No, I-I can’t, I, oh fuck!”
He slaps your clit, and a squelching sound fills the room. You gasp, and he just snickers, having entirely too much fun with you. And again, you twitch your hips, inadvertently pushing your cunt into his face again. You’re out of breath and sensitive from your first orgasm, and yet your greedy little pussy wants to give him another one.
“You like it when your daddy slaps your cunt?”
You’re such a shy little thing, gaping at him as if he’s said the most insidious thing on earth. And yet, your cunt squeezes around his tongue, and he you up as you continue to leak into his mouth. He looks up at you, “Tell me you like it.”
“I, uh, I like it, uh… daddy, oh gosh!”
It takes just one more spank and you come undone, cumming all over his face and he licks you throughout. Long, languid stripes of his tongue flat against your wet folds, then he switches to fucking you with it, and your fuckhole’s so goddamned tight, his tongue barely even fits a little bit, but it doesn’t stop him. He’s got one hand slipped down his pants, jacking off because this is the hottest thing in the world he’s ever witnessed. Innocent little baby crying after orgasming from getting her pussy spanked by her daddy.
He feels like a lion closing in on the fucking lamb, forgetting himself for a second as he gets up. Aggressively pushing you down till you’re lying flat on the bed, surrounded by your stupid stuffed animals. In a second, he’s on top of you, breathing hard like a man possessed. God fuck, all he had to do was shove it inside you, hold you down and tell you to take it. Maybe press his hand over your mouth to keep you from screaming too loud. Not that it mattered. Nobody could save you from him tonight.
But you blink up at him so prettily, so unaware of his intentions, your eyelashes wet with tears. Your lips bitten and pouty, face shiny with sweat. Your hands grab his arms again, squeezing like you’ve grown used to doing.
“R-Rafe, that was… wow.” You say breathlessly, so blissfully innocent, not realising at all that he’s moments away from holding you down and fucking you, that he’s planning how he’ll do it in his head this very moment. “I never… I never thought it could feel that good.”
Rafe finds himself feeling that again, that weird feeling that kept bubbling up inside his chest from time to time whenever he was with you. He still doesn’t have a name for it; he can’t even properly describe it. But looking down at you now, watching you stare up at him with those shining eyes of yours. All he can do is push a piece of your hair out of your face, and smile slowly down at you.
“What do you even know about sex, baby?” He breathes, his face so close to yours.
“Oh, well, uh… Not that much. I mean obviously I know how it works. I just… I didn’t know you could call someone da– that.”
He smirks, tapping your cheek condescendingly, “You mean daddy?”
You look embarrassed, “Yeah.”
“I need you to keep calling me that, okay?” Rafe says gently, “It’s completely normal and I told you I’d take care of you from now on. You want that, don’t you?”
Again, he nudges at your lips with his thumb, making you suck it. Which you do, and the feeling goes straight to his dick. He wants to fuck you while you suck his thumb, gently rock his hips into you, your tight pussy squeezing his huge cock while you whimper around his thumb, sucking it while you cried and just took it, took whatever he gave you and then said thank you, daddy like the good little girl you were.
He starts kissing you again, unable to help it. And your response is so enthusiastic, he feels like he might explode. You’re getting more confident with all the kissing stuff, and Rafe likes that it’s all because of him.
“You ready for the next lesson, baby?” He asks between kisses, his hands everywhere all over your naked body. Squeezing your breasts, playing with your ass. Loving that you’re naked beneath him and so willingly too.
You swallow harshly, “I don’t think I’m ready–Oh!”
He takes your hand, pressing it inside his slacks. Right on his hard, throbbing dick. And fuck, it feels so small, so weak against his pulsating cock. He bites his lip hard to keep from thrusting into your hand.
“Take it out.”
“N-No!”
He exhales loudly through his nose, holding your hand tight against him when you try to snatch it away. “Baby, what did I tell you about doing what I say?”
“I-I know but… but I’m scared.”
“It’s okay to be scared,” he says, “but you need to do this, alright? Didn’t I make you feel good just now?”
“Well, yes, but–”
“So just trust me. I’ll make you feel good again, okay baby?” He kisses you lightly once, twice, three times till you smile, “You’ve been such a good girl tonight. So brave for me....”
You hiccup, looking up at him with those goddamned saucer-like eyes again, “R-Really?”
He strokes your cheek, innately aware of your hand relaxing against his cock, “Yes. Such a brave, good girl. You forgot all about the storm outside, didn’t you?”
As if on cue, you whimper and cuddle into him more. He smiles like a goddamned wolf, feeling evil yet desperate at the same time, “Call me daddy again, princess.”
You don’t even fucking hesitate, “d-daddy, I–”
“Take daddy’s cock out, baby. It’ll distract you, I promise.”
You do exactly what he says, and he helps you. He can’t help but hiss when you free his dick from the confines of his slacks, and you gasp too, dropping it immediately when you see it.
“Shit, gimme your hand,” he murmurs, and he doesn’t wait this time. Snatching your hand in his, he spits down into your palm before pressing it on his dick. “Stroke it.”
You pull back, “I don’t know how, I don’t–”
“Do it or I’ll leave right the fuck now.”
In your helpless daze, you whimper before placing your hand back on his dick. And it’s so red, about ready to explode the moment you touch him. He exhales slowly, and it feels so fucking good, and he covers your hand with his, guiding it, making you stroke him up and down.
“That’s so good, baby. You’re so good.”
“I am?”
“Shit, yeah, just keep doing that. You’re such a good girl for me, aren’t you?” He notes how you grow more confident, rubbing his dick and jacking him off like a good little girl. His hand leaves yours, instead cupping your face as he pulls you in for another kiss. He can’t help kissing you, you taste so fucking sweet and it’s insane because he’s never particularly enjoyed kissing anyone this much before. But he loves kissing you, leading you through it, guiding you. Loves how responsive you are, loves how you listen to him even when you feel all scared and hesitant. As if you know that at the end of the day, he was the one with all the power, the one in charge. The only one who knew how to take care of you.
“You ever seen a cock before this, princess?” He asks crudely between kisses.
Your eyes widen, “N-No, Rafe– I mean, uh, daddy.”
“No? Good girl. That’s so fuckin’ hot.” He bites your pouty bottom lip, and you gasp, squeezing his dick in your hand and it makes him moan straight into your fucking mouth. What a naughty girl.
“It’s, uh, it’s so big,” you say quietly, so quietly that Rafe almost doesn’t catch it. But he does, and he smiles, pulling back slightly.
“Yeah?”
Shyly, you duck your head, “Yeah, daddy.”
God, you were so fucking irresistible. He couldn’t take it anymore. He takes your hand, which was still steadily pumping his dick, and holds it tightly. Holds both your hands by your sides as he nudges your legs apart again, and watches as you take a deep breath, as if you know what’s coming.
Lowly, he whistles at how wet you are, your juices having leaked down to stain your pink sheets again. Rafe’s never had a virgin before but he knows how eager they are, how easily turned on they get. He can imagine how slippery wet and snug your snatch would be around his dick. Now, he swipes a finger down your slit, gathering your wetness while you squirm under him.
“Aww, look how excited your pussy is, princess.” He snickers, bringing his finger up to your lips, smearing them with your wetness, getting it all over your face too till it shines and you’re all messy. “Tell me, what’s got her so wet?”
‘I don’t know.”
SMACK.
Rafe finds he quite enjoys slapping your cunt, especially when it’s so wet and throbbing. You cry out, quivering and shaking underneath him. He flashes you a look, “Answer the question.”
“You,” you breathe, blinking up at him, “You, daddy.”
“Yeah? I get your pussy wet?” He’s working himself up, his dick nudging against your folds and he doesn’t know why he doesn’t just shove it in there. “Tell me why.”
You moan pleadingly, “R-Rafe, please!”
“When I ask you a question, I expect you to answer it properly,” he says, enjoying himself a bit too much. It was payback for all the times you’d teased him without even realising it this past week. Flaunting your sexy little body, blinking up at him with those fuck me eyes, as if you were just begging for it in your own little innocent way.
You swallow harshly, and despite everything he can see you thinking carefully, as if you want to give him a real proper answer to impress him. Cute.
“I, uh, I like how big you are,” you stutter slowly, “you-you’re a lot bigger than me.”
He grins wolfishly, pushing his hair out of his face before pressing a greedy kiss to your lips, which you respond to fervently. But he pulls away all too quickly, looking down at you as if he expects you to continue.
“I like how strong you are,” you’re looking anywhere but at his face, he guesses because you’re too shy. He sponges kisses down your jaw, your neck, down to your chest. Kisses all over your tits, presses them together and licks them, bites at your nipples while you moan between your words. “You make me feel safe, daddy.”
Rafe pauses, and it’s there again. That stupid fucking feeling that he doesn’t understand, nor does he care to understand it right now. Nobody’s ever felt safe with him before. Everyone’s always been afraid of him or hated him or screwed him over because they didn’t trust him. No one’s ever looked at him how you’re looking at him and it makes him feel things he’s never felt before.
But he shoves those feelings straight back down, clears his throat before pressing his finger down between your folds. You shiver and moan, hips bucking up before he pins them in place. He tries pushing his pointer finger inside you, but is met with resistance despite how soaking wet you are. Fuck.
“Tightest pussy I ever had,” he mutters, “but she’ll take daddy’s dick, won’t she?”
It’s more of a statement than a question, and he ignores your soft cries as he forces his finger up your cunt. Till it’s finally knuckle-deep, and he bets you can feel the cool silver of his ring against your warmth. And your pussy’s so fucking snug, gripping his finger like a vice, and even he has to wonder how he’d possibly fit his big dick inside you.
“So full,” you breathe, your chest rising and falling rapidly with each breath. But he shuts you up soon enough when he starts fingering you. One singular finger, because that’s all that fits. But he moves it in and out, curving upwards till you moan, thrusting your hips in rhythm like you can’t even help it.
“Gonna add another one, okay baby?”
‘W-Won’t fit, daddy.”
“Shh, yes it will. Daddy’s gonna make it fit.”
Rafe makes it fit. He has to hold you down while you cry like a baby, but soon he’s got his index and middle finger shoved inside you, finger-fucking your tight, virgin cunt while his hard dick slaps against his stomach, and he’s so fucking turned on. More than he’s ever been in his whole life.
“How’s that feel, baby?” He murmurs into your ear, nibbling at it, licking inside it and making you jump. And fuck, you’re so jumpy, and he has to keep you pinned down while he fingers you, and a sick part of him wonders if he’s drawn blood already.
“H-Hurts,” you whimper like the goddamned little cry-baby you are. “R-Rafe please slow down.”
“Come on, don’t tell me to slow down,” he continues pumping his thick fingers up your slippery wetness, feeling like you’re swallowing them up whole every time, “Not when you’re drippin’ all over your sheets like a little–”
“But it hurts!”
“That’s okay, it’s supposed to hurt,” he explains slowly, like you’re dumb, “it’s because you’ve never done this before, so that’s why I gotta stretch you out like this first, okay?”
A lone tear meanders down your cheek, “I-I don’t think it’s gonna fit, Rafe.”
“I made ‘em fit, didn’t I?”
“Nooo, you’re, uh, I mean your…” You sniffle helplessly, a wild look in your eye that looks half scared, half confused as he bets your body’s starting to betray you.
Rafe feels a smile creep up on his face, “You already thinkin’ about my cock, sweetheart? How it’s gonna feel when it’s up your virgin cunt?”
You shake your head vehemently, but you’re a little angel slut because your hips are bucking up to meet his fingers. “Rafe, no. Your f-fingers, they’re already too much, I don’t think I can take…”
“Didn’t I just tell you I’d make it fit?”
You grip his arm tightly, pleadingly “Y-You’re too big, I-I don’t think I can handle anymore…Oh fuck!”
He knows he’s hit that spot inside you because your whole back arches, and you let out the hottest moan he’s ever fucking heard in his life. Complete abandon, head thrown back, digging your nails so hard into his arm that he’s sure you’ve broken through his skin.
“That’s right, baby girl. Just fuckin’ take it,” he mutters, increasing his pace, wondering if he can fit a third finger in. “Fuck, you’re so good, baby. Taking your daddy’s fingers like a champ. God, look at your little virgin cunt, swallowing ‘em up like a greedy little slut. Didn’t think you’d turn out to be so fuckin’ slutty, baby.”
You clench around him, moaning his name and he can’t believe how much his dirty talk is having an effect on you. His thumb rubs at your clit while he continues to finger fuck you, wanting to draw another orgasm out of you because you’re so fucking gorgeous when you cum, and he wants you to make a mess all over his fingers before he finally takes you with his cock.
“Too much, too much, oh, oh, oh,” you’re half delirious, humping against his fingers, letting him fuck you with them, and he knows you must feel so full. And it feels like heaven for him, being inside you (even if it is just with his fingers). You feel so soft, so wet, so warm. Your muscles tensing and relaxing around him as he builds you up.
“Take it,” Rafe repeats, “bet it’s never felt this good huh? You ever finger yourself, baby girl? Touch yourself late at night when you think everyone else’s asleep?”
You gasp at his words, but he feels you clench around his digits.
“Mmm, not such a good little girl after all, huh? Fingering yourself when you think your mommy’s asleep,” he grins wickedly at the horrified look on your face, increasing pace, “but it’s never enough, is it? Your fingers aren’t as big as mine, so you could never make yourself cum.” He laughs, “this whole time, all you needed was a man like me to take care of you. Say it, say you need me. Say it.”
“N-Need you!” You cry out, delicious tears streaking your face, “I need you, daddy. I-I…Oh fuck, please! Please, I don’t… I just… I–“
You squirt all over his hand. And it’s insane; Rafe’s never seen anything like it before. He gazes in wonder, caught off-guard for once. You completely come undone, crying and panting his name, rocking your hips against his hand as you ride out your third orgasm of the night. And who knew it would take just a little bit of dirty talk to get you to squirt? God, you were so fucking hot, so full of surprises. So perfect for him, it was unbelievable.
“Good girl,” he strokes your head like you’re his little pet, taking his wet fingers and pressing them into your mouth, and you’re so hot when you automatically suck on them. “Such a good girl, baby. That was so fuckin’ sexy.”
All you do is clutch at him and cry, so spent and overstimulated from your orgasm. Rafe licks his lips, feeling both protective yet predatory at the same time. You’re at your weakest, most vulnerable state. Outside, thunder and lightning strike over and over again as if they were paid to do so, and the room lights up and goes dark, it shakes and shudders, and the winds howl like a pack of possessed wolves. And yet you look so pretty in the dim glow of the candlelight.
It's the perfect night for you to get ruined. His perfect little baby. Pristine and innocent and at his mercy.
Rafe’s cock is so hard it hurts, throbbing as he grabs it by the base, pumps it as he hovers over you. On his knees while you lie beneath him, looking so deliciously scared. He presses his whole length against your stomach, and watches your eyes almost bulge out of your head. He knows he’s big, but compared to your tiny frame, he’s massive. And he gets off on that, gets off on how much bigger he is than you. He smears his precum against your stomach, smirking as he watches you swallow and try to be brave.
“Listen to me,” he grabs your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes, “You like my cock, baby? You like looking at it, huh?”
The way you lick your lips gives it away, and he laughs cruelly, tapping your cheek like you’re his little pet. “Say it, then. Say you like it. Beg me to put it inside you. C’mon, baby, look at your pussy, she’s crying for it. Beg me.”
He knows you’re at war with yourself, and you shake your head tearfully, opening your mouth to speak. But a clap of thunder sounds just then, so loud it makes the whole room shake. You cry out so pitifully, it makes his heart throb a little. You grab at him, and he falls down on top of you, kissing you, kissing your salty sweet lips and your tears. Kissing you all over while your desperate hands tangle into his hair.
That’s when he nudges the tip of his dick against your folds. And it already feels like fucking heaven, your wet warmth practically begging him to shove it inside you. He presses his tip on your puffy, sensitive clit and you jump, your eyes widening and then you push at his chest.
“R-Rafe, please, I don’t think–”
“Shh, c’mon, baby. Let daddy fuck you,” Rafe urges softly against your lips, “gonna make you feel so good again, mhm?”
“Nooo…”
He tries to ignore your soft cries, the way your palms press weakly against his chest.
“Shit, just relax,” he coaxes, knowing he could just hold you down and force it in, and yet…
He kisses you, tasting salt on your lips. You try to kiss him back, but he can feel you gulping for breath. He can feel your heart hammering against your chest. He can feel your limbs pushing at his body, but he’s just so much fucking bigger than you that it doesn’t even make a difference, and yet…
“Rafe, I… please…”
“Baby…”
His dick feels like it’s going to explode, and he runs it up and down your soaking slit, and you moan. And your face looks turned on beyond belief, and yet scared at the same time. Nervous, frightened, vulnerable. It’s a heady mix, and he doesn’t know what to do, and–
“Please, Rafe. I’m not ready, I-I can’t, Rafe. Please…”
“Fuck.”
Something comes over him, and Rafe feels it again. That bubbling, intense feeling inside his chest. Like a rush of an emotion he doesn’t know if he’ll ever understand. All he knows is he can’t, he fucking can’t. You’re so sweet, so kind, pure like a flower and he just can’t bring himself to pluck it. Tear it apart. Ruin it like how he ruined everything else he touched.
He rolls over, lying beside you while you quiver next to him. Both breathing hard. And outside, the wind howls and howls almost like it’s mocking him. Laughing at him for being a goddamned pussy. And there’s another clap of thunder, and he hears you crying softly.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Rafe finds himself gathering you in his arms, holding you against his chest, “Hey, look, don’t worry about it. It’s okay.”
“I-I thought I could but…” you hiccup between your tears, and your eyes look like there are a thousand stars shining wetly inside them, and he knows he’s never seen anything so beautiful. “I’m sorry, I thought I could do it, I thought–”
“It’s okay,” he repeats, cupping your face and making you look at him, his thumbs swiping away your tears, “Don’t cry, okay? Shit, it’s okay, baby. It’s okay.”
“Y-You’re not mad?”
He strokes up and down your back, soothing you while he wonders whether he is. But the only thing he feels right now is this strange, innate need to protect you. To reassure you. Hold your quivering body close till you stopped shaking. It’s insane, because he doesn’t feel like himself, because he’s never felt this before. It’s alien. Completely, utterly fucking alien.
“No,” he answers quietly, pressing a kiss to your hairline, “No, I’m not mad.”
“You pr-promise?”
“I promise.”
He feels like a different person as he tucks his dick back into his slacks. Like someone else, like someone he doesn’t recognise. But it feels so natural, holding you so close that your heartbeat feels like his. And the storm outside feels like a million miles away. Like it’s just you and him on a different planet and nothing else exists, nothing else means anything except you.
You fall asleep in his arms, spent after everything. And Rafe doesn’t even feel frustrated in that moment, because all he can focus on is how peaceful you look. Your tears dried on your cheeks, your chest rising and falling rhythmically. You trusted him with everything. And it made him feel like someone important.
The wind laughs and laughs all night.
*
The morning is calm, tranquil. Almost like the storm never even was. And Rafe wakes up well rested, with you cuddled on his chest, his arm around you and his thumb in your mouth. The room dappled in sunlight, the candles all blown out or melted away.
Slowly, he detangles from you, making sure not to wake you up. You look so peaceful, so innocent. So soft and pretty, in your little shack of a house on the Cut. He frowns as he looks around. In the morning light, your room looks even more pitiful. It’s clean, and you’ve made it pretty with notes and posters and fairy lights. But he can see the paint peeling off the walls, the fact it’s smaller than his closet back home.
Rafe can’t believe he’s woken up on this side of the island.
He has the sudden urge to leave. To run. Hastily, he types out a text to you.
Rafe: Hey. I thought I’d leave in case your mom came home and saw us. Didn’t want to wake you. Talk to you later.
He has to get home. Gather his thoughts. Recalibrate. Think about what the fuck came over him last night, when he’d had you right where he fucking wanted you. And then he’d pussied out of it. Rafe Cameron never pussied out of anything.
What the fuck did that mean?
His gaze shifts to you again, so pretty and sound asleep. Naked because you’d so willingly shed your clothes for him, spread your legs for him. And he could have had you. Hell, he could have you right now. Force himself into you while you were still asleep, and you’d wake up crying and sobbing, all confused and sleepy while he held you down and ordered you to just take it.
That’s what he should’ve done last night. So then what the fuck had stopped him?
Now, he lightly runs his fingers over your bare thigh, humming lightly at how smooth you feel. So soft, like an angel. A powerful, almost all-consuming feeling overtakes him. A wave of possessiveness coursing through him like a tidal wave of dark poison. You were his. All his. He could do what he pleased with you. Your body was his. You’d all but served it to him on a silver platter last night, in your pathetic little room with the candles.
Rafe feels like he’s having an out of body experience. He gets his phone out, ignoring any small, decent part of him that was sending warning signals to his brain. You were his. He had every right to do this.
Silently, he takes the pictures. And a sick part of him gets off on it, gets off on the fact you’re asleep and none the wiser to what’s happening. But this was the least you could do, you’d left him hanging last night. After he’d been so patient, so understanding. Fuck that. Why had he been like that? Like he was weak?
“You make me feel safe, daddy.”
Your words from last night ring in his ears, bouncing around in his brain till it gets too much, till they start to echo and get louder and louder. Till he feels the urge to punch the shit out of your bedroom wall. It was all too much. He had to get out of here.
He tucks his phone into his pocket, pushes the cotton covers up till your chin, and then leaves without looking back.
*
“There he is! The loverboy himself!”
His friends gather around him the next morning like he’s the second coming of Christ himself.
“How was she, Rafe?” one of them slaps him on the back, “That is, if you fucked her.”
“Yeah.” Kelce stands in front of him with his arms crossed over his chest, looking at Rafe expectantly. They all are. “Did you fuck her?”
Rafe scoffs, “Is that even a question.”
He’d waited all day yesterday for you to respond to his text. Like a pussy ass little bitch, he’d waited for you to say something. Growing angrier and more paranoid by the second when you didn’t. Staring at the pictures he’d taken of you like a man possessed, his thumb hovering over the delete button a handful of times before he’d thrown his phone angrily across the room. Hating how you were making him wait. Hating how his heart had leapt up to his fucking throat when you finally had replied: I’m so sorry for being such a scaredy cat yesterday. Thank you for coming over.
He'd discovered something then. He was obsessed with you. And he hated it.
“Pictures or it didn’t happen,” Kelce grins, cutting straight to the chase. Next to him, Rafe sees Topper’s eyes light with interest, as well as the others too. Fucking desperate losers, trying to catch a glimpse of something that belonged to him. Because they’d never get to see you like that, ever. No one else would. He’d make sure of that.
“It did happen.” Rafe says calmly, “Like I said it would.”
“Okay well, that’s great brother but we’re gonna need proof.” One of the clowns pipes up.
“You don’t need shit,” He shoots back.
“You didn’t take pictures?” Topper asks.
Rafe runs a hand through his hair in frustration. “I did.”
“Then show us. That was the deal.”
He wants to beat the shit out of all of them for daring to ask to see intimate pictures of you. As if you were anything like the other whores he’d fucked in the past, the type of stupid girls him and his friends used every week. You were different, and you were his, and they had no fucking business looking at what was his.
“Look. I don’t give a shit if you don’t believe me.” He mutters, completely over the dumb ass bet and over his friends too. They’d forget about it by tomorrow, ready to become his willing followers once more. They always did.
“C’mon man, you can’t bring our hopes up like that. Either you never fucked her or,” Kelce’s eyes glint when it registers, “Or you’ve gone soft for her. You’ve–”
Rafe grabs him roughly by the collar, a sudden anger coursing through him like he’s been electrocuted. “Listen, you fucking moron. Don’t ever insinuate I’ve gone soft for a goddamned Pogue.”
He spits that last word out like it’s venom, and yet he tried to ignore how hollow it feels. When he realises people are staring, he quietly lets go, smoothing Kelce’s shirt while his friends stare at him fearfully in that way he’s grown used to people looking at him.
“I fucked her,” Rafe says plainly, his tone switching from aggressive to calm in a split second, almost like he’s slipped on a mask, “I fucked her just like I’ve fucked every other Pogue bitch who’s thrown herself at me before her. And it wasn’t anything special. She acts all innocent, but it was easy to get her to spread her legs for me just like I told you it would be.”
He hears a thud, and then a little gasp behind him. So soft, it barely registers. Except it does, and he turns around.
And immediately locks eyes with you.
And then it feels like it’s just him and you. And nobody else is there. And there’s no sound, like both of you have stopped breathing. You stand there, frozen, stricken. Your books on the ground in front of you. Only a few steps behind him, well within earshot. And he sees something break in your expression, porcelain features twisting in hurt, shock, dismay, disbelief.
“Oh shit,” Topper mutters from somewhere behind him. A few of his friends snicker, but Rafe can’t hear them. No, he’s frozen, staring at you as if he can’t quite believe it. And he sees the tears welling in your eyes.
A little broken sob falls from your lips, and then you turn and run. And Rafe wants to chase after you but it’s like he’s frozen in time and space. Watching you run off while he just stands there.
Stands and watches as you run away from him, your hands reaching up blindly to wipe at your face. And that feeling returns tenfold. That feeling that Rafe can’t quite put his finger on, that feeling which he wants to push back down because it suffocates him, and he doesn’t understand it. The feeling consumes him from the inside out, till he feels like he can’t breathe.
And he just stands there and watches until you’re gone.
𝘼/𝙉: OOF. Okay, I finally posted it! Please let me know what your thoughts! Literally any reaction, predictions, favourite parts etc. All of it, ANY of it would be so appreciated! Also please forgive any spelling or grammatical errors. Here's some questions in case you want to answer them (you don't have to!! you can comment/reblog whatever you want, i just always post questions at the end of my fics)
Does Rafe genuinely care for reader?
Should reader forgive Rafe?
Favourite scene/part?
Anyways, that's it. Now I'll anxiously wait to see what you guys think. PLEASE PLEASE consider reblogging this fic if you plan on liking it and want me to continue it. Thanks so much for all your support when I posted the sneak peek. I hope this lived up to your expectations! <3
𝙋𝙖𝙞𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜: frat!Rafe Cameron x innocent Pogue!reader
𝙒𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: dark, dubcon, unhinged inner monolog from rafe, misogynistic rhetoric, classist rhetoric (in the context of kooks, pogues etc), daddy kink, innocence kink, loss of virginity, smut (oral + p in v), oral (female receiving, fingering, MAJORR size kink, spanking, daddy issues, condescension, babying, dirty talk, swearing, very unbalanced power dynamic, which rafe gets off on, slut-shaming, derogatory name calling, manipulation, college au, reader is a freshman and rafe is a senior, 18+ only, mdni
𝙎𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: Rafe bets his friends he can fuck you in one week.
𝘼/𝙉: It's here! The full fic. Word count: 23k. Please let me know what you think - reblogs and feedback mean the world to me. Read the warnings before you read, and enjoy!
“Her.”
Rafe looks over at the Pogue girl Topper’s nodding at and smirks. “Been there, done that. Pick a different one.”
Topper scoffs, “She literally moved here last week.”
“And?”
“OK… What about her?” He brazenly points at a leggy blonde that stands out in her group of Pogues.
“Last weekend at the beach party you threw. She gives good head.”
“Jesus Christ dude, is there anyone left??”
Rafe chuckles, leaning back and stretching his legs out while his friends stare at him in disbelief. He sometimes wonders if they know how stupid they look. Like followers. His followers. Hanging on to his every word, oohing and aahing at whatever he did. Making him feel like he was a God among men. Which he may as well be, considering that’s how most people at this college looked at him.
That’s why he loved fucking the Pogue girls. Almost exclusively. There was something about the power imbalance. Most of them came from poor families, looked at Rafe like he was a God. It didn’t take much for them to spread their legs for him, impressed by his power, turned on by his wealth. Hell, even the Kook girls were the same. But Rafe hardly ever took them home. They were spoiled sluts who hung around the country club wasting their lives and spending their daddies” money. Yeah, they didn’t pique his interest at all. Not as much as the Pogue girls who worked at the country club. In their little housekeeping outfits, deliberately teasing him in the hopes he’d take one of them home.
Yeah. It was safe to say Rafe Cameron had a type.
“Well, what about that one?”
Rafe rolls his eyes, about to say that yes, he had indeed fucked whatever girl Topper was pointing at this time. Because he’d fucked all of them. Because of who he was. Because of what he was capable of. Because of the family he came from. Because of what being a mere notch on Rafe Cameron’s bedpost meant to every single slut he’d ran through.
Except he doesn’t. Because Topper is pointing at you. And he’s never seen you before in his life.
You look so out of place, despite the fact you’re with a group of Pogues. And he knows you’re a Pogue. Like a shark with blood and a predator with its prey, he can always tell. And yet you stand awkwardly on the outskirts of the group, smiling yet not quite participating in whatever conversation is going on. You push your glasses up, straighten your skirt, pretend to look for something in your book bag. You’re shy. Self-conscious. Insecure. Rafe smiles.
“Who is she?”
“Aha! You haven’t slept with her!” Topper cheers like he’s won the fucking lottery. Sometimes Rafe wonders why he’s friends with him.
“Who is she?” He repeats like he hasn’t even heard him.
“She’s the new chick,” Kelce says, “except she’s not exactly new in town.”
“I heard she was home-schooled,” Topper snickers, “That’s why she’s fucking weird and has no friends. Even the Pogues don’t want her.”
Rafe observes you some more. Watches the bright smile on your face, how you try to chime in to whatever conversation the girls around you are having. They nod at you politely yet dismissively. They’re not your friends. As Topper said, you don’t have any.
Insecure. Weak. Vulnerable.
He licks his lips.
“How long?”
“Huh?”
He runs a hand through his hair impatiently, “How long do you wanna bet it takes me to get her into bed?” He nods in your direction.
Topper raises an eyebrow.
“You can’t be serious, man. She looks like she doesn’t even know what sex means.”
Kelce laughs, “She looks like she can’t even say it. Like she spells it out every time, s-e-x.”
They’re right. You look very innocent, but all that does is incense him. Rafe’s used to easy sluts who spread their legs after one drink or a ride on his motorbike. But you. He can tell you’d be harder to crack. But there’s something so fucking hot about how naive you look. How shy and sweet you are. How ruined he could leave you. Splayed out on his bike, legs quivering, all sweaty limbs and shy pants after he’s done having his way with you—
“How long?” He repeats, not in the mood to waste time and already getting hard picturing innocent little you with your tiny skirt flipped up and his head buried between those soft thighs, your sweet little confused cries because no one’s ever touched you like that, and—
“A week.”
“Mm?”
“A week to fuck her. With proof.”
Rafe stands up and stretches, licking his lips as he watches you retreat to a small bench, getting your little book out and burying your nose in it.
“That’s too easy. What do I get when I do it?”
“If you do it, you can decide what you get then. But as I said before, we’d need proof.” Kelce says.
“Yeah, proof,” Topper echoes, a glint in his eye as he looks over at you, “Pictures.”
Rafe shrugs, already kind of bored, “Sure.” He’d taken plenty of pictures of his conquests in the past. Him and his boys had a group chat where they shared that kind of shit. And the idea of taking pictures of you in such a vulnerable position gets him harder than anything. Sweet little freshman baby fucked dumb by the big bad senior, posing for pictures afterwards all teary-eyed but submissive. They all got submissive for him, even after he was done using them.
You flip a page, completely engrossed in your book and looking every bit the naive baby he’s imagining you as. A little lamb who has no idea she was in the presence of a fucking lion. And he bets you’re a virgin. Homeschooled with no friends? Forget virgin, you probably haven’t even had your first kiss. And that gets him so fucking horny, right there in the middle of the campus courtyard. The idea that you’re so pure, so untouched. So happy, so unassuming. A little fucking baby.
He’d have fun ruining you.
***
“You sure do love reading, don’t you?”
It’s the following day when Rafe finds you sitting by yourself in the corner of the library, with nothing but your book to keep you company.
You jump like a little mouse, pushing your glasses up your nose and gulping up at him, fear briefly flitting across your face before you force a small smile. And he likes his girls jumpy, he likes them slightly afraid of him. He knows he has that effect on people in general, but he wonders who’s told you about him.
“Sorry, were you — uh — were you talking to me?”
Rafe smirks, “Yes. Who else would I be talking to?”
“Oh, uh, I’m not sure…”
“It was a rhetorical question.”
“Oh, of course,” you look embarrassed, and he watches you squirm under his gaze for a good few seconds. “I… um…”
“You find books more interesting than people?”
“Huh?”
He chuckles, pulling up a chair next to you, noting how your eyes widen as he takes a seat, “Why are you always reading?”
“I don’t know, I guess I just like to read,” you shrug.
“You sure do.” He wonders if he could get you to read your precious book out loud while he went down on you, licked your virgin cunt while you cried because it felt too good. And then he’d spank you if you stopped or messed up a word, and like a stupid dumb fucking baby, you’d sniffle and wail through each paragraph, hold back your moans while he went to town on your little pussy till you wet yourself, and he’d suck your—
“Are you making fun of me?”
You pose the question so innocently— hell, you practically whisper it, and it knocks Rafe straight out of his daydream to find you blinking up at him with Bambi eyes.
“What?”
You bite your lip, “I’m sorry, it’s just that I’m not so good at understanding if someone’s joking or not. I’m not… uh… I’m not used to being around so many people, and it makes me nervous and I can’t tell if someone’s being genuine or if they’re making fun of me.”
“You were homeschooled, huh?” Rafe stares at you intently, noting how you play with your hair nervously, and your fingers tap against the hard cover of your book. How you can barely make eye contact with him for longer than a few seconds.
“Yes. My mom taught me and my older brothers.”
Rafe nods, taking his time to answer. He looks at you some more, enjoying how it makes you uncomfortable. You fidget nervously, and it amuses him every time you peek up to meet his gaze before a look of alarm crosses your face and you divert your eyes down to your book once more.
“You’re a shy little thing, aren’t you?” He says finally, chuckling at the embarrassed look on your face.
“I… I guess. I do want to make friends but it’s pretty overwhelming.”
“I’ll be your friend.”
He does a good job of hiding his predatory, wolfish smile. And he wonders if you can see the glint in his eye as he mentally undresses you. You look so small and weak, especially compared to him. Gullible too. Too innocent for your own good, the way you gape up at him as if he’s offered you gold on a platter. It makes him want to stroke your soft cheek, pat it and tell you what a good little girl you are. For being so naive.
You shake your head as if trying to straighten out your thoughts. He can tell, he has that effect on women too.
“Oh, you don’t have to, I uh—”
“Rafe Cameron?! In the library?!” An annoying, high-pitched voice shrieks, making you jump as it cuts you off mid-sentence.
It’s a kook girl. A cheerleader. Rafe can’t be fucked to remember her name but he’s sure he’s hooked up with her. She’s one of those ones, the ones that hang out at the country club and try to catch his eye. One of the desperate sluts who thinks if she spreads her legs enough times for him, that he’ll make her his girlfriend or some stupid shit like that.
“Rafe, what are you doing here?” The cheerleader sidles up to him, her hand on his chest and batting her lashes in his direction in some pathetic form of seduction. She ignores you, and you shrink into yourself, hastily burying your face in your book.
“What do you want?” He asks, not quite as interested in her answer as he is in continuing to stare at you. How you try to act like you don’t care, but he knows you’re hurt from being ignored, from being treated like you’re invisible.
“Nothing. Just wondering what you’re up to.” But she flashes him her fuck me eyes, her nails scraping suggestively against his chest. Rafe yawns, considering it. He has time before his next class (not that he could be fucked to turn up to class half the time) and his dick’s hard from talking to you. And since you probably don’t even know what the word blowjob means…
“Go in there,” he nods at one of the private study rooms in the far end of the library, and the fucking slut nearly trips as she scrambles to obey him. Rafe takes his time, stretching his legs before slowly getting up.
You peek up from your book, “Are you guys gonna go study in there?”
He could’ve bust a nut then and there from how fucking innocent you sound. Batting your little eyelashes at him like you’re trying to seduce him without even realising it. He knows he’ll be thinking about you, weepy and on your knees, while the kook girl blows him. Fuck, and if he plays his cards right, he’d have you by the end of the week. And he always plays his cards right.
“You could call it studying.”
You nod, “OK, well, goodbye then.” You look back down at your book, but risk a glance up at him again, which he finds very amusing.
“What’s your name, homeschool?”
You tell him.
He sounds it out, before shooting you one last smile, “Well, I’ll see you soon. Won’t I?”
You give him a puzzled look, but it’s replaced by your usual wide-eyed Bambi stare when he pats your hand, his thumb lingering, stroking your skin. He wonders if you’ve ever even touched someone of the opposite sex before. Judging by how your breath hitches softly, he doubts it.
Fuck. He can’t wait to ruin you. Play the slow game and enjoy that sweet virgin snatch before any other man ever could.
That’s what he’s thinking of when he’s got the cheerleader on her knees in front of him. That sweet little look on your face, the look of curiosity mixed with shyness and that little hint of indignation. Fuck, he wants to ruin you. And he would. With proof.
***
Day two. Rafe finds you walking down the hallway, your books clutched to your chest and eyes trained to the floor. Cutest little skirt making your perky ass pop, winking at him enticingly with every step as if you’re deliberately seducing him. Makes him want to slap your cute little ass, reprimand you for teasing him and half the men on campus without even realising it. He wonders what you’d say if he just did it. Spanked you in front of everyone. You’d probably start blubbering like a little baby. He has to forcibly stop picturing it before he gets uncomfortably hard.
You’re alone. As usual.
“Hey, homeschool,” he falls into step beside you, eyebrow raising in amusement when you don’t slow down nor look at him.
“Oh, h-hello, Rafe.”
“What’re you up to today?”
“Nothing, just going to my next lecture.”
He grabs your wrist, watching as your breath hitches, and yet you still don’t look at him. Damn, what had gotten Bambi so scared?
“You’ve got time to talk to me, don’t you?” He asks, but it’s not really a question. And you know it, judging by how you swallow harshly.
“I’m so sorry, I don’t want to be late—” You attempt to tug your little hand out of his grasp but you’re so small and weak that it barely has any effect.
“C’mon, homeschool. That’s no way to treat your one and only friend.”
He’s walks you into a corner, and he likes how you gape at the wall before turning and looking up at him. He’s so much taller than you, bigger than you in every single way.
“Rafe, I…” you sigh, shifting from one foot to the other, “My friends said some things…”
“Friends?” You don’t have any.
“Some of the girls I know. They saw us talking yesterday at the library and they…” you sigh, “They said you were probably just playing a joke on me.”
Fuckin’ jealous pogue bitches.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yes. They said there’s no way you’d talk to me for any other reason apart from as a joke. And they…” you bite your lip, looking so cutely distraught and it goes straight to his dick. “They said some other things… about you.”
Of course they fuckin’ did. Always talking behind his back, but never to his goddamned face. Nothing but a bunch of jealous, gold-digging whores.
He doesn’t say anything, just merely looks at you as if he expects you to tell him. And he knows you will. You’re too innocent to keep secrets.
“They said that you… that you’re scary sometimes.”
Rafe remains impassive, waiting for you to continue.
“That you… that you pick on a lot of us Pogues. E-Especially the boys. That you and your friends bully them.”
He snorts. Bully. What a juvenile word. Sure, he pushed the dipshit Pogues around here and there. They deserved it for all the trouble they ran around town causing, disrupting the natural order of shit. And he could fuck their girls better than they ever could. Especially that fuckin’ idiot JJ Maybank…
“They also said that… never mind.” Again, you try to tug away from him but to no avail.
“Tell me.” He likes how you struggle under his scrutinising gaze.
“It’s… it’s not appropriate.”
“Say it. Now.”
You lower your voice, “They said you like to use the girls. The pogue girls. Th-That you have a kink for them.”
The scandalous words have hardly left your mouth before you duck your head down as if embarrassed. God, you were so fucking innocent. Rafe wonders how he should play this.
“Huh. Is that so?”
“Y-Yeah. One of the girls I talk to… She said that you…” you swallow, biting your lip, “that you’ve been with her and all her friends too. That you tell them all the same thing but it’s always a lie and you just end up using them.”
Rafe nods, “Hmm.”
“I’m sorry, Rafe, but I don’t think we should—“
“That’s funny. I thought you were smart. You know, with all your books and the glasses and shit.”
You blink, “What?”
He shrugs, “I didn’t think you’d go ahead and pass judgement on someone without even getting to know them first.”
“It’s not that–”
“I mean, here I am, wanting to be friends with you. And I’ve been nothin’ but nice, haven’t I?”
He’s still got you backed into a corner, and he watches as you flinch when he emphasises his words. He knows people get intimidated by his intensity, but there’s nothing he hates more than people talking shit behind his back. Especially low-life Pogues. And he likes how scared you look right now, pouty lips all downturned and alarm in your eyes.
“I asked you a question, homeschool.”
“Yes, you’ve been nothing but nice! It’s just, I heard all these things, and–”
“And you chose to believe them.” He steps back abruptly, “I’ll see you around, I guess.”
He walks away, about to count to three in his head but you beat the count before he can even begin.
“Rafe, wait! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to judge you.”
He stops, allows you to catch up.
“You’re right, I…I shouldn’t listen to other people.”
“You shouldn’t.” Rafe agrees, easily taking your heavy textbooks from where you’ve been balancing them in your arms. You gape, but he just continues smoothly: “Where’s your next class?”
You tell him, “But you don’t have to walk with me or anything–”
“I’m your friend, homeschool. That’s what friends do.”
*
Day 3. You’re eating your lunch on a bench outside all by yourself. Rafe’s heading to his car with his friends. They usually cut classes most days to hit the beach or the country club. Rafe doesn’t see the point of college anyways, not when he was poised to inherit all of his father’s businesses, money and property. And with the ideas he had, he’d expand tenfold on whatever Ward was doing now, make a shit ton more money than his old man ever did. That would show him…
”How’s the bet coming along, Rafe?” Topper asks.
“Wait till the end of the week.” Is all Rafe says. He doesn’t need to give progress reports to his dumb fuck ass follower friends.
“That means he’s nowhere near cracking that virgin pussy.” Kelce chuckles. “No worries, brother. She looks like she’s got a stick up her ass anyways. Not loose like the rest of the Pogue whores.”
He ignores them as they laugh. But they’re right. You’re not like the rest of the Pogue girls. They’d grown up wild, promiscuous, loose. Trained to catch the attention of a rich Kook like himself, filled with self-serving motivations to marry into money. But he can already tell you’re different. With your cute little outfits and respectful, quiet demeanour. You look like you’d fit in where he was from.
Too bad he was only going to fuck you before discarding you like he did the rest of them.
“I’ll catch you guys later.” He says, making a beeline for you.
“Hey,” he chucks you under the chin, smirking when you jump.
“Oh, hey Rafe.” You look beyond his shoulder, “Your friends are all leaving.”
“Yeah. The waves are good this time of day.”
You gape, “But don’t you have classes?”
He takes a seat next to you, making sure to stretch out while you shrink into yourself. Still so nervous around him. He snickers, “You gonna tell on us?”
You look aghast, “No! I would never–”
“I’m just kidding, homeschool.”
“Oh,” you look embarrassed, “Sorry. Sometimes I–”
“Can’t tell if someone’s joking or not,” Rafe completes, “I remember. I’ll be more straight up with you.”
You nod, and he can tell you’re trying to think of something else to say. But you’re too nervous, too awkward. And so you just bury your head in your book again, all while he watches you. You’ve got a bottle of apple juice and a half-eaten sandwich of some kind on the table next to you. Cut up into little triangles. He bets you’ve done it yourself. Fuckin’ cute.
“You dress cute.” He says, and again, widened Bambi eyes stare up at him. He chuckles, “You know, the little skirts and plaid and shit. It’s cute.”
“Thank you.”
“You do it on purpose?” He can’t help but ask, because he wonders if a part of you knows what you’re doing. Knows you’re dressing like a sexy little angel out of his wettest dreams. All little and cute and innocent, so much smaller than him. Weak. All pastel and pretty, like you’d look so fucking sexy on the back of his bike. On his arm. On his dick.
“I don’t know what you mean by that,” you say, sounding every bit as innocent as you look. Damn, homeschool must’ve done a number on you. But he likes how sheltered you sound. It gets him so fucking hard, and a part of him almost feels sorry for how primed you are to be taken advantage of. “I wear my mom’s old clothes, or stuff I find in the charity shops.”
He’d had maids and housekeepers who shopped in places like that. He remembers him and his siblings giving them their old clothes once they’d grown out of them.
He nods, “You look pretty.”
Your breath hitches, and you really don’t know how to respond to that, because you slam your book shut and stand up, “I, uh, I have to go. I don’t want to be late for my next class.”
He watches you leave, distracted by your ass again but not enough to miss the little smile that quirks on your lips as you bid him farewell and walk away.
*
On day 4, Rafe walks up behind you in the busy hallway, pressing his huge hand on your lower back and pushing you into another secluded corner. He smirks when you squeak, but he likes how easily he can push you around because of how weak and small you are.
“Hey.” He told himself he’d take it slow (well, as slow as he could take it in the span of one week) and yet he can’t help but press into you a little bit. It’s innocuous enough, but your eyes widen as per usual, and the feel of your hot little body against his much larger one is enough to give him a boner. It’s how he could easily push you into an empty lecture hall and have his way with you if he so wanted to. Sure, you’d cry and resist at first, but they all gave in in the end. And if someone caught them, he’d pay them off.
Rafe Cameron owned the world. Nothing could stop him.
“Hello, Rafe.” You breathe, and he loves how his name sounds when you say it. He imagines you moaning it when he has you on his lap, pressing you down on his dick while you cry and whimper because it’s too much, it’s too big. But your greedy little virgin pussy would take every inch of his fat dick, and he’d do all the work, of course. You’d be too busy crying, and he’d bounce you up and down on his dick while you grabbed at his arms, his hair, his face. He’d tell you to scrape your nails down his back, leave a fucking mark or two so daddy could remember you.
“Come for a drive with me? I’ll buy you lunch.”
Despite your shyness, a fire flashes in your eyes, “I can buy my own lunch!”
He raises an eyebrow. As if on cue, you lower your gaze.
“Sorry, I mean… thank you for your offer, Rafe. But I can buy my own lunch.”
Surprisingly though, you agree to the drive. And he still has his hand pressed against your back, guiding you out to where his car’s parked. You ogle at it, probably never having seen anything as expensive. He wonders if your family even owns a car, or if you even know how to drive. It would be hot if you didn’t, it made you look even more helpless. In need of someone like him to protect you, take care of you. Someone powerful and wealthy like himself.
“Wow, I’ve never been on this side of the island before!” You say, oohing and aahing as you stare out the window. Rafe’s never seen anyone so easily excited by the neighbourhood he’d grown so used to. But he supposes the mansions, sports cars, country clubs and private beaches would be impressive to anyone who hadn’t grown up with easy access to all of that.
“No?”
“No, but my brother’s friend works there, I think.” You point to the vast golf course at the back end of one of the clubs. “He says the tips are really good.”
Rafe frowns. You were talking to other men? No, not you. You were too sweet, too innocent. He was sure he was the only man you spoke to. Or even if you were speaking to others, he doubts a golf caddy pathetically running after balls would be much competition. And yet, he bristles, wanting to change the subject.
“Do you have a job?” Rafe asks.
You shake your head, “No. I sometimes tutor some kids in the neighbourhood but nothing permanent. I’d love to have a part-time job with proper wages like the country club or library or something, but my family’s kind of protective of me.”
“Mm?” He’s deliberately being quiet, wanting to hear you talk, wanting to learn more about you.
“Yeah. That’s why I was homeschooled. My mom’s scared someone’s gonna take advantage of me.” You pause, before giggling, “It took a lot to convince her to let me apply for colleges, but I think she’s finally starting to see me as an adult who can make my own decisions and protect myself.”
The irony isn’t lost on Rafe, but he finds himself leaning closer. You have this way of talking, so soft and breathy, yet energetic and full of life at the same time. Like you’re a storybook character, like you’re someone out of this world. Like an angel dropped down from heaven and sent just for him. You’re his type to a tee. God, he wants to fuck you so bad.
“What would your mom say if she knew you were out with me?” His hand creeps up to rest on your knee. You’re wearing jeans, which he doesn’t approve of but he decides to give you a pass since it’s windy today.
You don’t notice his touch anyways; you’re too busy pondering over his question. But there’s a glint in your eye, “Sh-She wouldn’t approve. But that’s only ‘cause she doesn’t know you.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, his thumb rubbing circles against the denim of your jeans. “And you do?”
You swallow, finally realising he’s got his hand on you. Surprisingly, you don’t move. It’s almost like you’re frozen, those big fuck me Bambi eyes making a comeback, “Uh…I…We’re friends, aren’t we?”
He smirks, “Yeah. Friends.” His hand creeps up higher, stroking your thigh softly, wishing you were wearing one of your little skirts so he could feel your bare skin. But it’s thrilling anyways, touching your quivering body while you’re defenceless inside his car. He could lock the doors and have his way with you right now. Hell, people outside would get quite the show but it wouldn’t be the first time he’s fucked in public.
Poor little you. Losing your virginity in the front seat of his car. He’d drag you into his lap, bounce you up and down on his cock. But not before making you beg for it first. And you’d cry so fucking bad, because it would hurt. Because he’d promise he’d be gentle but he knows himself, he knows he’d lose control like he always did. Fuck you so goddamned hard, he’d have to lay you down in the backseat afterwards because you wouldn’t be able to stop shaking. Then drive you back to his house, carry you into his bed and have his way with you again. And again. And again.
“Rafe?”
“Yes?”
“You’re not hanging out with me because you feel sorry for me, are you?”
That grabs his attention, “Why would you think that?”
You shrug, “No reason. I just… Well, you have so many friends. I guess I don’t quite understand why you’re hanging out with me.”
“I like you.” He shifts even closer, his hand steadily stroking your leg while you remain stiff, “Do you like me?”
“H-Huh?”
“You heard me, homeschool.” And yet he knows you’re distracted by his fingers tracing shapes on your thigh. Not random shapes, though. It’s his initials. Over and over again. R.C., he wonders if you can tell.
“I, uh, y-ye–” You’re having trouble getting your words out, and it amuses him. He can see you visibly shaking, and he wonders if it’s out of fear or anticipation. Or both. He leans down, bringing his face close to yours.
“I didn’t quite get that.” He licks his lips at how weak and intimidated you look. “Say it again.”
It’s an order, and you clear your throat, shake your head as if to clear your thoughts.
“Yes,” you whisper, as if it’s something scandalous, “Y-Yes, I like you.”
He pulls back abruptly, leaving you gaping at him.
“Let’s get something to eat. I’m starving.”
He buys you a panini from a little artisan bakery, with a strawberry iced tea and a packet of chocolate hearts with a cherry cream filling. You protest at first, unzipping your bag to pay for yourself, but he’d sooner roll over and die than let a woman pay for anything.
“Toss me one,” he says, and you throw a little cherry-filled truffle at him. He catches it between his teeth, and your eyes light up, clearly impressed.
“Wow, that was cool!”
“C’mere, you’ve got a little something…” He grabs your chin gently, pulling you forward before rubbing his thumb against the side of your lip, wiping away a bit of chocolate. “Messy girl.”
Your breath hitches, but you stay still for him like a good little girl. His thumb lingers, and he wants to press it into your mouth, make you suck the chocolate off it. Then tell you he had something else for you to suck on. Push you down and make you warm his cock with your mouth while he drove you back to campus. One hand on the steering wheel, the other pressing your head down, making you take his big cock despite you whimpering and panicking because you can’t breathe.
He rubs your lower lip with his thumb for a moment before pulling away. You clear your throat, snapping out of whatever reverie you’ve been in, straighten up against the seat and put your seatbelt on. You still look like you’re in a daze, however, and he wonders if you’re wet from him wiping your face clean.
“I-uh-we should head back please, if that’s okay?” you say, voice slightly shaky as you avoid eye contact with him. “I don’t want to miss my afternoon class.”
He grins, “You a teacher’s pet?”
That makes you smile, and you shrug shyly. It almost enamours him.
He gets you back to campus on time, and you give him a little wave before you jump out of his car and walk inside. And god, it’s insane how hot you are. Even in your jeans, which have cute little embroidered flowers on the butt. Makes your ass look insane. Like it’s begging to be grabbed, smacked, fucked.
He breathes out heavily through his nose, slumping back against his seat. His dick is uncomfortably hard. God, you didn’t even realise how much you’d teased him tonight. Sitting tight and pretty in the passenger seat of his car, so quiet and pretty. So innocently impressed by Figure 8, and by him. How shy you’d been when you’d admitted that you liked him…
He gets his phone out, blindly texting one of the desperate girls on his phone. He needs a release. And he’d be thinking of you the whole time.
*
On day 5, Rafe tells you to give him your number. From his peripheral, he can see a bunch of Pogues whispering and watching while he takes your phone and puts his number in.
“Have your little friends been talking more shit about me?”
You flinch. He can’t help the intensity of his tone sometimes, and he’s noticed you never swear and, like a jumpy little mouse, probably feel intimidated when he does.
“No, I haven’t really spoken to them in a while.”
Rafe grins, “Yeah?”
“Yes. I’ve been busy with schoolwork.”
He saves his number on your phone before pressing it into your back pocket for you. You gape, eyes darting around to see if anyone saw. He wonders just how prim and proper you are, and how quickly he could get you to come undone once he got you comfortable and behind closed doors.
“You’re not too busy to text me, right?”
You smile, looking down and fidgeting with your binder. He notices you’ve got little stickers on it, like cupcakes and hearts and shit. What a fuckin’ baby.
“Text you? I don’t really– I have to a test tomorrow that I need to study for.”
But he knows you’ll text him. They always did. You weren’t any different.
“What are you smiling at?” Kelce asks, pulling up beside him as Rafe watches you head into your next class.
Immediately, he straightens his face, “Nothing man.”
“You falling for that homeschool freak Pogue?”
He snorts, “You wish. I have standards.”
“You sure about that?”
He whips his head sharply to stare down at his friend, “You want me to repeat myself?”
Rafe doesn’t miss the flicker of fear in Kelce’s eyes. They’d never admit it, but he knows his friends are afraid of him. Of his mood swings, his unpredictability. He doesn’t care. In fact, he prefers it this way. They weren’t like him, they were weak-minded, beneath him. He kept them around because of semantics, because of who their parents were and who his dad was. And because they proved to be minorly useful sometimes when he needed help to get shit done.
All the girls he’d been with had been afraid of him too. When he fucked them, he often lost control. But it turned him on, how they’d swallow their fear in case they offended him, or set him off. Once, he’d fucked a girl who just wouldn’t stop shaking. Sure, he’d showed her his gun right before he’d bent her over, but it was her problem if she was frightened by something as mundane as that.
You weren’t scared of him. Yet. Intimidated, sure. But he’d kept that side of him well under wraps when it came to you. You were too sweet, too pure. And you were a good girl, incapable of crossing him in any form. He didn’t have to scare you to get what he wanted from you. No, you’d give it to him, like the good little girl you were. Naïve, innocent little girl.
*
Rafe: Hey.
Y/N: Hi, Rafe. How are you?
He finds himself smiling at his screen. There’s a party going on downstairs, but Rafe couldn’t care less. It’s the same thing every other night. His friends showing up at his house and bringing along a whole entourage of people he doesn’t give a fuck about. Sarah used to do it a lot before she moved out, invite her fuck ass Pogue friend group into his house as if they were ever welcome there.
Rafe didn’t want any Pogues inside his house. Unless they were girls that he intended to sleep with. But he appreciated it when they showed themselves out once he was done using them.
Rafe: What are you up to?
A minute passes by, then another one. Fuck, he hates that you’re making him wait. What a fuckin’ tease. He wonders for the hundredth time if you’re doing it on purpose. No, not you. You’re too innocent.
Y/N: Nothing, I just finished cleaning my room. Wbu?
It’s insane how the visual of that gets his dick hard in less than a second. The thought of you doing something as domestic as cleaning. The good little college girl, who went home straight after school and spent her evenings dusting and vacuuming or whatever it was that cleaning entailed. Unlike the Kook sluts his friends were probably fucking downstairs. They were pathetic party girls who’d easily spread their legs for a line or two.
He calls you, losing patience with this texting bullshit. He runs a hand through his hair impatiently when you don’t immediately pick up, huffing and gulping down the remaining whiskey in his glass. Slamming it down on his desk when you still don’t pick up. Fucking tease. He grabs a baggie from one of the drawers, prepares a neat line; despite promising himself he wouldn’t do it tonight. Fuck that. Ten seconds have passed; you still haven’t picked up. He snorts it quickly, about to throw his phone out the fucking window, except you choose that moment to pick up.
“H-Hello?”
“Hi,” he sounds slightly breathless, but who the fuck cared. He refills his glass with more whiskey, taking a sip to calm himself down. “Took your time to pick up, huh?”
“Yeah, sorry about that,” you say hastily, “I got distracted.”
He feels a sudden surge of jealousy so violent, he doesn’t know how to act for a moment. Distracted by fucking what?
“The lights went out, so I had to go reset them,” you explain, and he barks out a laugh. Jesus fucking Christ.
“Y-You sound kinda breathless, Rafe,” you say, “Is everything okay?”
“Why wouldn’t it be okay?” He downs his drink and sets it aside before his hand slips down. God, you sound so hot. All breathy and innocent, even just over the phone. “Tell me what you were doing.”
A pause, and then you force out a chuckle, “I told you, I just finished cleaning.”
“What like vacuuming and shit?”
“Yes.”
Over the years, Rafe had slept with a number of maids Ward had hired on multiple occasions. He’d fucked Wheezie’s babysitter a few years ago, the housekeeper too. His father had a knack for hiring hot Pogue girls, and maybe that’s where Rafe’s kink for them started.
He could imagine you working for him – he’d make you wear the sexiest little barely-there maid outfit. You wouldn’t question it because you were too innocent. With your little feather duster, trying to clean except you’d be too small to reach certain areas. Fuck, he wouldn’t last five seconds in the same room as you. And he wouldn’t have to because you’d be his hired help, his property. He’d have you bent over his desk, fuck you so hard till you couldn’t stop shaking, till you were crying like a baby and apologising for not focusing on cleaning all while he carried you up to his bedroom. Locked you up in there so nobody else could see you. His girl. All his.
“Uh, Rafe?”
“I wanted to talk to you,” he says.
A pause.
“Really?” You clear your throat, “Where are you? I can hear music.”
“Shit, yeah. Like, there’s a party or whatever going on downstairs. My friends came over unannounced.”
“Oh.” He can sense a level of dejection in your tone. He bets you’re thinking about it, thinking how it’s just a reminder that he has his own group of Kook friends. And you’d never be one of them. You’d never truly fit in. You were either one or the other. Hell, Sarah had proven that when she’d transitioned into the slums. But maybe there was a way to bring you into his world, a way that would stick.
He has to forcibly shake his head to remind himself you’re just part of a stupid bet.
“I’d rather speak to you than them.”
“That’s not true, Rafe.”
“I like how you say my name.” He’s palming his dick now, knowing he’s treading over the line and could easily scare you off now if he’s not careful. But fuck being careful. He’s never really been careful before in his life. He hasn’t had to be. “An’ I’m serious. I told you, I like you.”
“Rafe, I… I just can’t shake the feeling that–”
“That what?” He spits into his palm before resuming touching himself. And shit, he doesn’t know if it’s the drugs or if it’s really just the sound of your voice that’s got him so goddamned horny. He wonders if you’ve ever touched yourself before. If you even knew how to.
“That you’re just playing a big joke on me. I mean, even the people from the Cut think I’m this weird, homeschooled freak.” You laugh, but he can tell you don’t find it funny, “It’s just hard to believe that you’d want to be my friend.”
“They think I’m a freak too,” he says, being honest for once. “Only difference is they don’t talk shit about me because they know I’d kill them.”
“You’re funny, Rafe.”
You’re too innocent to realise he’s not kidding. Not in the least.
“And if anyone says anything about you, I’ll kill them too. I’m serious.” Fuck, he feels like his dick’s gonna goddamn explode. The thought of protecting you like that, like he was responsible for you. Like you were all cute and helpless and he was the one taking care of shit, the one protecting you. That’s all he’s done his whole life, take care of shit and get shit done. And nobody’s ever fucking appreciated him for it.
“Well, thank you, Rafe. I’ve never had anyone stick up for me like that.”
He likes how you keep saying his name now that he’s told you he likes it when you say it. Means you’d be real good at taking instructions. He can imagine telling you what to do when he finally has you in his bed. Order you to get on your hands and knees. Then he’d spread your cute little ass, eat you from the back while you moaned his name over and over, thanking him for taking care of you, weeping how much you appreciate him, how much he means to you. How much you need him.
“A-Are you still there?”
“Shit, yeah. Yeah, I am.” His dick’s red and painfully hard, and he’s still trying to pump it steadily but now he’s imagining your tight little virgin cunt wrapped around it. Soft like velvet, warm and wet. Pulsating around him. Never had even a finger up there but you’d take his big dick, because he owned you, because he was your protector, because you were too weak and helpless without him, and–
“Could you, uh, fuck, say my name again,” he orders you, not caring in the least if he scares you off.
“Rafe?”
He cums into his fist like a goddamned teenage boy, biting down to keep from making any noise. God fucking dammit, you’d listened again. What a good fucking girl. He wants to tell you that, tell you how good you were for him just now, how obedient and submissive you were without even realising it.
“If you’re busy, it’s okay and you can go,” you say softly.
“No, wait…” he clears this throat, grabbing a bunch of tissues from his desk. He can’t believe you hadn’t caught on to him jacking off. “I wanted to ask you something.”
“Yes?”
“Do you want to come over tomorrow? To hang out?”
“Like, uh, at your house?”
“Yeah.” He needs you in private, needs you on his turf where he can control just about everything. God, was it even about the bet anymore? Or just this newfound fucking irrevocable need to fuck you just for his own personal satisfaction? Maybe both.
“I don’t know, I’ve never been to a guy’s house before.”
That just makes him even more determined to be your first.
“C’mon, it’ll be fun. We can go after your classes finish or whatever, and I’ll drive you home afterwards.”
“Rafe…”
He shuts his eyes for a moment, savouring the sound of your voice. He wonders if he can get you to call him daddy. God fucking dammit, just the idea of that was getting him hard again.
“Look, we’ll order some food, watch TV. Whatever you want. It’ll be fun. And it’s what friends do.”
That last part gets to you. He can tell. He knows how badly you want to have friends. He knows you’ve never had any. Not good, permanent ones like you saw in movies and TV shows. Hell, Rafe’s not sure he himself has real friends. But he doesn’t care. The idea of friendship means nothing to him. He’s best when he’s on his own because nobody else could be trusted. But what is important is having a girl like you in his bed. A girl like you who looks up to him with shining eyes, like he’s your goddamned entire world. A girl he plucked up from poverty and saved, and you’d appreciate him more than anyone in his dumb fucking family ever did.
“Say yes,” he all but orders you, but he already knows the answer before you say it.
“O-Okay, yeah. Yes, that sounds like fun. I’d love to come.”
*
“What do you mean you’re not coming?” Topper frowns, crossing his arms over his chest, “You were supposed to bring the, you know…”
Rafe rolls his eyes, wondering why he’s friends with a fucking loser who can’t even say the word coke. That’s why nobody on the goddamned island wanted to sell to Topper. Hell, even Barry refused to.
“I have plans.” Rafe answers, checking his watch for the tenth time. Your final class of the day was due to end any minute now, and he couldn’t wait to get you into his house.
“What plans? You were gonna help me with Sarah tonight.” Topper was a whiny fucking bitch, but even Rafe had to admit he was a better fit for his sister than that lowlife John B.
“I’m not helping you with shit, man.” He mutters disinterestedly, although he had promised a few nights ago that he’d help him. He’d been high as a fucking kite, though. So it didn’t exactly count. “Look, she’ll get bored eventually when she realises his broke ass can’t provide shit for her. Then she’ll come crawling back.”
Topper shakes his head, “No, Sarah’s not materialistic like that.”
Rafe smirks, “You don’t know her.”
“Well, speaking of broke, how’s it going with that homeschool girl? You guys sure seem to be hanging out a lot.”
“Do you have brain damage, Topper?”
“What?”
Rafe corners his friend against a wall, relishing the immediate fear in his eyes, “I seem to remember you placing a bet a week ago.”
“Well, yeah, but –”
“So why the fuck,” he hits the locker lightly behind Topper’s head, “are you asking me about hanging out with her a lot?”
“Chill, dude. It’s just,” he looks hesitant, scared as he’s barely able to make eye contact, “It’s okay if you like her, you know?”
Rafe feels a wave of emotion, something he can’t quite pinpoint. And that makes him mad, because what the fuck was he feeling? He has to clench his fists by his side to stop from slapping the taste out of Topper’s mouth. Why did him bringing you up irritate him so much? Jesus, reign it the fuck in.
He takes a deep breath and steps back, forcing a chuckle, “You think I’m gonna slum it like that?”
Topper grins nervously, as if Rafe hadn’t had him pinned against a locker like a little bitch just a second ago. He straightens up, “I mean, it’s not exactly a secret what your type is.”
Rafe laughs, and Topper relaxes and joins in after a moment or two. That’s when Rafe slams him against the locker again.
“Get it through your thick fucking skull, Topper. I may fuck a Pogue but I’d never date one. Got that?”
“Yes, okay, Jesus Christ, man.” Topper pushes Rafe off him and backs off, “Do whatever the fuck you want.”
That’s when Rafe starts laughing again. “I will, pussy.”
Topper fucks off after that. Sometimes, Rafe wonders what his deal is. He acted up in front of the rest of the group, then tried to act all sensitive and understanding in private. Like Rafe had time for that shit. And how dare Topper insinuate that Rafe had feelings for you? Hell would freeze over before he ever caught feelings for a Pogue.
He realises a bunch of people are staring at him. Goddamit. Fuck all of them. When he was younger, Ward had sent him to see a therapist once a week. He’d quit going once he’d realised it was everyone else who was the problem, and not him. But one thing the shrink had taught him that had stuck was to breathe slowly and count to ten whenever he felt angry or overwhelmed.
That’s what he’s doing when you arrive.
“Hey, Rafe. I’m sorry I’m late. The professor held me back.”
“Why?” He barks out before he can contain himself. He’s already on edge, and now some dumbass professor is keeping you back in class because you undoubtedly get his old, shrivelled dick hard and you’re too innocent to even realise it.
You blink, “He really liked the essay I submitted last week. He even said he wants to use it as an example for his other classes!”
“That’s great,” Rafe plasters a smile on his face but he’s only half listening, “Let’s go.”
He calms down some as he guides you out of the hallway and toward the parking lot. He almost grabs your hand when it gets a bit too crowded, but remembers himself just in time. He couldn’t be caught holding hands with a Pogue. It was too intimate, and like he’d said to Topper, he’d never let it get to that point with a Pogue. Instead, he places his hand on your lower back and pushes you forward. You smile at him, and it goes straight to his… well, not his dick, surprisingly. But it goes somewhere within him, and he feels it again. Something he doesn’t really recognise or know how to deal with. So he forcibly pushes it back inside himself.
“You look cute,” he says once he’s got you outside and there’s more room to breathe. You look like an angel in the afternoon sunlight, dressed in the cutest little sundress he’s ever seen. It’s this pinkish-orange, like the colour of the sunset, and you’ve got matching ribbons in your hair. Like you’ve really made an effort to get all dressed up just to go to his house.
“Thanks,” you look down as if you’re embarrassed, like you don’t know how to take a compliment, “It’s my mom’s dress.”
“It’s really pretty,” he says softly, before clearing his throat and looking away.
He gets you to his car, lifting you up by your waist and helping you into it. And that turns him on so much, how small and sweet you look. Like a little fairy in his arms. None of the other girls were like you. Not at all. He wonders what you’re wearing underneath, and feels his cock thicken in his slacks with anticipation when he realises he was probably going to find out today.
You don’t say anything when he pulls up into the driveway of his house. Ward had fucked off on some business trip and taken Wheezie and Rose with him so he had the place to himself. That’s how he liked it best, it gave him space to think and breathe without the constant noise of his family. Well, Wheezie was an exception. He didn’t mind her too much.
“Wait here,” he says, getting out the car and walking around to open the door for you. You allow him to lift you out again, this time your hands landing on his shoulders. And it’s fucking insane how that tiny, voluntary touch does things to him that no other girl has ever done before.
Now, he doesn’t think twice before grabbing your hand and pulling you down to the large, ornate wooden double doors. You’re distracted anyways, eyes wide as saucers as you ogle the mansion that Rafe’s never thought twice about. But he reckons it’s a step or two above whatever shacks the people from the Cut lived in, so he allows you to remain silent and let it sink in.
Finally, you exhale slowly, “This is… uh… wow. I can’t believe there’s people in this world who live like this.”
Rafe smirks, squeezing your hand, “Yeah. Do you want a drink?”
He leads you to the bar in the corner of the living room, again lifting you up and placing you on one of the stools. You giggle, “I can climb on myself, you know.”
“Yeah? You seem to like it when I pick you up, though.”
He winks, and notes how you duck your head and smile shyly, your hands wringing together on your lap like you’re nervous. God, you were so fucking cute.
“What’s your usual drink of choice?” He asks, going behind the island to inspect the liquor. His friends had gone through a lot of it at the party the night before, but the house help had restocked everything this morning.
You blink, “Um, water?”
He stifles a laugh, pouring himself his usual whiskey with ice, “You’re a good girl, huh?”
“I tried some of my mom’s wine once but it tasted horrible,” you shrug, “I don’t know why people like it so much.”
“Try this.” He pours you a Peach Schnapps with lemonade and ice, “It’s sweet like you.”
You hesitate, but end up taking it. And he watches as you take a tentative sip, and he knows you like it because you take another one. And then another. He can’t help but feel proud for introducing you to your first alcoholic drink.
“You’re not as bad as people say you are,” you say out of nowhere, and his expression immediately sours.
“People have been talking about me to you?”
“No, it’s just the stuff I’ve heard. Like what I told you before. But it can’t be true, because you’re so nice to me so it just doesn’t add up.”
He grips his glass tight, about to lose it because yet again people were talking shit about him behind his back and never to his fucking face. Because they were all a bunch of pussies who knew he’d beat the shit out of them or kill them if they said anything to his face. But then you speak again.
“Do you always drink after school?”
“Huh?”
“Like, alcohol. Do you drink a lot? Like every day?”
“No.” He lies. “Only sometimes.”
He takes you out to the patio, where the sun is shining and you look so fucking pretty in your little sundress. Like you fit right into his world, next to the pool with a drink in your hand, sat next to him and looking at him with sparkling eyes as if he was your god. He wonders if you’ve naturally grown more comfortable with him through the course of the week, or if it’s just the alcohol. Probably the alcohol, since no one was ever really comfortable around him.
Either way, he puts his hand on your leg just like he had a few days ago in his car. Your breath hitches, but you don’t make a move to stop him. Instead, you opt to take another sip of your drink, and he wonders if he can get you drunk tonight. Shit, did he even want to? It was no fun fucking a drunk girl.
“Tell me more about you,” he strokes the soft skin of your bare thigh, feeling your goosebumps underneath the pads of his fingers. “You ever had a boyfriend or anything?”
Your eyes widen, “No. I, uh, you don’t tend to meet any guys when you’re homeschooled.” Embarrassed, you giggle before looking away. He reaches out, grabbing your chin lightly and making you look at him again. Fuck, your lips were so sexy. So pouty and perfect, begging to be kissed. “What about…what about you? Have you had any girlfriends?”
He shrugs, “A few.”
You nod, “Of course you have. That was a stupid question. Sorry, I forget not everyone’s as far behind in life as I am.”
“You’re not far behind.” He says, although you are and he prefers it that way.
“I am. Every other girl my age has had all the experiences you’re supposed to have. Drinking, partying, boys, all of it.” You sigh, “Sometimes I feel like I’m so far behind that I’ll never catch up.”
Rafe inches his hand upwards, till he reaches the hem of your dress halfway up your thigh. He plays with the fabric, and he can tell you’re acutely aware of what he’s doing. You don’t make a move to stop him, but you do press your legs together.
“There’s still plenty of time to catch up,” he says softly, “I can help you.”
You smile up at him, holding up your drink, “You already have. I’d never drank with friends before now.”
“Congratulations,” he says, clinking his glass with yours, “To one of many firsts.”
He downs his drink and so do you, and he’s quick to get a refill for both of you. He’s guessing you’re a lightweight, and again the thought of getting you drunk crosses his mind. But that would be way too easy.
“I’m capping you after this one,” he says, handing you your second Peach Schnapps.
You giggle, “Are you gonna cap yourself too?”
“No.” He chucks you under the chin again, “But, see, I’m not a baby.”
“Hey!”
He kisses you. And shit, he hadn’t planned on catching you so off-guard. Hell, he’s caught himself off-guard. But he couldn’t help it. Couldn’t help how kissable your lips looked, all pouty and bitten. And you taste like cherry lip gloss mixed with peaches and lemonade, and you’re so pliant underneath him, and he’s kissed a shit ton of girls but it’s never felt like this.
You pull away with a start, shocked as you stare up at him. Breathing hard and biting your goddamned lips before they turn into the shape of an o.
“I’m sorry,” Rafe says, although he’s not, “I’ve been wanting to do that since the day I first saw you.”
Your breathing is shallow, and with a shaky hand you put your glass down on the crystal table in front of you. “I’ve never, uh, I’ve never kissed anyone before.”
“Well, it’s easy. I could show you.”
You swallow, “I don’t want this to be like, a pity thing.”
Rafe exhales slowly, “You’re here in front of me in this tiny fuckin” dress, acting all cute and innocent and you think I want to kiss you out of pity?”
Your jaw drops, “Hey, it’s not tiny!”
He kisses you again. And sure, maybe he should’ve asked permission since it’s, well, your first kiss. But frankly he’s never had to ask permission to do anything in his entire life, and he wasn’t about to start now. The way he sees it, you wouldn’t have worn a slutty dress and agreed to come to his house if you didn’t want him to make a move on you.
Again, you pull away, “Rafe, I– don’t… I don’t know how to kiss, I’m sorry–”
He cups your face in his hands, pulling you closer and pressing his lips against yours again. Just to feel your soft, quivering lips against his confident ones. He kisses you once, twice, three times. Coaxing you to open your mouth, to let him in. Fuck, a part of him just wants to shove his tongue down your fucking throat, show you what it means to really be kissed. But he’s already pushing his luck right now.
“I’ll teach you,” he says, “But you need to do exactly what I say, okay?”
He can’t believe his goddamned luck when you nod. God, you were just so fucking hot, prancing around his house in your little dress, all impressed by his riches and shit, drinking your drink he made you like a good little girl, and now here you were, agreeing to whatever he said.
He taps his leg, “Get on my lap.”
Your eyes nearly bug out of your head, “Wh-What?”
Rafe smirks, “Didn’t you just agree to do exactly what I say?”
He’s surprised with the amount of patience he has with you. If you were another girl, he’d have thrown your ass out to the curb for asking too many annoying questions. Or bent you over, shoved your face into a pillow to shut you up and had his way with you. God knew he’d done that more times than he could count over the years. He was aware of how much bigger and stronger he was than you and every other girl, and that fact turned him on more than anything. The fact that he could, if he wanted to, completely take advantage of you however he wanted. And all you’d be able to do is cry and beg him to stop, which would just turn him on more.
“I did, I’m sorry, but I don’t–”
Easily, he grabs your hips and lifts you up onto his lap, makes you straddle him with one leg on either side of him. Your dress is just about long enough to still cover your modesty, but now he’s acutely aware of your panty-covered pussy just inches away from reach. Fuck, he wonders what kind of panties you’re wearing, and if you’d let him look…
“There. Comfy?”
“Well, I guess, but…”
He pulls you into another kiss, this time catching you mid-sentence so he’s able to slip his tongue into your mouth. And you’re so fucking shy, just rigid while he explores your mouth. But he doesn’t mind. You taste so fucking sweet, and it’s getting him so hard, knowing he’s the first man you’ve let touch you like this, kiss you like this.
He can feel your breath hitch as he strokes your face, his thumbs running across your cheeks before his hand tangles into your hair. He yanks you closer, grazing his teeth against your plump bottom lip. You gasp, and he chuckles into your open mouth. His tongue plays with yours, coaxing you to kiss him back, but not really caring too much if you don’t.
And god, he wants to thrust up into you so bad. You’re sitting right on top of his fucking hard dick, and you don’t even seem to realise it. In fact, you shift around, that cute little peachy ass rubbing against his boner, and he wonders if you even know what a boner is.
When you pull away this time, your eyes are bright and excited. And he loves how he’s kissed the gloss off your lips, and how he can still taste you on his tongue.
“Wow, that was…” you giggle, breathless yet excited from finally having your first kiss, “I don’t have anything to compare it to, but that was good!”
Rafe has to crack a smile at your innocence, and his hand lands on your bare thigh, tracing his initials on it again, “Yeah? You like kissing me?”
“I…um… yeah I do,” you say shyly, before closing your eyes for a moment and taking a deep breath, “Could we uh, could we try again? Could I try?”
Well, shit. He’s never devoted this much time and energy into just kissing a girl, but his dick grows even harder at how you’ve plucked up the courage to ask him that. And so he simply nods and sits back, lets you figure out what it is you want to do.
Your cute little hands hold on to his broad shoulders shyly. And you lean up, fluttering your eyes closed like it’s some kind of fairytale for you and you’re the little princess kissing her prince charming. It’s part enamouring, part pathetic. But Rafe feels it again, that unfamiliar feeling bubbling up in his chest. He shakes out of it, focusing on your plump lips that hesitantly press against yours.
He sits still; lets you explore his mouth. Your tongue pokes out, swipes against his. And the feeling goes straight to his dick. And then he’s kissing you back, because he doesn’t have the goddamned willpower to just sit there and do nothing. There’s an animal inside of him and you’ve awoken it, more than any drug or alcohol ever could.
And he gets rougher, biting your lip till you gasp into his mouth. His hands slip up and down your bare arms before he takes your hand, squeezes it before pressing it down on his chest, wanting you to touch him, feel how much bigger he is than you.
“Good girl,” he mutters when you don’t move your hand, and then he fingers the hem of your dress. “Gonna let me touch you a little bit?”
“Rafe, maybe not too much–”
“C’mon, princess, you have to touch while you’re making out, right? That’s lesson number two.” He distracts you with another rough kiss, grabbing your jaw and squeezing while he brings you closer to his mouth. Kissing down your jaw and neck before returning to your lips, smirking when you squeak out a little involuntary moan. That’s when he slips his hand up your dress and cups your ass. Perfect little handful of your bubble butt, and he gives it a little squeeze to test the waters. You’re too distracted with kissing him, and so he squeezes harder. God, so fuckin’ soft and pliable, just like how he’d imagined.
“Nice ass,” he murmurs against your lips, and that’s what jolts you out of it. He curses inwardly when you pull away, pushing against his chest when he doesn’t immediately stop. And a part of him knows how easy it would be to just pin you down on this fucking sofa and have his way with you. Tell you how it’s your fault for wearing this fucking dress, your fault for seducing him in his own home, acting so sexy and innocent and getting him so riled up. Teasing him with your shy little kisses and squeaks till he had no choice but to hold you down and fuck you.
“I’m sorry,” you say as you slide off his lap, straightening your dress, “I just… I got overwhelmed.”
He blinks, and he’s this close to pulling you back on top of him, telling you he didn’t give you permission to stop, that you had to listen to him because this was his house and he’d been kind enough to invite you over. And he could make you feel so good, if you just stopped being a goddamned little prude.
Instead, he forces a smile, “You’re a pretty good kisser for someone who claims she’s never done it before.”
You beam, relaxing immediately, “Oh, you’re just saying that. I bet I was really bad.”
“My memory’s kinda foggy, I think you’re gonna have to remind me,” he pulls you back into him, and you giggle as he presses light kisses on your lips, his arm going around your shoulders while your hands tangle into his hair.
It doesn’t go any further than that, though. You stop him when he tries to touch you again, and a part of him wants to slam his fist down on the glass patio table in frustration. And yet, something stops him from just overpowering you and taking what he wants. No, that would be too easy. He’s about to crack you, he can tell from the way you look at him with those big eyes, now full of trust and comfort. He just needs more time.
Too bad he only had one day left to complete the goddamned bet.
“You should come over again,” he says when he’s done up your seatbelt for you in his car. He finds he likes doing all that shit – opening the door for you, lifting you into your seat, clicking your seatbelt into place, all of it. A stark difference from other girls, where often he’s tossed their clothes at them and motioned for them to leave after he’s done hooking up with them.
“That sounds nice,” you say, waiting for him to come round and get into the driver’s seat, “And I told you; you don’t have to drive me all the way home. I could’ve just got the bus.”
He blinks. He didn’t realise buses even functioned in Figure 8, but either way, he can’t have you on a public bus. Especially not in that dress, where every man would be leering at you and you’d be none the wiser about it. The control freak in him is itching to be let out, to tell you exactly what you were and weren’t allowed to wear in public, tell you how you weren’t allowed to speak to any men except him. And you weren’t allowed to argue or contest any of this, because he was in charge of you now, and–
“No buses,” he says firmly, his hand resting comfortably on your thigh as he drives, “Anyways, come over again tomorrow. We can go in the pool or whatever.”
He feels you go rigid, “Th-The pool?”
He glances at you, “Yeah. It’ll be fun.”
You laugh nervously, “Uh, I’m not too great with water. I don’t really swim or anything.”
Rafe has to do a double-take, “You realise you live on an island?”
Even he knew that every child born in Kildare could swim before they could even walk. It’s just the way it was. They were surrounded by water. Rafe doesn’t even remember learning how to swim; it was almost like he knew how to do it by default.
“I know how to swim, I just don’t like water,” you say, and there’s something off about your tone. Something he can’t pinpoint, but you turn to the side and look out the window. Silent for the rest of the drive. Rafe doesn’t push it, although your odd behaviour has piqued his curiosity.
It’s only when he’s pulling up into the pitiful dirt road of a street where your house is situated that you clear your throat.
“Look, Rafe, you’re my friend now. And I don’t really like keeping secrets from you. I’m sorry I was so quiet just now.”
Cute. He likes how much you apologise to him. It shows how respectful you are, how much you respected him as an authority figure.
“That’s okay,” he says.
You take a deep breath, “I used to go out in the water a lot when I was younger. With my dad. He had a boat, and I would help him. But…”
Your voice trails off for a moment. Rafe thinks he knows where this is going, and a part of him is touched you’d share something like this with him. A tiny, obscure part of him, that is. He can’t help but squeeze your leg reassuringly, and you clear your throat again and blink several times. Like you’re trying not to cry. And Rafe’s never had the patience for emotional chicks, but it’s different with you.
You force out a little laugh, “I don’t want to go into details. But one time we were out pretty far, and the weather was bad. Like, really bad. The waves were rough and…” You swallow, looking down into your lap and wringing your hands together, your chest rising and falling rapidly, “And… Well, I was fine but… my dad…”
Shaking your head, you don’t say anymore. You don’t have to. Your eyes are wet and glistening, the muscles in your face working overtime to stop the tears from coming out. He parks the car in front of your house, turning to face you. He’s never been in a situation like this before, and he’s not sure how to act.
Fiercely, you wipe away the one or two rogue tears that have escaped down your cheeks, “It happened so long ago, I barely remember it. But I’ve been scared of the water ever since.”
He nods, “It’s just you and your mom now?”
“Yes. And my brothers. But they’re always working, so it’s just me and her. That’s why she’s so protective of me… I, uh, I don’t have a dad anymore.”
Rafe knows what it’s like to lose a parent, but he can’t fathom ever talking about it or voicing his feelings on it or some shit like that. His loser therapist had tried to get him to talk about his mother, but he hadn’t. He couldn’t. It was just muscle memory at this point, to force any thoughts of her straight out of his mind. It was easier that way. And now, it was like he could barely remember her. And he hated it, but it made it easier too.
He’s never been good at comforting anyone else. And a part of him is glad you’re not sobbing your eyes out right now, because he’s not sure how he’d handle that. So he’s happy when you clear your throat again and smile up at him.
“I’m not sure why I told you that, I’ve never had a friend to tell that to before. I guess I just feel comfortable with you, Rafe.”
What the hell had he done to make you so trusting of him in the span of less than a week? God, you were like an innocent little angel, sitting in his car all tiny and vulnerable. Making him feel like a goddamned fucking monster for the thoughts he had towards you, what he planned to do with you. Suddenly, the bet feels so stupid and insignificant. God, this was why Rafe didn’t speak to the women he fucked. They went all emotional on him, and now he wasn’t sure how to act.
“I feel comfortable around you too,” he says carefully. He’s never been great with his words, but he grabs your hands that continue to wring nervously together. His big, warm hand dwarfing your tiny ones, and he realises you’re shaking. And there’s a part of him that wants to protect you against everything. Take you back to his place, lock you up in his room so he could keep an eye on you and keep you away from anything and anyone who could ever hurt you and make you cry.
Even if the only person who could hurt you the most right now is Rafe himself.
You leave after that, thanking him again and again for giving you a lift home. He wants to walk you to your door, but you run off quickly, and his mind’s too distracted to follow you. He drives off once he sees you’ve safely closed your front door behind you, his mind moving a million miles per minute.
Jesus Christ, why’d you have to go and open up to him like that? This would be so much fucking easier if you hadn’t done that. He hates that he should know better, that he knows that he should leave you alone. You were too innocent, too vulnerable for his bullshit; to be caught in the middle of some dumbass bet he’d made with his friends. God dammit, he hates himself for agreeing to that stupid bet, seems so fucking juvenile looking back. Wished he’d picked a different girl at the very least, someone not as lovely a you.
Most of all, he hates himself because he knows that despite everything he’s just found out about you, he still has every intention of fucking you. Daddy issues and a phobia of water. It was almost like fate was handing you to him on a silver platter. He had to fuck you. He’d figure out the rest later.
*
Kelce: One day left, loverboy.
Topper: Can’t wait to see the pictures.
Rafe mutes the groupchat before throwing his phone aside. He’d goddamn throttle his friends if they were in front of him right now. Sometimes, he gets these violent tendencies. He doesn’t really know what to make of them except it feels good to have some kind of release. Usually that comes in the form of pushing around a sorry ass Pogue, but that option’s not really available right now.
Instead, he searches blindly for the coke he’s stashed in his bedside drawer. Again, he’d promised himself he’d cut down, but this was just to take the edge off. It didn’t count. Not really.
He wonders what you’d think if you knew how often he took drugs. Well, you wouldn’t because he’d keep you well away from that part of his life. Even when he made you his girlfriend, he’d keep you separate from all the partying. And he’d never allow you to even look at any type of Class A drug. And who knows, maybe he’d become better for you, maybe he’d go stone cold sober if you wanted him to.
That makes him laugh. Going sober for a Pogue. It was insane of him to even consider it.
Again, he has to remind himself to take his emotions out of it. All you were was a stupid Pogue, and a part of a bet he was going to goddamned fulfil. And he wouldn’t allow himself to think anything more of it. He may have had a momentary lapse of judgement yesterday, but today was a new day, the last day of the week he had to fuck you.
How? He wasn’t too sure. Reports of a storm meant you couldn’t come to his house again like how he’d planned. Even now, Rafe could hear the harrowing winds outside. Like a goddamned cyclone. And the rain pelting down unforgivingly, and the distant roar of the sea, waves crashing like they’d taken on a life of their own.
The weather on the island was usually all sunshine, but once in a blue moon a storm would hit like now. Residents were always told to wait it out and stay inside. For Rafe, that meant copious amounts of drugs and alcohol. Sometimes a girl or two to keep him company. But the idea of fucking anyone that isn’t you right now makes him sick.
He thinks about texting you, but what would be the goddamned point? If he couldn’t physically be with you today? He knows the weak, pussy part of his mind just wants to talk to you in whatever form he can. But he needs to bury that bullshit down deep inside him and never back, and–
His phone vibrates. It’s you. And he hates how he feels his heart jump to his fucking throat. You’ve called him all on your own, which means you were thinking about him like how he was thinking about you.
“Rafe?” You sound sexy like you always do, all breathy and weak and needy. A bit panicked too.
“Hey,” he says, trying to sound nonchalant, “What’s up?”
“Hey, calm down.” Rafe barely recognises the gentle quality of his voice as he straightens up, “What’s wrong, princess?”
“I’m scared.”
You say it so softly, with an air of embarrassment and shame, that at first he doesn’t quite get what you’re saying. But then he does, and something kicks in inside him. This innate need to protect you. You sound so small and needy on the phone, and you called him. You need him.
“What happened? Did someone hurt you?”
“No, no. Oh, Rafe, it’s the storm. It keeps getting worse.”
He chuckles in relief that you weren’t in any immediate danger, “Well, shit. Yeah. Looks pretty wild, huh?”
“I hate it,” you whimper softly, “and I’m sorry I called. But my mom’s stuck at work, and my brothers are crashing somewhere else. So it’s just me, and, and…”
“Hey, calm down. It’s okay, you’ll be okay.” He’s never had to comfort anyone before, but it comes naturally with you. “As long as you stay inside, the storm should pass. Just watch TV or something.”
“The lights are gonna go off any second,” you sniffle, “They always do when the weather gets bad.”
They did? Rafe never noticed shit like that. Then again, he doubts you had the luxury of backup generators where you lived. He pauses.
“Gimme twenty minutes. I’ll come over.”
“No!” You say quickly, “Rafe, it’s too dangerous.”
He snorts. He’d been in far more dangerous situations than a little bad weather. But the less you knew about that, the better. “I think I’ll be okay, princess.”
“B-But we’re not allowed out. You’ll get a fine.”
Rafe can’t count on one hand how many times he’d been fined by the dumbass police on this goddamned island over some petty bullshit reason or another. A fine meant nothing to someone with money. He was above the law, and most people on this island knew it.
“Stay put. I’ll see you soon.”
Rafe actually enjoys driving in the storm. The roads are deserted, and he can speed without worrying about anything else. And he does speed, and he runs more than one red light too. Gets to your house quicker than he thought he would. Past all the other tiny shacks all boarded up because they weren’t built well enough to withstand the storm.
“Rafe! You came!”
You sound like a fucking needy little baby, but something pulls at his heart when you hug him harder than you ever have before. And you’re so small, on your tippy toes so your arms reach around his neck. Automatically, his arms wind around your waist and he holds you close, and he can feel you trembling, your face buried in his chest as you hold on to him tightly.
“Yeah. Roads were empty. Didn’t take long.” He mutters, looking around the inside of your house. Pitiful. And pitch black, because you were right, the power had gone out. He hates that you live here. You’d fit in so much better at Tannyhill, in a pretty pink silk dressing gown and dripping with diamonds he’d buy for you. And you’d be so thankful for him, tell everyone that he saved you, how well he took care of you. How he gave you everything you could ever want, and how much you appreciated him.
At that moment, a clap of thunder makes you jump and squeal. Quickly, you pull him inside and shut the door. That’s when he notices that you’re crying.
“Hey, it’s okay. C’mere.” He pulls you into another hug, and he’s never seen another human being look so scared, so vulnerable. It makes him feel so powerful, like the man he knew you needed. “You’re safe now, I’m here.”
It feels natural, his lips pressing a kiss into your hairline. Like you’re his little baby, like he’s been trusted with something so precious and now he has to protect you. And you’re too scared to be your usual jumpy self, and you just snuggle closer into him. A flash of lightning lights up the whole room, the storm relentless against the weak confines of this sorry excuse of a house.
“Maybe we should head back to mine.” He suggests, but you whimper again.
“No, no, we can’t go out there. It’s not safe. Rafe, please.”
He doesn’t think he’s ever seen another human being so scared before. Not even when he was fucking that one girl after he’d showed her his gun. Even now, he consciously tucks his gun further down the waistband of his chinos. Of course he’d brought it with him, he wasn’t going to enter the Cut without a piece on him.
“Okay, okay. We’ll stay here. When’s your mom coming home?”
“Not till tomorrow once the storm’s died down.”
He licks his lips. It was too good to be true.
You’re still holding on to him as you lead him into your bedroom. He wonders why you’d take him straight there, but he guesses it’s your safe place. And you’ve got candles lit up, and they brighten the room enough for him to notice how small it is. The size of a shoebox, with a single bed covered in pink sheets and a bunch of stuffed animals.
Despite everything, his dick hardens.
“You’re a really good friend, Rafe.” You say honestly, “Nobody else would’ve come over like this.”
He shrugs, sitting on the edge of your bed and patting the mattress next to him. It’s not even his house and yet he feels like he needs to take control. And you obey, taking a seat next to him. But you’re preoccupied with your own fear, doing that thing where you fidget with your hands in your lap.
“I wouldn’t do it for anyone else.”
You look up at him with wide eyes, biting your lip like you can’t quite believe what he’s said, “I-I’m not special, Rafe, I–”
You’re cut off by another clap of thunder, this one so loud it makes the whole house shake. You scream bloody murder, and honestly, if you were anyone else Rafe would’ve laughed. But it’s you, and so he just watches. It’s fascinating, the way you clutch onto him like he’s your saviour, and he wonders just how this opportunity had basically just fallen into his lap.
He pulls you into his lap, knowing you won’t protest. Not in the state you’re in. You’re wearing a pair of black leggings and a little white tank top. No bra, because he can feel your nipples, hard and poking out from the fabric of your top. He can feel them against his chest as he hugs you again, and he can also feel you shifting on top of him. Your peachy little ass rubbing against his dick like you’re a fucking tease except he knows you’re none the wiser, that you have no idea the effect you have on him.
He’s so turned on, it feels like he might explode.
“I’m sorry,” you apologise for the umpteenth time, “It’s just so scary. Wh-What if the storm gets worse, Rafe?”
“It probably will,” he says, feeling slightly wicked. He holds you tighter against him, wanting to feel the brush of your breasts against his chest again. Fuck, he wants to cop a feel so bad. “They were saying something about a severe weather warning on the news. Not like anything we’ve ever seen before.”
“Noooo,” you moan like a goddamned baby, cuddling into him even more.
“It’s okay,” he says, running his hand up and down your back, “You ever, uh, you ever think of distracting yourself from the storm?”
You hiccup and blink up at him with wet eyes, “Nothing works, Rafe.”
He smirks, “I could distract you.”
“H-How?”
He runs his thumb over your lips. They’re wet with your salty tears, and yet like muscle memory, you part them for him. You watch him in wonder, your breathing shallow as he pushes his thumb into your mouth, his other hand holding you in place by your hip.
“Suck.” He instructs gently, and your eyes are as big as saucers. But in your frightened, vulnerable state, you obey immediately. And it feels like he’ll bust a nut right there, watching as you suck his thumb on command like a little fucking baby. Like he’s your daddy.
“Good girl,” he says, stroking your hair out of your face so he can watch you better. “Now listen to me, I can help you. I can distract you so that you forget all about the storm. Do you want that?”
You nod slowly, almost like you’re entranced by him. Not that he needs the green light from you, but it’s hot to see you agree so easily to whatever he’s saying. Fuck, you really were just like an angel fallen straight from heaven and into his lap. Perfect for him in every single way. So soft, so impressionable. Completely untouched. Ready to be ruined.
“That’s good,” he mutters vaguely, thinking of everything he was going to do to you. He takes his thumb out of your mouth, noticing how you pout involuntarily, like you’d gotten used to the feeling of sucking on it. Fuck, he could give you something else to suck on. “Give me a kiss.”
“H-Huh–”
“Do it. Just like how I taught you yesterday. You remember our lesson, don’t you?”
You nod, “Yeah, but will that really work? I mean–”
It’s like God himself is on Rafe’s side because there’s a loud boom of thunder at that exact moment. And you jump in his lap, tears welling in your eyes. Your chest rises up and down, and you bite your lip again, your gaze zeroing in on his mouth. Slowly, you lean up, shyly pressing your lips on his. But there’s a desperation to it, and Rafe’s returning kiss completely envelopes you whole.
He makes out with you for a while, smirking through your little pants and moans mixed with a whimper every time the weather gets especially brutal outside. He’s never been with such a goddamned scaredy cat baby before in his entire life, and it turns him on beyond belief. In the state you’re in, he could get you to do anything.
Rafe’s hands slip up to grab your little top, tugging it upwards. And this time, he almost loses it in frustration when again, you stop him.
“Rafe, Rafe no stop.” You push his hands off, straightening your top back over your midriff. “Couldn’t we just… just kiss?”
He presses his lips together in a thin line, “You trust me?”
“Of course, I just don’t know if I want to–”
“Look, didn’t I say I would distract you? I mean, shit, I could just leave.”
Your jaw drops, a flash of fear glimmering in your eyes. Instinctively, you grab onto his bicep with your tiny hands, a pleading look on your face, “No, don’t!”
He smirks, “I won’t leave. But you need to trust me to do what I need to do to distract you. Because the storm’s just gonna get worse.” He grabs your chin when you avert your gaze, forcing you to look at him, “Hey, c’mon. Who has more experience with this shit, you or me?”
“Y-You.”
“Yeah. And who’s older?”
“You are.”
“That’s right. Which means you need to trust me to make these kinds of decisions, because I know what’s best for you. That’s why you called me over, right?”
You don’t say anything, but this time when he tries to take your top off, you don’t protest. And Jesus fucking Christ, he was right. You’re not even wearing a bra, almost like you were deliberately trying to seduce him. Acting like a whiny little damsel in distress, pulling him into your pitiful little pink room, all candlelit and shit, on your little bed with your stuffed fucking animals.
Your nipples are hard, and he can’t help but cup your breasts. They’re so tender, so soft just like you. He’d imagined this exact moment many times over the course of the week whilst he’d jacked off to you, but nothing could compare to now. The way you tremble beneath his touch, knowing no one’s ever touched you like this before. He squeezes gently, watching how your breath hitches.
He’s overcome with animalistic instinct in just a second, and leans down to take your breast into his mouth. Sucks your nipple sweetly, before biting down. You cry out, arching your back so prettily, feeding him more of your nipple as you push it into his mouth. He bets you probably don’t even understand why it feels so good, having never been touched like this ever before.
He pinches your other nipple and you gasp. He smirks and does it again, looking up at you to see you gazing imploringly down at him.
“Th-That hurts,” you say pitifully.
“Yeah, but you like it, don’t you?” He takes your hands in his, bringing them up to his hair. Like a good little girl, you get the message. Your hands fist into his hair as he continues to play with your tits, licking and sucking all over them, pushing them together, biting your nipples and sucking the sensitive skin around them, wanting to leave his mark everywhere.
“Rafe, I, that… oh… oh my–”
“Stand up, baby.”
You squeak at the pet-name that falls so naturally from his lips, and he can tell you like being called that. It’s from the way your eyes widen, and how you scramble to obey. God, you were a little tease but you took instructions so fucking well.
You stand between his legs, and it gets him so fucking hard that you’re still barely eye level with him even when he’s sat down.
“Take your leggings off.”
You open your mouth to argue, but this time he just flashes you a look and you’re quick to shut the fuck up. That, and he distracts you with his hands running up and down your sides, squeezing your waist, then your hip. Finally landing on your ass with a light slap as if to tell you not to keep him waiting.
You push your leggings down and step out of them, till you’re standing between his legs in just your pink flowery panties and nothing else. And he feels a hunger he’s never ever felt before, looking down at you ravenously as if you’re a piece of meat and he’s a goddamned starved lion. A part of him just wants to grab you and stick his cock inside you while you scream and thrash and beg him to stop while you secretly enjoy it and cum again and again.
“Turn around,” Rafe says slowly, because despite his animalistic thoughts, he wants to savour this. And you do, letting him see your sexy butt adorned in just your panties. He hooks his thumb under the elastic, snapping it against your skin and laughing crudely when you yelp. “God, you’ve got such a perfect ass. I knew that since the moment I saw you.”
“Wh-What?”
“You heard me. You’re always wearing the cutest little outfits, like you were showing it off just for me.” He grabs your left ass cheek, squeezing it hard while you moan in pain or pleasure, right now he doesn’t really give much of a fuck. His other hand palms his cock through his pants at the sight.
“I wasn’t!” You say indignantly, as if he’s accused you of the absolute worst. “I wasn’t showing off, Rafe!”
“Sure you weren’t,” he snorts, “Now bend over, lemme see it better.”
He can’t believe it when you don’t hesitate this time, almost like you’re seeking his approval. Like you’re under some kind of submissive spell now, making everything even easier for him. You bend over, and your cute little ass is directly in his face. He pushes your panties to the side, gives the soft flesh a feather-light kiss before spanking you again. You yelp all cutely, but stay in position for him. What a good fucking girl.
“Stand up straight, look at me again.”
You turn back around, biting your lip as you look at him anxiously. Around you, the whole room seems to vibrate as another boom of thunder strikes. You make a noise in your throat, before grabbing onto his bicep again. You keep doing that, and it makes him feel strong, big, important. Like you’re a little baby seeking protection from her daddy.
“I’m gonna take your panties off now, okay?” He doesn’t know why he tells you before he does it, but he watches as you relax. There’s a war going on behind your eyes, he can tell. He knows part of you is liking how he’s making you feel, and part of you is desperate to distract yourself from the storm, and it’s battling the part of you that wants to keep your modesty, the part that knows this is a bad idea, that itching fear that he’s not a good guy, that he’s taking advantage of you.
Slowly, he slips your panties down your shaking legs, and you keep holding on to his arm like you’re scared to let go. Like the storm would come and get you the moment you stopped holding him like a little baby. He lets you, liking how weak you feel against him.
And then you’re completely naked in front of him, stepping shyly out of your panties that are left on the floor in a heap along with the rest of your clothes. And he’s still fully dressed, and that juxtaposition turns him on beyond belief. He can smell your pussy, and it’s driving him crazy. Makes him want to just pin you down and have his way with you. It incenses him in a way he’s never really experiences before.
His hands grab your hips, yanking you closer. He feels a wave of impatience, pushing you down till you’re sitting on the bed. He gets up, pushing your legs apart with one of his own. You gasp, and he sinks down to his knees, pressing a soft kiss to the skin just below your belly button.
“It’s time for lesson number three, baby,” Rafe murmurs softly, “this is how I’m gonna distract you, okay? Shit, I’m gonna make you feel so good, you’ll forget all about the storm. You gonna let me do that?”
You swallow, “H-How, Rafe?”
God, you were absolutely clueless. Made him feel like a fucking monster for taking advantage of you like this. But he liked it, liked how good and sweet and innocent you were, even now when he had you naked on your pretty princess bed with your legs spread for him.
“I’m gonna kiss you down here for a while, alright baby?”
“Down there?” You suck in your breath prettily, as if the very idea of that sounds so insane to you. God fucking dammit, just how much had your mother sheltered you?
Instead of explaining further, Rafe spreads your folds with two of his fingers, smirking when he sees you glistening and wet. And God, what a pretty and perfect pussy you had, all slippery and wet, like it was begging to be fucked. And even now, as you sit there breathing heavily, your pussy seems to get wetter just by him spreading it. You’re leaking down onto your pretty pink sheets, and it’s all because he’s merely touched you there.
You’ve gone silent, the storm seemingly already forgotten as you just watch him. Your chest rises up and down, and it’s like every other part of you is frozen in place. In awe, until he notices a slight movement in your pelvis. Involuntarily, you hump the air, like your poor pussy is begging for some type of contact or friction. He smirks.
“You have an accident, princess?”
You look absolutely aghast, “No!”
Rafe leans forward, inhaling deeply. And you smell so goddamned sweet, and he can’t wait any longer. He lays his tongue flat against your virgin cunt, and he can feel you throbbing with anticipation. He licks upwards, and you grab onto his hair, tugging hard as you yelp.
“Oh my God–”
He looks up, “Not God, baby. Just me.” Absentmindedly, he flicks your clit with his thumb and your entire body jerks. He chuckles, “And there’s another thing I’m going to need you to do.”
“What?”
“You’re going to call me daddy while I eat your cunt, okay?”
For the fifth time this evening, your jaw drops, and you gaze down at him in indignance, “What? But Rafe, you’re not my–”
“Your daddy? I mean, you do want me to take care of you, don’t you?” He smiles when you don’t immediately respond, “That’s why you called me today. Because you felt unsafe, like how you’ve felt your whole life ever since you lost your real daddy, isn’t that right?”
He half expects you to shove him off you, scream, lose it, slap him, kick him out of your house for going there, for trying to take advantage of your obvious daddy issues. But it’s like you’re in a trance, and he keeps going, “You want someone to take control, to reassure you that everything’s gonna be okay. That’s why you’ve let me take care of you this whole week, right? Because you need me, you like how I make you feel.”
He softly strokes your bare thighs, noticing that you’re shaking under his touch. And you look like you’re about to cry, in your most vulnerable state in front of him. And yet he keeps going, his voice like a calm lull, almost hypnotic with how you look at him with your huge, unblinking eyes.
“I can be your new daddy, princess. You’re gonna let me, aren’t you?”
Rafe doesn’t wait for your response. Instead, he grips your thighs harder, spreading them as far as they’ll go. He spits on your mound, watching his saliva drip down to your pussy. You’re watching too, with stricken, hooded eyes. Like you’re frozen in time and space, and he’s the only constant.
Leaning forward, he envelopes your clit between his lips, giving it a harsh suck. Your entire body convulses, and you moan the loudest he’s ever heard you. Thunder claps at the same time, but you’re louder than it, and your hands grab on to his hair, and you press your cunt into his face, practically smothering him but he fucking loves it.
“Tell daddy to lick your cunt,” he orders, his voice deeper and lower than it’s ever been, and a slight threat in his tone, “say it, or else I’ll stop everything.”
“L-Lick it, please,” you beg so prettily, keeping your voice barely above a whisper. Rafe sits back, looking at you expectantly till you make the prettiest little noise of impatience. You shoot him a pleading look of desperation, but he doesn’t let up. You cry out, gripping his hair harder before ducking your head in shame, “P-Please, okay? Please lick my cunt, daddy.”
Rafe could’ve orgasmed right there at the sound of your sweet, delicate voice pleading with him, finally addressing him as daddy. Instead, he sucks hard on your sensitive, engorged clit, and you scream bloody murder. He snickers against your soaking folds, grabbing your thrashing hips, stilling them slightly but allowing you to rock them against his face till it’s shining with your wetness.
“Messy little girl,” he mutters, “excited, aren’t you? Never had this virgin pussy eaten, huh?” he grows sloppy, messy with his licks. Tonguing your sensitive nub till you’re a writhing mess above him, incoherent little gasps and moans tumbling out of your mouth as you continue to hump against his face because you’re a goddamned virgin who doesn’t know how to act because you’re feeling so good.
Rafe’s practically making out with your pussy, and he’s never enjoyed going down on a girl as much as he is right now. It’s how responsive you are, it’s how this is all so new to you so you don’t even know nor care to hold anything back. You’re rubbing your pussy on his face like all you can think of is how good he’s making you feel. And he fucks you with his tongue, unable to quite believe how sweet you taste. Like an angel, his angel. All his.
“It’s…It’s too much, Rafe!” you cry out, and yet you’re rolling your hips with abandon, riding his tongue while he sucks and licks you out like he’s starved.
“You can take it,” his voice is muffled, and you try to wrap your thighs around his head except his grip on them is too strong. It’ll leave bruises in the shape of his fingers all over your soft skin, but he likes that. He wants to bruise you, mark you, make you his in every way possible. So next time when you wore a slutty little sundress, every goddamned man on this island would know you’re taken. Fuck, he’d get his name tattooed on your goddamned pussy, and–
You cum, squeaking so prettily he wants to bottle up the sound and keep it safe in his memories forever. Your first orgasm, and all it took was a couple of minutes of him eating your cunt. And your muscles squeeze around his tongue, and you cry and moan like you don’t even know what’s happening. Your grab at his hair, pulling so hard because you’ve probably never felt like this before.
And Rafe doesn’t stop, his tongue swirling circles while you hump and grind against his mouth, riding out your orgasm, moaning his name over and over again. Outside, the weather gets worse, and at one point he notes the whole room shakes as if the goddamned roof’s about to blow off. You don’t give a fuck though, and he doesn’t either.
“Oh, Rafe, oh, oh oh, it’s too much!”
Now, you’re trying to push him off you, but selfishly he keeps tongue-fucking you. His thumb rubs your engorged, sensitive clit. He knows it’s too much for you, but he’s too fucking turned on to stop.
“C’mon, baby. Don’t be like that. Lemme give you another one.”
“No, I-I can’t, I, oh fuck!”
He slaps your clit, and a squelching sound fills the room. You gasp, and he just snickers, having entirely too much fun with you. And again, you twitch your hips, inadvertently pushing your cunt into his face again. You’re out of breath and sensitive from your first orgasm, and yet your greedy little pussy wants to give him another one.
“You like it when your daddy slaps your cunt?”
You’re such a shy little thing, gaping at him as if he’s said the most insidious thing on earth. And yet, your cunt squeezes around his tongue, and he you up as you continue to leak into his mouth. He looks up at you, “Tell me you like it.”
“I, uh, I like it, uh… daddy, oh gosh!”
It takes just one more spank and you come undone, cumming all over his face and he licks you throughout. Long, languid stripes of his tongue flat against your wet folds, then he switches to fucking you with it, and your fuckhole’s so goddamned tight, his tongue barely even fits a little bit, but it doesn’t stop him. He’s got one hand slipped down his pants, jacking off because this is the hottest thing in the world he’s ever witnessed. Innocent little baby crying after orgasming from getting her pussy spanked by her daddy.
He feels like a lion closing in on the fucking lamb, forgetting himself for a second as he gets up. Aggressively pushing you down till you’re lying flat on the bed, surrounded by your stupid stuffed animals. In a second, he’s on top of you, breathing hard like a man possessed. God fuck, all he had to do was shove it inside you, hold you down and tell you to take it. Maybe press his hand over your mouth to keep you from screaming too loud. Not that it mattered. Nobody could save you from him tonight.
But you blink up at him so prettily, so unaware of his intentions, your eyelashes wet with tears. Your lips bitten and pouty, face shiny with sweat. Your hands grab his arms again, squeezing like you’ve grown used to doing.
“R-Rafe, that was… wow.” You say breathlessly, so blissfully innocent, not realising at all that he’s moments away from holding you down and fucking you, that he’s planning how he’ll do it in his head this very moment. “I never… I never thought it could feel that good.”
Rafe finds himself feeling that again, that weird feeling that kept bubbling up inside his chest from time to time whenever he was with you. He still doesn’t have a name for it; he can’t even properly describe it. But looking down at you now, watching you stare up at him with those shining eyes of yours. All he can do is push a piece of your hair out of your face, and smile slowly down at you.
“What do you even know about sex, baby?” He breathes, his face so close to yours.
“Oh, well, uh… Not that much. I mean obviously I know how it works. I just… I didn’t know you could call someone da– that.”
He smirks, tapping your cheek condescendingly, “You mean daddy?”
You look embarrassed, “Yeah.”
“I need you to keep calling me that, okay?” Rafe says gently, “It’s completely normal and I told you I’d take care of you from now on. You want that, don’t you?”
Again, he nudges at your lips with his thumb, making you suck it. Which you do, and the feeling goes straight to his dick. He wants to fuck you while you suck his thumb, gently rock his hips into you, your tight pussy squeezing his huge cock while you whimper around his thumb, sucking it while you cried and just took it, took whatever he gave you and then said thank you, daddy like the good little girl you were.
He starts kissing you again, unable to help it. And your response is so enthusiastic, he feels like he might explode. You’re getting more confident with all the kissing stuff, and Rafe likes that it’s all because of him.
“You ready for the next lesson, baby?” He asks between kisses, his hands everywhere all over your naked body. Squeezing your breasts, playing with your ass. Loving that you’re naked beneath him and so willingly too.
You swallow harshly, “I don’t think I’m ready–Oh!”
He takes your hand, pressing it inside his slacks. Right on his hard, throbbing dick. And fuck, it feels so small, so weak against his pulsating cock. He bites his lip hard to keep from thrusting into your hand.
“Take it out.”
“N-No!”
He exhales loudly through his nose, holding your hand tight against him when you try to snatch it away. “Baby, what did I tell you about doing what I say?”
“I-I know but… but I’m scared.”
“It’s okay to be scared,” he says, “but you need to do this, alright? Didn’t I make you feel good just now?”
“Well, yes, but–”
“So just trust me. I’ll make you feel good again, okay baby?” He kisses you lightly once, twice, three times till you smile, “You’ve been such a good girl tonight. So brave for me....”
You hiccup, looking up at him with those goddamned saucer-like eyes again, “R-Really?”
He strokes your cheek, innately aware of your hand relaxing against his cock, “Yes. Such a brave, good girl. You forgot all about the storm outside, didn’t you?”
As if on cue, you whimper and cuddle into him more. He smiles like a goddamned wolf, feeling evil yet desperate at the same time, “Call me daddy again, princess.”
You don’t even fucking hesitate, “d-daddy, I–”
“Take daddy’s cock out, baby. It’ll distract you, I promise.”
You do exactly what he says, and he helps you. He can’t help but hiss when you free his dick from the confines of his slacks, and you gasp too, dropping it immediately when you see it.
“Shit, gimme your hand,” he murmurs, and he doesn’t wait this time. Snatching your hand in his, he spits down into your palm before pressing it on his dick. “Stroke it.”
You pull back, “I don’t know how, I don’t–”
“Do it or I’ll leave right the fuck now.”
In your helpless daze, you whimper before placing your hand back on his dick. And it’s so red, about ready to explode the moment you touch him. He exhales slowly, and it feels so fucking good, and he covers your hand with his, guiding it, making you stroke him up and down.
“That’s so good, baby. You’re so good.”
“I am?”
“Shit, yeah, just keep doing that. You’re such a good girl for me, aren’t you?” He notes how you grow more confident, rubbing his dick and jacking him off like a good little girl. His hand leaves yours, instead cupping your face as he pulls you in for another kiss. He can’t help kissing you, you taste so fucking sweet and it’s insane because he’s never particularly enjoyed kissing anyone this much before. But he loves kissing you, leading you through it, guiding you. Loves how responsive you are, loves how you listen to him even when you feel all scared and hesitant. As if you know that at the end of the day, he was the one with all the power, the one in charge. The only one who knew how to take care of you.
“You ever seen a cock before this, princess?” He asks crudely between kisses.
Your eyes widen, “N-No, Rafe– I mean, uh, daddy.”
“No? Good girl. That’s so fuckin’ hot.” He bites your pouty bottom lip, and you gasp, squeezing his dick in your hand and it makes him moan straight into your fucking mouth. What a naughty girl.
“It’s, uh, it’s so big,” you say quietly, so quietly that Rafe almost doesn’t catch it. But he does, and he smiles, pulling back slightly.
“Yeah?”
Shyly, you duck your head, “Yeah, daddy.”
God, you were so fucking irresistible. He couldn’t take it anymore. He takes your hand, which was still steadily pumping his dick, and holds it tightly. Holds both your hands by your sides as he nudges your legs apart again, and watches as you take a deep breath, as if you know what’s coming.
Lowly, he whistles at how wet you are, your juices having leaked down to stain your pink sheets again. Rafe’s never had a virgin before but he knows how eager they are, how easily turned on they get. He can imagine how slippery wet and snug your snatch would be around his dick. Now, he swipes a finger down your slit, gathering your wetness while you squirm under him.
“Aww, look how excited your pussy is, princess.” He snickers, bringing his finger up to your lips, smearing them with your wetness, getting it all over your face too till it shines and you’re all messy. “Tell me, what’s got her so wet?”
‘I don’t know.”
SMACK.
Rafe finds he quite enjoys slapping your cunt, especially when it’s so wet and throbbing. You cry out, quivering and shaking underneath him. He flashes you a look, “Answer the question.”
“You,” you breathe, blinking up at him, “You, daddy.”
“Yeah? I get your pussy wet?” He’s working himself up, his dick nudging against your folds and he doesn’t know why he doesn’t just shove it in there. “Tell me why.”
You moan pleadingly, “R-Rafe, please!”
“When I ask you a question, I expect you to answer it properly,” he says, enjoying himself a bit too much. It was payback for all the times you’d teased him without even realising it this past week. Flaunting your sexy little body, blinking up at him with those fuck me eyes, as if you were just begging for it in your own little innocent way.
You swallow harshly, and despite everything he can see you thinking carefully, as if you want to give him a real proper answer to impress him. Cute.
“I, uh, I like how big you are,” you stutter slowly, “you-you’re a lot bigger than me.”
He grins wolfishly, pushing his hair out of his face before pressing a greedy kiss to your lips, which you respond to fervently. But he pulls away all too quickly, looking down at you as if he expects you to continue.
“I like how strong you are,” you’re looking anywhere but at his face, he guesses because you’re too shy. He sponges kisses down your jaw, your neck, down to your chest. Kisses all over your tits, presses them together and licks them, bites at your nipples while you moan between your words. “You make me feel safe, daddy.”
Rafe pauses, and it’s there again. That stupid fucking feeling that he doesn’t understand, nor does he care to understand it right now. Nobody’s ever felt safe with him before. Everyone’s always been afraid of him or hated him or screwed him over because they didn’t trust him. No one’s ever looked at him how you’re looking at him and it makes him feel things he’s never felt before.
But he shoves those feelings straight back down, clears his throat before pressing his finger down between your folds. You shiver and moan, hips bucking up before he pins them in place. He tries pushing his pointer finger inside you, but is met with resistance despite how soaking wet you are. Fuck.
“Tightest pussy I ever had,” he mutters, “but she’ll take daddy’s dick, won’t she?”
It’s more of a statement than a question, and he ignores your soft cries as he forces his finger up your cunt. Till it’s finally knuckle-deep, and he bets you can feel the cool silver of his ring against your warmth. And your pussy’s so fucking snug, gripping his finger like a vice, and even he has to wonder how he’d possibly fit his big dick inside you.
“So full,” you breathe, your chest rising and falling rapidly with each breath. But he shuts you up soon enough when he starts fingering you. One singular finger, because that’s all that fits. But he moves it in and out, curving upwards till you moan, thrusting your hips in rhythm like you can’t even help it.
“Gonna add another one, okay baby?”
‘W-Won’t fit, daddy.”
“Shh, yes it will. Daddy’s gonna make it fit.”
Rafe makes it fit. He has to hold you down while you cry like a baby, but soon he’s got his index and middle finger shoved inside you, finger-fucking your tight, virgin cunt while his hard dick slaps against his stomach, and he’s so fucking turned on. More than he’s ever been in his whole life.
“How’s that feel, baby?” He murmurs into your ear, nibbling at it, licking inside it and making you jump. And fuck, you’re so jumpy, and he has to keep you pinned down while he fingers you, and a sick part of him wonders if he’s drawn blood already.
“H-Hurts,” you whimper like the goddamned little cry-baby you are. “R-Rafe please slow down.”
“Come on, don’t tell me to slow down,” he continues pumping his thick fingers up your slippery wetness, feeling like you’re swallowing them up whole every time, “Not when you’re drippin’ all over your sheets like a little–”
“But it hurts!”
“That’s okay, it’s supposed to hurt,” he explains slowly, like you’re dumb, “it’s because you’ve never done this before, so that’s why I gotta stretch you out like this first, okay?”
A lone tear meanders down your cheek, “I-I don’t think it’s gonna fit, Rafe.”
“I made ‘em fit, didn’t I?”
“Nooo, you’re, uh, I mean your…” You sniffle helplessly, a wild look in your eye that looks half scared, half confused as he bets your body’s starting to betray you.
Rafe feels a smile creep up on his face, “You already thinkin’ about my cock, sweetheart? How it’s gonna feel when it’s up your virgin cunt?”
You shake your head vehemently, but you’re a little angel slut because your hips are bucking up to meet his fingers. “Rafe, no. Your f-fingers, they’re already too much, I don’t think I can take…”
“Didn’t I just tell you I’d make it fit?”
You grip his arm tightly, pleadingly “Y-You’re too big, I-I don’t think I can handle anymore…Oh fuck!”
He knows he’s hit that spot inside you because your whole back arches, and you let out the hottest moan he’s ever fucking heard in his life. Complete abandon, head thrown back, digging your nails so hard into his arm that he’s sure you’ve broken through his skin.
“That’s right, baby girl. Just fuckin’ take it,” he mutters, increasing his pace, wondering if he can fit a third finger in. “Fuck, you’re so good, baby. Taking your daddy’s fingers like a champ. God, look at your little virgin cunt, swallowing ‘em up like a greedy little slut. Didn’t think you’d turn out to be so fuckin’ slutty, baby.”
You clench around him, moaning his name and he can’t believe how much his dirty talk is having an effect on you. His thumb rubs at your clit while he continues to finger fuck you, wanting to draw another orgasm out of you because you’re so fucking gorgeous when you cum, and he wants you to make a mess all over his fingers before he finally takes you with his cock.
“Too much, too much, oh, oh, oh,” you’re half delirious, humping against his fingers, letting him fuck you with them, and he knows you must feel so full. And it feels like heaven for him, being inside you (even if it is just with his fingers). You feel so soft, so wet, so warm. Your muscles tensing and relaxing around him as he builds you up.
“Take it,” Rafe repeats, “bet it’s never felt this good huh? You ever finger yourself, baby girl? Touch yourself late at night when you think everyone else’s asleep?”
You gasp at his words, but he feels you clench around his digits.
“Mmm, not such a good little girl after all, huh? Fingering yourself when you think your mommy’s asleep,” he grins wickedly at the horrified look on your face, increasing pace, “but it’s never enough, is it? Your fingers aren’t as big as mine, so you could never make yourself cum.” He laughs, “this whole time, all you needed was a man like me to take care of you. Say it, say you need me. Say it.”
“N-Need you!” You cry out, delicious tears streaking your face, “I need you, daddy. I-I…Oh fuck, please! Please, I don’t… I just… I–“
You squirt all over his hand. And it’s insane; Rafe’s never seen anything like it before. He gazes in wonder, caught off-guard for once. You completely come undone, crying and panting his name, rocking your hips against his hand as you ride out your third orgasm of the night. And who knew it would take just a little bit of dirty talk to get you to squirt? God, you were so fucking hot, so full of surprises. So perfect for him, it was unbelievable.
“Good girl,” he strokes your head like you’re his little pet, taking his wet fingers and pressing them into your mouth, and you’re so hot when you automatically suck on them. “Such a good girl, baby. That was so fuckin’ sexy.”
All you do is clutch at him and cry, so spent and overstimulated from your orgasm. Rafe licks his lips, feeling both protective yet predatory at the same time. You’re at your weakest, most vulnerable state. Outside, thunder and lightning strike over and over again as if they were paid to do so, and the room lights up and goes dark, it shakes and shudders, and the winds howl like a pack of possessed wolves. And yet you look so pretty in the dim glow of the candlelight.
It's the perfect night for you to get ruined. His perfect little baby. Pristine and innocent and at his mercy.
Rafe’s cock is so hard it hurts, throbbing as he grabs it by the base, pumps it as he hovers over you. On his knees while you lie beneath him, looking so deliciously scared. He presses his whole length against your stomach, and watches your eyes almost bulge out of your head. He knows he’s big, but compared to your tiny frame, he’s massive. And he gets off on that, gets off on how much bigger he is than you. He smears his precum against your stomach, smirking as he watches you swallow and try to be brave.
“Listen to me,” he grabs your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes, “You like my cock, baby? You like looking at it, huh?”
The way you lick your lips gives it away, and he laughs cruelly, tapping your cheek like you’re his little pet. “Say it, then. Say you like it. Beg me to put it inside you. C’mon, baby, look at your pussy, she’s crying for it. Beg me.”
He knows you’re at war with yourself, and you shake your head tearfully, opening your mouth to speak. But a clap of thunder sounds just then, so loud it makes the whole room shake. You cry out so pitifully, it makes his heart throb a little. You grab at him, and he falls down on top of you, kissing you, kissing your salty sweet lips and your tears. Kissing you all over while your desperate hands tangle into his hair.
That’s when he nudges the tip of his dick against your folds. And it already feels like fucking heaven, your wet warmth practically begging him to shove it inside you. He presses his tip on your puffy, sensitive clit and you jump, your eyes widening and then you push at his chest.
“R-Rafe, please, I don’t think–”
“Shh, c’mon, baby. Let daddy fuck you,” Rafe urges softly against your lips, “gonna make you feel so good again, mhm?”
“Nooo…”
He tries to ignore your soft cries, the way your palms press weakly against his chest.
“Shit, just relax,” he coaxes, knowing he could just hold you down and force it in, and yet…
He kisses you, tasting salt on your lips. You try to kiss him back, but he can feel you gulping for breath. He can feel your heart hammering against your chest. He can feel your limbs pushing at his body, but he’s just so much fucking bigger than you that it doesn’t even make a difference, and yet…
“Rafe, I… please…”
“Baby…”
His dick feels like it’s going to explode, and he runs it up and down your soaking slit, and you moan. And your face looks turned on beyond belief, and yet scared at the same time. Nervous, frightened, vulnerable. It’s a heady mix, and he doesn’t know what to do, and–
“Please, Rafe. I’m not ready, I-I can’t, Rafe. Please…”
“Fuck.”
Something comes over him, and Rafe feels it again. That bubbling, intense feeling inside his chest. Like a rush of an emotion he doesn’t know if he’ll ever understand. All he knows is he can’t, he fucking can’t. You’re so sweet, so kind, pure like a flower and he just can’t bring himself to pluck it. Tear it apart. Ruin it like how he ruined everything else he touched.
He rolls over, lying beside you while you quiver next to him. Both breathing hard. And outside, the wind howls and howls almost like it’s mocking him. Laughing at him for being a goddamned pussy. And there’s another clap of thunder, and he hears you crying softly.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Rafe finds himself gathering you in his arms, holding you against his chest, “Hey, look, don’t worry about it. It’s okay.”
“I-I thought I could but…” you hiccup between your tears, and your eyes look like there are a thousand stars shining wetly inside them, and he knows he’s never seen anything so beautiful. “I’m sorry, I thought I could do it, I thought–”
“It’s okay,” he repeats, cupping your face and making you look at him, his thumbs swiping away your tears, “Don’t cry, okay? Shit, it’s okay, baby. It’s okay.”
“Y-You’re not mad?”
He strokes up and down your back, soothing you while he wonders whether he is. But the only thing he feels right now is this strange, innate need to protect you. To reassure you. Hold your quivering body close till you stopped shaking. It’s insane, because he doesn’t feel like himself, because he’s never felt this before. It’s alien. Completely, utterly fucking alien.
“No,” he answers quietly, pressing a kiss to your hairline, “No, I’m not mad.”
“You pr-promise?”
“I promise.”
He feels like a different person as he tucks his dick back into his slacks. Like someone else, like someone he doesn’t recognise. But it feels so natural, holding you so close that your heartbeat feels like his. And the storm outside feels like a million miles away. Like it’s just you and him on a different planet and nothing else exists, nothing else means anything except you.
You fall asleep in his arms, spent after everything. And Rafe doesn’t even feel frustrated in that moment, because all he can focus on is how peaceful you look. Your tears dried on your cheeks, your chest rising and falling rhythmically. You trusted him with everything. And it made him feel like someone important.
The wind laughs and laughs all night.
*
The morning is calm, tranquil. Almost like the storm never even was. And Rafe wakes up well rested, with you cuddled on his chest, his arm around you and his thumb in your mouth. The room dappled in sunlight, the candles all blown out or melted away.
Slowly, he detangles from you, making sure not to wake you up. You look so peaceful, so innocent. So soft and pretty, in your little shack of a house on the Cut. He frowns as he looks around. In the morning light, your room looks even more pitiful. It’s clean, and you’ve made it pretty with notes and posters and fairy lights. But he can see the paint peeling off the walls, the fact it’s smaller than his closet back home.
Rafe can’t believe he’s woken up on this side of the island.
He has the sudden urge to leave. To run. Hastily, he types out a text to you.
Rafe: Hey. I thought I’d leave in case your mom came home and saw us. Didn’t want to wake you. Talk to you later.
He has to get home. Gather his thoughts. Recalibrate. Think about what the fuck came over him last night, when he’d had you right where he fucking wanted you. And then he’d pussied out of it. Rafe Cameron never pussied out of anything.
What the fuck did that mean?
His gaze shifts to you again, so pretty and sound asleep. Naked because you’d so willingly shed your clothes for him, spread your legs for him. And he could have had you. Hell, he could have you right now. Force himself into you while you were still asleep, and you’d wake up crying and sobbing, all confused and sleepy while he held you down and ordered you to just take it.
That’s what he should’ve done last night. So then what the fuck had stopped him?
Now, he lightly runs his fingers over your bare thigh, humming lightly at how smooth you feel. So soft, like an angel. A powerful, almost all-consuming feeling overtakes him. A wave of possessiveness coursing through him like a tidal wave of dark poison. You were his. All his. He could do what he pleased with you. Your body was his. You’d all but served it to him on a silver platter last night, in your pathetic little room with the candles.
Rafe feels like he’s having an out of body experience. He gets his phone out, ignoring any small, decent part of him that was sending warning signals to his brain. You were his. He had every right to do this.
Silently, he takes the pictures. And a sick part of him gets off on it, gets off on the fact you’re asleep and none the wiser to what’s happening. But this was the least you could do, you’d left him hanging last night. After he’d been so patient, so understanding. Fuck that. Why had he been like that? Like he was weak?
“You make me feel safe, daddy.”
Your words from last night ring in his ears, bouncing around in his brain till it gets too much, till they start to echo and get louder and louder. Till he feels the urge to punch the shit out of your bedroom wall. It was all too much. He had to get out of here.
He tucks his phone into his pocket, pushes the cotton covers up till your chin, and then leaves without looking back.
*
“There he is! The loverboy himself!”
His friends gather around him the next morning like he’s the second coming of Christ himself.
“How was she, Rafe?” one of them slaps him on the back, “That is, if you fucked her.”
“Yeah.” Kelce stands in front of him with his arms crossed over his chest, looking at Rafe expectantly. They all are. “Did you fuck her?”
Rafe scoffs, “Is that even a question.”
He’d waited all day yesterday for you to respond to his text. Like a pussy ass little bitch, he’d waited for you to say something. Growing angrier and more paranoid by the second when you didn’t. Staring at the pictures he’d taken of you like a man possessed, his thumb hovering over the delete button a handful of times before he’d thrown his phone angrily across the room. Hating how you were making him wait. Hating how his heart had leapt up to his fucking throat when you finally had replied: I’m so sorry for being such a scaredy cat yesterday. Thank you for coming over.
He'd discovered something then. He was obsessed with you. And he hated it.
“Pictures or it didn’t happen,” Kelce grins, cutting straight to the chase. Next to him, Rafe sees Topper’s eyes light with interest, as well as the others too. Fucking desperate losers, trying to catch a glimpse of something that belonged to him. Because they’d never get to see you like that, ever. No one else would. He’d make sure of that.
“It did happen.” Rafe says calmly, “Like I said it would.”
“Okay well, that’s great brother but we’re gonna need proof.” One of the clowns pipes up.
“You don’t need shit,” He shoots back.
“You didn’t take pictures?” Topper asks.
Rafe runs a hand through his hair in frustration. “I did.”
“Then show us. That was the deal.”
He wants to beat the shit out of all of them for daring to ask to see intimate pictures of you. As if you were anything like the other whores he’d fucked in the past, the type of stupid girls him and his friends used every week. You were different, and you were his, and they had no fucking business looking at what was his.
“Look. I don’t give a shit if you don’t believe me.” He mutters, completely over the dumb ass bet and over his friends too. They’d forget about it by tomorrow, ready to become his willing followers once more. They always did.
“C’mon man, you can’t bring our hopes up like that. Either you never fucked her or,” Kelce’s eyes glint when it registers, “Or you’ve gone soft for her. You’ve–”
Rafe grabs him roughly by the collar, a sudden anger coursing through him like he’s been electrocuted. “Listen, you fucking moron. Don’t ever insinuate I’ve gone soft for a goddamned Pogue.”
He spits that last word out like it’s venom, and yet he tried to ignore how hollow it feels. When he realises people are staring, he quietly lets go, smoothing Kelce’s shirt while his friends stare at him fearfully in that way he’s grown used to people looking at him.
“I fucked her,” Rafe says plainly, his tone switching from aggressive to calm in a split second, almost like he’s slipped on a mask, “I fucked her just like I’ve fucked every other Pogue bitch who’s thrown herself at me before her. And it wasn’t anything special. She acts all innocent, but it was easy to get her to spread her legs for me just like I told you it would be.”
He hears a thud, and then a little gasp behind him. So soft, it barely registers. Except it does, and he turns around.
And immediately locks eyes with you.
And then it feels like it’s just him and you. And nobody else is there. And there’s no sound, like both of you have stopped breathing. You stand there, frozen, stricken. Your books on the ground in front of you. Only a few steps behind him, well within earshot. And he sees something break in your expression, porcelain features twisting in hurt, shock, dismay, disbelief.
“Oh shit,” Topper mutters from somewhere behind him. A few of his friends snicker, but Rafe can’t hear them. No, he’s frozen, staring at you as if he can’t quite believe it. And he sees the tears welling in your eyes.
A little broken sob falls from your lips, and then you turn and run. And Rafe wants to chase after you but it’s like he’s frozen in time and space. Watching you run off while he just stands there.
Stands and watches as you run away from him, your hands reaching up blindly to wipe at your face. And that feeling returns tenfold. That feeling that Rafe can’t quite put his finger on, that feeling which he wants to push back down because it suffocates him, and he doesn’t understand it. The feeling consumes him from the inside out, till he feels like he can’t breathe.
And he just stands there and watches until you’re gone.
𝘼/𝙉: OOF. Okay, I finally posted it! Please let me know what your thoughts! Literally any reaction, predictions, favourite parts etc. All of it, ANY of it would be so appreciated! Also please forgive any spelling or grammatical errors. Here's some questions in case you want to answer them (you don't have to!! you can comment/reblog whatever you want, i just always post questions at the end of my fics)
Does Rafe genuinely care for reader?
Should reader forgive Rafe?
Favourite scene/part?
Anyways, that's it. Now I'll anxiously wait to see what you guys think. PLEASE PLEASE consider reblogging this fic if you plan on liking it and want me to continue it. Thanks so much for all your support when I posted the sneak peek. I hope this lived up to your expectations! <3
Thou Shalt Not Covet | Valarr Targaryen, Baelor Targaryen
From the moment you marry his father, the prince makes his hatred for you plain and clear.
Warnings: NON-CON, Stepmother! Reader, Age Gap, Arranged Marriage, Voyeurism
Laughter and cheers fill the Great Hall. The gathered lords and ladies clap for the circus performers, their faces red from the overindulgence in the Dornish wine flowing from golden goblets. It would be unsurprising if the clamor of your wedding celebrations echoed far past the stone walls of Dragonstone.
Your Lord Husband spared no expenses. Jesters, jugglers, fire-eaters. An entire company of circus performers plucked from the Free Cities. A flock of white doves released from the highest tower at the end of the ceremony. A lavish banquet fit for a king…well, future king. Roasted swans, glazed wild boar, spiced deer pies, pears dipped in wine and so forth.
The spread alone makes your head spin.
Your gaze glides over to him. Baelor Breakspear Targaryen, your Lord Husband. At eight and thirty, twenty summers more than you, he remains an astounding warrior and sharp-witted hand to the king. Or so your father told you. You know not the man you wedded at evenfall.
No more than a handful of words were traded between you and him before the ceremony. The bargain struck with your father was swift, your consent immaterial, your obedience expected.
All decided before you even crossed the Narrow Seas.
Even as you both uttered your wedding vows, him swearing to protect you and you swearing to obey, he said no more than what custom demanded.
Your eyes trail the sharp angle of his bearded jaw, his noble profile, his steely stare.
Targaryen majesty radiates from his being, lighting the very air around him ablaze.
As a keen mismatched gaze finds yours, your stomach clenches.
You nervously pick up your wine goblet and swallow another sip. A sip of courage. Tonight is your wedding night. The septa who prepared you beforehand had but scant knowledge to share. She said your lord husband will know what to do and your only task is to obey. It did little to soothe your unease.
Wives are vessels for heirs, instruments to further bloodlines. That is what you are now. A vessel. Your fears, your hopes, your dreams…they’re now as inconsequential and forgotten as yesterday’s rainfall. A proper lady must be soft, quiet. Seen but not heard. It is what mother used to say.
Prince Baelor’s eyes tumble to your uneaten plate.
“You have not had a bite,” he says, concern clouding his unflinching gaze.
You swallow the lump in your throat, nudging a gentle smile on your lips.
“I fear my travels have soured my appetite, your grace.”
Your husband studies you a long while, his pointed scrutiny needling your skin. Your eyes widen as he rises, offering his hand.
“Mayhaps that is enough revelry for the evening,” he states. You understand the unspoken command and slip your fingers in his open palm. His hold on you is firm, steady. That hand around yours is the only thing keeping your quaking legs from collapsing on the ground. You are thankful that the wine has gone to your head, begun to haze your senses. Perhaps it will make the entire ordeal more bearable.
As Prince Baelor escorts you away, the back of your neck tingles. You turn to glance behind you. Discomfort stirs your insides as a fiery mismatched gaze that eerily resembles your husband’s collides with yours.
Prince Valarr.
From the moment you got off the ship bringing you to Dragonstone, the princeling has made his disfavor of you a plain fact to all. He has not spoken a word to you. In fact, he has stormed off every single time you have tried to greet him. Unlike the young Prince Matarys who instantly clung to your skirts after the wedding and called you his new mother, Prince Valarr displayed no such warmth. You fail to understand what you have done to offend the princeling. You have endeavored to be kind, sweet, pleasant…everything your mother bid you to be. Yet the princeling appears to find your mere presence a curse upon House Targaryen.
The frightful ballad of your heart swells in your ears as you walk through the dim hallways of Dragonstone besides your new husband.
You reach Prince Baelor’s bedchambers. He shuts the door. Sweat blooms on your palms, your insides knotting with dread.
The soft glow of the candles paints the walls, the moon’s silver hues seeping through the curtains. Fear sings in your blood. You will it to not show.
As your lord husband turns, clasping your hands in his, his forehead creases.
“You’re trembling,” he notes.
Your stomach plummets. Have you already failed at your wifely duties?
“Apologies, your grace,” you mumble, guilt searing your chest.
Prince Baelor lifts your chin, assessing your expression. Your breath hangs still beneath his studious scrutiny.
“You are scared,” he says.
Panic clutches your heart. You give a frantic shake of your head.
“I am well, your grace. I am…delighted.” The lie wobbles off your tongue uneasily, its falsity scorching your throat.
His thumb sweeps over your bottom lip, his expression solemn.
“You need never lie to me.” He pauses, his mismatched stare corralling yours. “I swore an oath to protect, cherish and honor you. I aim to honor that oath.”
He brings your hand to his lips, brushing a gentle kiss on your skin. Heat floods your cheeks.
His deep voice is as gentle as a ripple over the sea, washing over your overwrought senses.
“I know how far from familiar shores you are, my lady. But I dare hope that, one day, you will call Dragonstone home.”
This draws a curtain of tears over your sight. Memories of your childhood home invade your mind, longing crushing your heart in its unforgiving fist.
“I harbor the same hope, your grace,” you croak.
Prince Baelor cradles your face, plucking your tears. Your chest heaves, unsightly sobs escaping the confines of your throat. Your armor shatters. To your astonishment, your lord husband collects the broken pieces, leading your quivering form to the bed’s edge.
He swaddles you in a thick blanket. For the first time since arriving at Dragonstone, a rush of warmth fills your chest.
Tremulous sobs swell in the room. Lord Baelor sits besides you. At first, his hand hovers, hesitant, searching. A silent inquiry. As your eyes swing to his, he seems to find the answer he sought. His firm hand settles on your back and you unleash a heavy breath.
You sag against him. He is unbothered by the flood of tears soaking his doublet, the steady press of his fingers your anchor amidst the rushing tide of emotions you throttled into silence. Now they refuse to be shackled.
When your tears subside, the weight of failure settles in your chest like lead. You were instructed to be meek, obedient, agreeable. Instead, you made a pathetic spectacle of yourself in front of your husband. Father would be furious. Mother would be disheartened.
Your gaze lingers on the floor, a blanket of defeat draping over your shoulders.
“Speak to me, wife,” Prince Baelor says.
Your heart leaps. Your husband speaks with the poised confidence of a man who has never needed to raise his voice to be heard, a mere whisper enough to inspire respect and compliance. Meanwhile you wager that you could scream until your throat bleeds and your words would still fall into unlistening ears. Such is the fate of a woman in this world.
His gentle yet firm command tears the words from your throat.
“I fear my melancholy ruined our wedding night, your grace,” you confess.
The shadow of a smile sways on his lips. His focus shifts to the window.
“Ruined? The moon and stars still hang in the sky.”
A bashful smile tugs your lips.
“They do,” you say.
When your eyes find Lord Baelor's this time, a heat is nestled there. Your stomach tightens. Your nerves flare again. Not from fear this time. Mayhaps a strange anticipation. One that sears your stomach and dampens your palms. Your attention falls to your lap, your fingers twiddling with the linen beneath you.
A firm hand slides under your chin, angles it up, keeping you from evading sizzling, mismatched orbs.
Your throat knots.
“My lord-”
The words are seized from your lips as Prince Baelor’s mouth slams into yours. Your cry of surprise shrivels on your tongue. Steady fingers cradle your face, your husband's mouth gliding over yours with purpose. The path of his tongue is languid, fevered as it explores your mouth. Your body grows feeble against his, your mind going hazy.
Your hands tighten on his doublet as you get lost in your first genuine kiss.
His passion knocks the breath from your lungs, a startling contrast to the composed, regal lord you had come to know.
His hand drifts to the back of your head, twisting in your hair. You gasp as Prince Baelor tilts your head back, giving him complete dominion over the expanse of your neck. He abandons your mouth, leaving it swollen, tingling. He scatters a trail of fiery pecks with his lips. His teeth dance on your skin and a broken whine slips from your throat. Your Lord Husband relishes every sound, embers of desire sizzling in his stern gaze.
His hands travel down your throat and your breath stills in your lungs. His callused palms sweep over you until they find your hips. His fingers clench on the embroidered silk. Your heart bounces in your chest.
Darkness clouds your husband’s gaze as it traces your face, the motion of your throat, your heaving chest. His throat bobs, his lids sagging.
When he peers at you, still clutching the fabric of your dress, a question hangs in the sweltering air of the room.
A dull trepidation remains but the rising heat in your blood silences it.
You give a tremulous nod.
Prince Baelor peels the dress off you and it falls to the floor with a soft thud. Your husband’s eyes darken as they sweep over your bare, goosebumped flesh. You sit on the bed, watching him remove his royal attire. A dragon shedding its scales, letting you see what lay beneath.
So this is what a man looks like. You soak in every line of corded muscle, every pale scar and… the blatant evidence of his desire for you. Heat settles in your cheeks.
Your heart sings a clamorous, chaotic ballad in your ears as he approaches.
He presses his thumb over your parted lips. Despite the hunger etched in his mismatched gaze, you feel his silent inquiry again. It lingers in the hesitant graze of his fingertips along your arm.
You give another nod. The fear, the apprehension…they have shifted into a heated curiosity for what comes next, what husbands and wives do on their wedding night.
He nudges you backwards until your back lies flat on the plush covers.
You wait, your stomach clenched so tight it seems it might soon burst.
He rubs his swollen tip against your entrance. Your breath stumbles. Heat gathers between your thighs. The friction is maddening. You clutch at the linen, a whine spilling from your mouth.
He clutches your hip, lining himself with your folds. He enters you, and the world turns red. Despite bracing yourself for the discomfort, tears spill down your cheeks.
“My Lord,” you mumble, your voice hardly more than a husky breath.
“My Lady,” he replies, cupping your face.
He freezes, wiping your tears as he looms above you. His eyes never leave yours.
When he drags himself out and sinks into you at a sluggish pace, you tense.
“The pain will not last, sweet girl,” he whispers in your ear.
Your voice is distorted by your sobs.
“Do you swear it?”
He takes your hand and drops a gentle kiss on your knuckles.
“A knight never breaks a vow to his lady,” he says softly, his fingers twining with yours.
He moves his hips and you cling to his shoulders, his tender words anchoring you amidst the painful tide. The symphony of flesh against flesh swells in the room.
Your husband speaks truth.
The pain is ephemeral. Soon, delightful tingles bloom over your flesh; fire consumes you.
You melt against him, stars flooding your vision.
In his arms, you forget how far from home you are. Every gentle whisper and careful touch makes you feel safe, desired, cared for.
In Prince Baelor’s arms, you are no longer adrift. You are found. Again and again.
As your husband shifts you, making you straddle him, it’s when it begins.
Cool tingles along your spine that do not relent. They start down your back and bloom outwards. Persistent shards of glass embedded into your skin. Your head turns, your eyes landing on the wall. A feeling of dread settles in the pit of your stomach as you stare at the tapestry and wardrobe.
Your husband grips your chin, swaying your focus back to him.
“What is it, sweet girl?”
Your chest clenches. It is just you and your husband in this room. Dragonstone is brimming with dark corners and old statues that play tricks on the mind. You force a smile on your lips.
“Nothing. It is nothing, your grace.”
It is enough for Prince Baelor’s hip to start moving again, yanking a broken moan from your lips.
You dismiss the peculiar sensation along your back, yet it lingers even as you ride your lord husband with abandon.
Your days are filled with peace and joy. More fulfillment than you could have fathomed. You had worried your husband’s famed fondness of his first wife Lady Jane would be an unassailable opponent, that you would struggle to carve a place in a heart already claimed. But no such thing occurs. Prince Baelor seeks you out whenever his duties for the days are done. He takes you to bed almost every night, showing you countless paths to pleasure.
You even overhear the maids say that they haven’t seen their lord look so merry in years, which brings a smile to your face.
Little Matarys accepts your presence with ease, clinging to your skirts and allowing you to tell him stories from your home.
Soon, every fear you held close to your chest when you first set foot on Dragonstone dissipates. You settle into your life as Prince Baelor's wife and Lady of Dragonstone.
Still, the shadow of Prince Valarr’s hostility looms large over you.
Your stepson makes his distaste for you a truth known to all, skipping every dinner or feast when he’s made aware you will be in attendance. Every attempt at breaching the ice walls the prince erected around himself are met with crushing defeat. Your stepson won’t even look at you. And the rare times he does, your blood chills from the searing hatred burning in his mismatched gaze. The prince stares at you like he wished to tear you limb from limb or have your head mounted on a pike above the castle walls for all to see. Mayhaps both.
You cannot deny that this blatant rejection hurts, a fact you do not conceal from your lord husband.
“He is a child. He will grow to adore you as I do, sweet girl,” Prince Baelor mumbles, planting a tender kiss atop your head. Your chest warms with his words but the doubts nestled there remain.
You ache to argue that Prince Valarr is no more a child than you are, as only a few months set you apart from him. You have never been allowed such fickle whims. From a young age, you were taught a proper lady is to be ever pleasant, ever agreeable. But your stepson’s chilly glares and icy words leave a taste of failure on your tongue. As if every teaching and lesson was for naught. As if you will never be good enough, worthy enough. Everyday you try to engineer new ways to make the sullen prince despise you a little less. Everyday you find your attempts thwarted.
You lean back against your husband’s chest, your eyes falling shut. You soak in the smell of fresh cranberries and pine trees. It soothes your frazzled mind. Sitting in Aegon’s Garden always casts a blanket of serenity over your worries and fears, quiets your woes.
“It has been four moon turns, your grace,” you say, resigned.
“My son loved his mother dearly. So did I. Her kindness and sweetness knew no equal…until I met you,” he says with a smile, bringing your hand to his lips.
“I’m sorry he lost her so young.”
A shadow of grief flickers in Prince Baelor’s gaze.
“Me too.” He squeezes your hand. “Give him time. He is a good lad.”
“I know,” you reply, your heart sinking. It is the very reason that rejection aches so deeply. You’ve witnessed how gentle Valarr is, with his family, little Matarys, even the servants. You’ve seen him help an elderly servant to her feet when she apologized for spilling his food. He is kind to everyone. Everyone but you, his own stepmother.
Your husband plucks you from the depths of your forlorn thoughts by pressing you against a nearby pine tree, his hands firm on your hips.
“Enough about my son…especially when I have my lovely wife all to myself.”
You smile, your heart fluttering.
His lips tug upwards against the column of your neck, his fingers creeping below your dress. Your eyes swing to the nearby turret, the windows thankfully absent of any spectator.
An airy giggle soars from your lips as he trails languid kisses along your throat, his hand traveling to your inner thigh.
“My lord…we are out in the open. Someone could see…” you scold him though there is no real heat laced in your words.
“See me attend to my wife as a true husband should?” he says, drawing a gasp from you as his beringed finger sinks between your folds. Your back arches against the pine tree, your lips parting around a lustful whimper. The heat in your lower belly grows as your husband’s steel ring drags along your slick walls.
You bite your lower lip, riding his finger, seeking more of the delightful friction.
As you tilt your head back, your focus lands on a figure at a distance. A disturbingly familiar figure standing at the tower’s window. You shove Baelor away, your heart leaping.
“Wait…your grace!”
Prince Baelor scowls, confused by the expression on your face.
“What is it?” he inquires, following your gaze.
You blink, your eyes rounding when you realize the window is now empty.
“I…Apologies. I thought I saw-”
Prince Valarr.
But you dare not speak the thought aloud. Because it sounds ludicrous, unfathomable.
Why would Prince Valarr stand at a window watching you and his father in the throes of…passion?
Your husband cradles your face, concern wrinkling his stern features.
“Saw what, sweet girl?”
You shake your head.
“Exhaustion must be wearing my senses,” you mumble, ignoring your thundering heart.
Prince Baelor takes your hand.
“You shall rest then.”
You ignore the itch to glance back as he leads you away, that peculiar chill settling over your spine once more. The very same sensation that has plagued every intimate moment you’ve shared with your husband for several moons. In your chambers, his chambers, the gardens, the great hall…everywhere. Like a shadow tracing your every step.
Ever watching.
For the next few days, you are in hell, your own mind becoming a cage assailing you with doubts and inquiries. Did you truly see him? Were your overwrought senses conjuring false apparitions? Perhaps you are so far away from home, so desperate to be liked, that you are growing slightly mad.
There is no reason he would be there, staring. After all he cannot stand the sight of you, a fact he has made astoundingly clear.
You should go pray, light a candle to clear your mind of the unthinkable. The Septa says proper ladies must offer a prayer to The Seven at least twice a day. You have faltered in your duties to the gods. Perhaps it is why your thoughts are so scattered, your mind so hazy. Your husband is a pious man after all. You should follow his example.
As you are lost in a spiral of daunting musings, your feet lead you near the throne room. The sound of incensed, familiar voices reaches you, causing you to halt your steps.
“I will not marry her, father. You cannot make me.”
Your heart skips a beat as you recognize Prince Valarr’s voice. He’s angry…no, he’s furious.
You cling to the wall, clutching your chest when your husband’s imperious inflection fills the throne room.
“It is your duty, son. Or have you forgotten what is at stake for House Targaryen? Our dragons made us gods amongst men. Without them, we must be wise in choosing every match. The girl from Tyrosh is-”
“You had the freedom to choose your own wife,” Valarr snaps, his words sharp as the strike of a whip. “Why can I not?”
You hear your husband’s heavy sigh.
“I have done my duty, son. Therein lies the difference.”
“Indeed,” Valarr sneers. “Now that you have heirs, you may bed any fresh, pretty cunt you desire. Is that not right, father?”
Your chest tightens. Prince Valarr may have been unwelcoming, but he has never tossed such crude terms to your face. Tears hover beneath your lashes. You suppress them, your lip wobbling.
“The boy I raised would not speak with such a wicked tongue,” your husband says, his voice bleeding with disappointment. “I will speak to you when you remember your duty to this house.”
The irate stomp of your husband’s boots rises and fades. Silence then falls in the hall.
You close your eyes, willing yourself not to weep right here.
You remind yourself that those words were not designed for your ears. Still, despair squeezes your heart in its unforgiving fist. What have you done for him to loathe you so? What grave offense would warrant-
“I should kill you where you stand. How dare you spy on my father and I?”
You gasp, your eyes snapping open as a blade is pressed against your throat. Prince Valarr’s dagger. Angry, mismatched irises pin you into place.
Your pulse quickens.
“Apologies,” you croak, your eyes watering. “I was just-” The words stumble in your throat as the blade is pushed against your skin. A lone tear slides down your cheek.
Valarr’s gaze narrows, suspicion laced in his tone.
“Is this what you are, a spy? Sent here by the Blackfyre traitors mayhaps…It would make quite a bit of sense.”
An anxious squeal escapes your lips.
“I’m not a spy, my lord."
You gulp in a large breath, gathering the nerve to ask the question that has sizzled your insides since you first met him.
“Why do you abhor me so much, my lord?” you blurt out.
Valarr freezes at that, his eyes widening.
“My lord, Valarr…” you stammer, acutely aware of your pulse singing under the tip of his blade. “I have tried so hard to be agreeable yet you seem to hate me for the mere fact that I draw breath.” Flames dance in his eyes as he gapes at you, silence stretching to the point of discomfort. You quell your fear and mumble, “Have I done anything to hurt or offend you?”
The prince’s gaze narrows.
“You do not get to interrogate me, or question me,” he hisses, his dagger traveling down your flesh, along your heaving chest.
“You are a plague upon my house. A curse.” His eyes follow the path of his blade, his breath growing more erratic. His voice deepens, hoarse and hateful. “Your very existence fills me with rage. A rage I cannot contain.” He removes his blade, instead wrapping his hand around your throat. His voice lowers to a gravelly whisper. “Every time I see you, I just…I do not feel as myself, and I hate it. I hate what the mere sight, the mere thought of you does to me.”
His heavy, chaotic breaths flow over your face, his fingers squeezing your neck. You whine at the pressure and he releases you, his eyes wide and panicked.
He slams his fist besides your head into the wall. You leap in fear. He narrowly missed your face.
“Begone, mother…before I do something I regret,” he snarls.
Not having to be told twice, you gather your dress and race back to your chambers.
After the events of the throne room, you are the one keeping your distance from Prince Valarr. Even if you were aware he wasn’t fond of you, you didn’t expect such venom spilling from his mouth. Every time you remember his cruel words, tears rush to your eyes. You did not think it possible for someone to harbor such deep-seated hatred for you.
At least, you find comfort in your husband’s arms.
While he notices your melancholy, Baelor doesn’t press you to confess what’s gnawing at you. Thankfully. You decide to keep Prince Valarr's words to yourself. It would break Baelor’s heart. And what purpose would that serve? There is enough misery in you already. You do not wish for that burden to be shared with your husband, not when so much already rests upon his shoulders.
“I have to leave Dragonstone for a few weeks,” he announces one night as you lie in bed together.
You sit up, tugging the sheet against your bare frame.
“What?”
Baelor cups your face, his thumb sweeping over your cheeks.
“There is a Blackfyre uprising in the south. We must crush it before it is too late.”
Your heart plummets. You know that men must sometimes head to war. Such is the way of things. But you don’t want yours on a battlefield, in harm’s way. So often men leave and never return.
Your brows thread into a worried frown.
“Cannot your brother Maekar settle it on his own?”
His expression softens as he strokes your hair.
“What kind of future king cower from a minor rebellion?”
Understanding fills you, though in that moment you hate Baelor for being so honorable, so dutiful. You wish he were more selfish, selfish enough to stay besides you. But you know if he were selfish, he wouldn’t be your Baelor. He wouldn't be the man who owns your heart, body and soul.
He lifts your chin, brushing a tender kiss on your forehead.
“Although duty calls my name, my heart calls yours always,” he utters softly.
Your heart swells and shrivels all at once.
“If I could stay, I would, sweet girl,” he says, studying your sombre expression.
Resignation laces your tone. “I know.”
“Valarr will protect you in my absence.”
You go still, a chill traveling down your spine.
“I know there have been…hurdles. But he is my son. He will do what honor demands. You are safe with him.”
You swallow your words. Your husband is about to go to war. His mind must be clear, free of worries or distractions. You cannot cost him his life with petty grievances.
You give a bright smile.
“Of course, my love. I will pray to the gods everyday for your safe return.”
Fondness glimmers in his mismatched gaze.
You pin him with a stern stare, lifting your finger.
“Do not make me a widow, Baelor…or I will hunt you down in the afterlife and kill you again myself.”
Baelor grabs you by the waist, pinning you under him as you both laugh.
The day Baelor leaves, you feel as if a piece of your heart tore from your chest and walked away. The day itself mirrors your gloom, angry clouds roaring above Dragonstone, rain pouring down in thick sheets over the castle. Your desperation hit such a nadir that you begged your husband to take you with him the night before, but he reminded you that a woman’s place isn’t on a battlefield. You argued that your place is wherever he is and he gave you a smile that shattered your heart.
You lie in bed the entire day. You do not eat. You do not sleep. You do nothing but stare at the cold, empty space in the bed where your husband used to be.
Of course, Baelor’s words echo in your head. A minor rebellion. But how often do men go away to settle a minor rebellion, a trivial skirmish or enter a meager tourney to lose their life when the gods flip a coin?
“You have not eaten today. Come.”
Prince Valarr’s sharp tone startles you. Your gaze lands on his form near the door.
You ignore him, burying yourself further in the bed.
“I do not wish to be disturbed,” you counter, injecting all the meager authority you can in your feeble voice.
A deep sigh ripples through the room.
“My father told me to keep you safe. I intend to keep that vow.”
A sad laugh bursts from your lips.
“Even if you despise me?” you mumble.
“Come down and eat.”
“I’ve no appetite.”
“I care not. You will eat.”
His tone is icier. When you refuse to move, Prince Valarr does. Quick as lightning, he picks up your limp form from the bed and strides out of the room.
Your protests are ignored, Valarr’s expression determined as he stomps to the Great Hall, cradling you in his arms.
The prince all but drops you in a chair at the dining table before finding his own seat. Your eyes drift to Baelor’s empty seat at the head of the table. Your chest tightens.
Valarr’s mismatched gaze follows yours and his jaw ticks.
“He will return,” he states as a servant places a steaming plate of stew in front of you. “There is no warrior more fierce and capable than my father. Now eat.”
Impatience twists his boyish features.
“In my father’s absence, I am the lord of this castle. I command you to eat, lest I find less…pleasant ways to make sure you do.”
You shudder. Fingers wobbling, you collect the spoon but your stomach lurches at the sight of food.
“Please eat, my lady,” a familiar voice erupts besides you.
You blink, dazed. Little Matarys. The young prince’s expression is etched with concern. You didn’t realize he was here. Your mind lingers in a fog you can’t find your way out of.
Valarr rises from his seat, makes his way to you. He looms over you, his scent coating your senses.
His heated whisper tickles your earshell.
“What will my father say when he comes home and finds a skeleton waiting for him instead of his wife?”
His blunt words stab at your bleeding heart. Hand shaking, you take a slow sip of the stew. With every bite, you think of Baelor. He would hate to see you like this. You are a dragon’s wife. You must be strong, resilient. Your grip tightens on the spoon.
Beneath Prince Valarr’s watchful eye, you finish your plate.
The days fly by, each harder than the last, your husband’s absence carving a deeper hole inside you. The days erode into weeks. During these desolate times, Prince Valarr cares for you the way he promised he would. To your surprise, your stepson is the one reminding you to sustain yourself each day, displaying a care you did not think was in him. You learn to stand tall in your agonizing wait. Little Matarys’ gentleness helps. The long walks on the beach and games of cyvasse by the fire you play with the little boy help ease his father’s absence. While Prince Valarr’s gaze never sways from you, he makes no attempts at warmth or kindness, always keeping a careful distance. You’ve grown so used to the prince’s hostility that it leaves you numb. You just long for your husband’s swift return.
Every day you light a candle for him in the Sept, begging the gods to return him to you whole.
Most days, you hold on. You cry yourself to sleep no longer.
But tonight is different. A storm breaks out near the shore, dusky thunderclouds raging over Dragonstone.
You sit against the wall near the wooden wardrobe, your huddled form shivering.
You’ve been terrified of storms since you were a little girl. Baelor knows that. Whenever the heavens raged, he would cradle you against him, his deep, tranquil voice lulling into a sense of calm. He would stroke your hair and kiss your forehead, and never let go until slumber found you. With Baelor’s soft touch, the storm fell away, becoming a distant rumble.
In his absence you cannot stop shaking. The sky seems as if it might split open and the roof appears on the brink of collapse. You rock yourself back and forth on the floor, hands covering your ears to muffle the noise.
“My Lady?”
You lift your head, startled when a mismatched gaze fills your vision.
Hope flares inside your chest, tears filling your eyes.
“Baelor…” you mumble, overwhelmed with emotion.
“I’m not him.”
Your eyes round as you are yanked back to reality, realizing you are looking into Valarr’s eyes. You forgot how eerily similar they are to your husband’s.
The prince's jaw clenches as he studies you, kneeling before you, a flickering candlelight in his hand. You note that he dons a simple loose shirt and breeches, a sharp contrast to the armor you are so used to seeing him in. The candlelight casts shifting shadows over his face.
“Why are you…what are you doing here, Valarr?” you ask, shuddering as a bolt of lightning appears behind the window, heavy rain slamming against the glass.
“You are scared of storms,” Valarr says, like it's obvious. “I wanted to ensure your well-being.”
Your brows knit.
“How do you know that?”
“Know what?”
“That I’m scared of storms.”
Silence lingers, the prince’s gaze drifting away from yours.
“My father told me.”
He clears his throat and offers his free hand, helping you to your feet.
He leads you to the bed and you sit on the edge, your fingers trembling in his, your attention glued to the window.
“It is alright. I’m with you,” Valarr assures, placing the candle on the night table.
He hesitates a few seconds before wrapping his arms around you, tugging you into his embrace.
At first you are stunned. You freeze, completely still in Valarr’s arms. But it’s been so long since you’ve been held like this, felt safe like this. You surrender, sagging in Prince Valarr’s arms.
Fingers sweep over your hair, a soft voice pouring into your ear.
“You need never be scared when I’m with you.”
For a moment, you forget you are in Valarr’s arms. You imagine yourself in Baelor’s. In your mind, your husband is home. He is whole and he holds you through the storm the way he always does. Your arms wrap around Valarr’s neck. His hand settles on your back, traveling up and down in a soothing motion.
“I hate this,” you say.
“I know. I know,” he replies softly.
Remembering yourself, you retreat.
“Apologies, your highness.”
Valarr doesn’t pull away. He cradles your face, sweeping away your tears with his thumbs.
“You need not apologize. You have done nothing wrong.”
The prince's gaze roams over your face, landing on your lips. Clouds mirroring the ones in the angry sky darken the prince’s gaze. He drags his thumb down your cheek, presses it against your mouth.
You girdle your breath.
“Truly…nothing.”
The prince’s mouth slams into yours. Your eyes go wide as his lips devour yours, his tongue slipping into your mouth. You bite his lip, groaning in protest. The metallic taste of blood coats your tongue, Prince Valarr’s kiss turning hungrier, feral.
He pushes you onto the bed, his mouth tracing awful, fiery trails on your neck. You push his face, his chest, whatever you can grab at. His iron grip fastens around your wrists, pinning them above your head.
Disbelief makes your head spin. You struggle beneath Valarr, fighting him harder as he spreads your legs, his hand creeping under your night shift.
“No…” Tears blurs your sight as his mouth travels down your chest, his lips latching around your nipple. His tongue swirls until your peak hardens. Your body shakes with sobs, your whimpers swallowed by the rumbling thunder above Dragonstone.
The prince grunts as he cups your cunt, his thumb pressing into your tangle of nerves.
You shake your head, jolting as his thumb swirls around your sensitive nub. It grows swollen and slick under his hand. Your face heats.
“Highness…Valarr, you can’t…”
He buries two fingers between your folds. You gasp, your thighs closing around his hand. He thrusts inside you as you weep beneath him, the wet squelching melting with the sounds of the storm.
His breathy whisper flows over your face.
“I can’t stop…” He buries his fingers further inside you and you cry out, your back arching against the sheets. Valarr forces your thighs open with his knees, his hard tip nudging against your folds.
His long lashes flutter, an entranced expression on his face as he licks your essence off his fingers. You gape at him, horrified.
“I’m sorry, I can’t stop…”
He sinks into you to the hilt, drawing an ear-splitting scream from you. His hips collide with yours, the bed rattling with his frantic pace.
His chest brushes against yours, trapping you between his body and the bed.
Beads of sweat drip down his brow, landing on your face as he grunts above you.
He brings your wrist to his lips, dropping tender kisses there that twist your stomach in knots.
As you clench around him, your body betraying you, tears stream down your face.
Whenever your face turns, Valarr grips your chin, forcing your gaze to hold his as he ruts into you with abandon.
“Forgive me. Please, forgive me…” he repeats as he keeps slamming his hips into yours.
You lose track of time, going limp under him. You don’t remember when he leaves, when the storm ends. You only know one moment Prince Valarr was burying his cock inside you and the next, the sun is spilling through the velvet curtains.
You are alone in the bed. It is morning, you realize. For a few moments, you wonder if all of it was just a horrible nightmare conjured by the storm. You are wearing your shift, the sheets are clean. But the soreness in your limbs, the ache between your thighs…it’s all too real for all of it to be a dream. Your body tells the truth of what happened. You bring your fingers to your throat, your breaths growing erratic. You can still feel him, feel Valarr inside you. You rush to the nearest chamber pot and empty the meager contents of your stomach.
A maid barges into your room.
“He has returned, my lady!” she chimes.
You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, staggering to your feet.
“What?”
“Prince Baelor! He has returned from his travels.”
The blood rushes from your head to the bottom of your feet, the room tilting sideways around you.
“My lady! My lady!” the maid yells, catching you as you topple to the floor. The room darkens around you, pins and needles scattering on your arms.
As you lose consciousness, you hear the maid’s muffled scream.
“Get the maester! Now!”
When you awake, you are lying on a soft surface, Baelor’s tender expression crowding your vision. He looms over you, a smile tugging his lips as he strokes your hair.
“Well, it is far from the sort of reunion I had hoped for, but I suppose it will have to do,” he says. His teasing lilt summons tears in your eyes.
“Husband,” you exclaim, throwing your arms around his neck.
He chuckles, rubbing your back in that achingly familiar way. A quivering sob escapes your lips.
“Now, now, sweet girl…there is no need for tears. I am unharmed, am I not?” He lets you weep in his arms. You cannot stop the flow of tears. You cry for your husband’s safe return. You cry for what happened the night of the storm. You let yourself drown in a sea of emotions. The relief, the elation, the despair, the pain…and the sobering, aching realization you do not know how to tell Baelor the truth without ruining this fragile happiness.
He cradles your face, collecting your tears.
“We are both unharmed, both safe. Please, sweet girl, I loathe to see tears on that lovely face of yours.”
“Both unharmed, both safe...” you repeat, your stomach sinking.
“Valarr told me there was a chill with the storm yesterday.” The sound of your stepson’s name coming from his lips makes bile rise to your throat. Baelor's knuckles sweep over your cheek. “Mayhaps you have fallen ill.”
When you remain silent, Baelor gets to his feet.
“I shall leave you to rest.”
Your fingers clutch his, your expression pleading. You cannot bear to see your heart walk away. Not again. Not right now. You need him here, where you can see him, hear him, feel him.
“No, I beg of you, your Grace, stay.”
Baelor’s brow wrinkles in concern. His thumb rubs the inside of your palm. He sits beside you on the bed, pulling you into his arms. Unleashing a heavy breath, you curl against him.
“Of course, sweet girl. Of course. I will not leave your side,” he whispers, his chin settling atop your head. You close your eyes, soaking his scent, the press of his body on yours, the soothing motion of his fingers over your hair. Fresh tears flood your sight.
Your fist tightens on his doublet.
“Do not leave me ever again. Swear it.”
“Alright. I swear it, my love.”
His lips brush against your forehead. The familiar tickle of his beard makes your stomach flutter.
“I will not leave your side…ever again.”
As you stand before the funeral pyre, the only thought in your head is that your husband lied to you. Fury mingles with grief. Baelor was supposed to stay by your side, to never leave you again. Yet he did. For good this time. Without a warning. Without a goodbye. Without giving you one last chance to look into his eyes and tell him how much you loved him. Just one more time…you wish you could tell him.
The trip to Ashford was supposed to be a mere courtesy appearance. Your husband was not even supposed to enter the lists. He did not even bring his own armor. He wore Valarr’s. He died in Valarr’s. And a small, shameful part of you wishes it had been Valarr, not your beloved, who fell in the tourney.
Your gaze swings to him. It is impossible to guess what thoughts lurk in the prince's head. His eyes are dry, unlike yours, the flames of the pyre dancing in his mismatched eyes.
You drag yourself away from the pyre, needing to be away from the scent of smoke, away from the smell of your husband’s burning remains. Your entire future, your love, your dreams…all gone up in flames and smoke.
You find a secluded spot in the grass. You completely sag in your spot, your body too heavy to carry. The air itself feels heavy. The beautiful sunset is a mockery to your grief. The lush forests are an offense to your loss. How dare the world go round, the sun still rise and dip on the horizon, the moon and stars still hang in the sky…when Baelor is dead. How dare the birds not stop singing, the wind not stop whistling, the waves not stop crashing against the rocky shores?
How dare the whole world not hold its breath when yours drew its last?
“We shall journey back to Dragonstone on the morrow.”
You are torn from your thoughts when Valarr’s voice shatters your peace.
Your voice rises, shaky but firm.
“Journey back to Dragonstone? My husband lies dead.” You hold Valarr’s gaze. “Lord Maekar arranged for me to board a ship so I may return home to my family.”
The prince’s jaw flares.
“I am your family, and Dragonstone is your home,” he says, his tone icy, resolute. “You were my father's responsibility and now, you are mine.”
Dread settles in your gut. After that awful stormy night, you avoided him. You never spoke a word of it to Baelor in the weeks that followed, burying the secret deep within your heart, so it may never hurt your husband. You are glad Baelor died thinking his son good and honorable, thinking him fit to carry his name and legacy. Still, you have no desire to be anywhere near Valarr ever again.
“I do not wish to return to Dragonstone with you, my lord. I have done my duty. It is only right for House Targaryen to release me.”
His gaze narrows.
“I do not care for what is right. I care that you stay where you belong.”
You lift your chin and get to your feet.
“I belong back home with my mother and father,” you say, starting to walk away from him.
His hand latches around your wrist. Your pulse quickens.
“No, you belong with me.” There is an edge of desperation to his words now. His fingers tighten on your wrist. “I will not lose both you and my father on the same day.”
“Apologies, my lord. It is done.”
You tug on your wrist but Valarr yanks harder, drawing a pained yelp from you. He drags you down to the grass, looming over you. His glistening eyes are brimming with emotions. Emotions that strangely mirror yours. Hatred, grief…utter despair. There's also that wicked glint of lust that chills your blood.
“I’m the one who ought to apologize, for not making myself more clear.”
Valarr pulls down his breeches and panic seizes you. You crawl to your feet but he's faster, shoving you onto the grass once more. His body traps yours, forcing you onto your stomach. You sob as he bunches your dress around your waist.
“You were my father’s…and now you are mine,” he mumbles against your ear, sinking himself completely into your dry entrance. Your nails break as you rake your fingers across the dirt, whimpering as he slams his hips into yours roughly. “And soon, you will be my lady wife, and I your lord husband.”
Valarr drapes his hand over your mouth, silencing your screams as his pelvis snaps into yours from behind. Tears blur your sight, your muffled pleas swallowed by the grass.
Prince Valarr’s warm breath tickles the back of your neck.
“So best you learn to obey, and take what I give you, my lady,” he says, his tone ripe with warning.
hi :) could you please wrote one with james where the reader always assumes he's kidding when he flirts with her (bc of previous bullying) so then when he asks her out she doesn't go? can be any setting!
hey lovely!! i know this is very slightly different from your request, but i hope you like it anyway <3
james potter x fem!reader
tw: previous bullying, negative thoughts about appearance and self
summary: James Potter has been playing a cruel joke on you for weeks, flirting and asking you out. only, it isn’t a joke at all
“Go, Prongs! Just do it, so we can all go for lunch.” Sirius Black is audible even from fifteen rows up.
“What if she’s working today? That’ll be awkward.”
“She isn’t, I asked.”
Apprehension and hope coil themselves around your chest, the latter probably wasted. James Potter tends to bring it out, anyway.
You pretend not to watch him leaving his circle of friends where they’re standing at the front of the lecture hall. Although you’d been told that social cliques weren't ranked by popularity or coolness in university, their group stands out as the exception to the rule. They’re all beautiful, intelligent, constantly at the centre of attention and wearing it well. Even the quietest, Remus, seems to attract a level of admiration that you aren’t familiar with.
The four that are actually enrolled in this subject- James, Sirius Black, Marlene McKinnon and Dorcas Meadowes- are frequently joined at the end of the lecture by the rest of their throng, before they all set off for lunch. You take the same route as they do, since you work at their preferred cafes on most weekdays. It’s become an awkward arrangement. Even more awkward since James has started amusing himself by sitting with you instead of his friends, here or on the train to the cafe, as if you’re some sort of social experiment.
It’s not as if you’re as objectionable now as you were in high school. You’ve started taking better care of your skin, eating foods that make you feel more alive, and your scant friends from school tell you the difference is noticeable. You don’t find yourself repulsive the same way you once did. But any progress you’re making in starting to like and look after yourself is constantly disrupted by James Potter’s mockery.
At least three times each week, he goes out of his way to approach you and pretend to be flirting. No matter how kind or grumpy you are, no matter how much makeup you’re wearing, he finds it worthwhile to spend hours talking to you and making jokes about how much he likes you. It’s cruel, you know, but he’s got the kind of charm many popular boys do, wherein you can never work up the courage to tell him to piss off, and you can’t quite let go of the hope that someday you’ll look nice enough that he realises you’re not just a joke. He also has a talent for seeming like he’s genuinely interested, luring you into the trap of a conversation that feels truly meaningful to you. It’s only when he goes back to his own friends and is greeted with laughter and Prongs, what’s the point of just talking to her all the time? that you’re made aware how little it means to him.
“Hey, shortcake.”
His usual name for you. You swallow, preparing for hurt, and force a smile.
“James.”
He grins. “You’re not working today?”
You nod. Sirius, who almost never even looks at you, had asked if you were scheduled for a shift today. You’re glad you aren’t. James refuses to let up on the conversation until you’ve clocked on, and even then he orders about five coffees just so you’ll need to bring them over and humiliate yourself further.
You don’t know why he’s chosen you. Then again, you never knew why boys picked you to make fun of. Maybe James noticed that you looked at him more than usual when rugby training ran late, and he had to come to class in his workout clothing. Maybe his friends have a running joke about your not-completely-made-up crush on him. You just wish he wouldn’t be so mean about it.
“Bummer. What will I do without my favourite waitress to annoy?”
You press your lips together. Yet again, the most difficult part about James Potter making fun of you is how much he can sound like he means it.
“I don’t know.”
He ducks his head to catch your eye when you look down. “Not to worry. I actually wanted to ask you something.”
“Oh, what?” You ask feebly.
You can hear the laughter edging his voice. “Would you want to grab a coffee together sometime? Maybe tomorrow, after our workshop?”
The boys who have teased you like this in the past have always spent much less effort building up to the inevitable peak of the joke. James must have a lot of time on his hands.
You frown, your disappointment slipping through for just a moment before you school your expression into something more neutral. He laughs, sounding confused. You wish you could hate him.
“Sure, James, why not?” You say tightly. It’s what he wants, the only thing that will end this joke properly.
“Are you sure? You don’t sound convinced,” he says breezily. “No pressure, sweetheart.”
But there is pressure, with all his friends pretending not to watch the two of you talking and preparing to laugh when James relays your agreement. The only thing that could be worse is if you said no, and the ugly side of his ego reared its head. You’ve never seen James be unkind to anyone in your class, except you in this extended prank, but you know the kind of spite that rises in boys if they’re rejected by a conquest they were never serious about. Boys in high school have called you enough vile things for you to learn that usually, it’s easier just to agree and let the humiliation of it wash over you.
“No, it’s fine. I want to go out with you.” You force another smile and pull down the hem of your shirt. “Tomorrow sounds good.”
“Best news I’ve heard all day,” James says. He turns to the front of the lecture hall and gives his friends a thumbs-up, which makes Marlene laugh. You feel your face heat. No matter how much you’ve become used to this, it doesn’t stop being hurtful. You wish you could ask him why he’s chosen you. Your looks and personality can’t be so terrible that you deserve this. “Sorry,” James says sheepishly, noticing your embarrassment. “They’ve been telling me to ask you out for ages.”
“Right. Okay, well, bye.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” James’ smile is blinding. You don’t know how he can look so warm when he’s being so mean.
Walking past his friends at the front of the room is uniquely difficult. They’re exactly the sort of people you wish liked you. They all seem to have so much affection for each other. It’s painful to feel like the only person they’ll be unkind to, for their shared entertainment. You wonder what mistake you made, what misstep caused them all to be nice to you sometimes, and then mean again when it’s funny.
You’re late to your workshop, and in a bad mood. Your tights have ripped on the outside of your thigh, where you scraped against a sharp bush. It still stings even after you’ve washed and put bandaids on the small cut there. You’ve run out of shampoo, so your hair has gone one day too long unwashed, and you feel oily and unclean. Your eyes itch. All of it gets worse when you see James across the room, sitting with his friends and watching you as soon as you step into the room. You take a deep breath and sit in the back corner, as far from him as possible.
“Did you sign the attendance form?” The other boy on your table whispers, sliding the paper across. It’s the only reason you’re here. You sign it and hand it to your professor, increasingly nauseated.
You can’t do this. You don’t want to stick around and watch him leave the classroom like nothing’s happened, or worse, treat this all like a prank you should be laughing at, too.
Fifteen minutes pass, and you wait for James and his friends to be focused on something Sirius is telling them to slip out of your seat and walk out the door. The hallway is empty, which is lucky, since you’re not sure you could stomach anyone seeing how close you are to crying.
In the spirit of the day’s unluckiness, you aren’t afforded privacy for long. Near the back doors of the building, you bump headfirst into Lily Evans and send the papers she’s holding flying everywhere.
Lily, redheaded and glowing, is president of just about every club the university offers, and can frequently be spotted with the same group you’re currently trying to escape. You heard a rumour once that she and James used to go out before she started dating her now-girlfriend, Mary.
She says your name, surprised.
“I’m so sorry,” you mumble. You kneel to gather her papers, made up of mostly posters to sign up for the university newsletter she manages. “That was stupid of me.”
“Don’t be silly,” she shakes her head, “I need to watch where I’m going. You don’t need to pick these up, lovely.”
“It’s okay.”
She seems to notice your expression, and puts a hand on your shoulder. You look at her, humiliation prickling down your spine at your obvious upset. You wish she didn’t know who you were. You wish she wasn’t so nice if it isn’t real.
“Are you okay?”
“Yep, sorry. Just feeling unwell,” you tell her. It isn’t completely untrue.
“You have your history workshop now, don’t you?” Lily says, gently rubbing your shoulder. It’s a long time since anyone’s touched you so softly. You wish you were friends. “Should I let James know you aren’t feeling well?”
You stiffen. “Why would you do that?”
“Weren’t the two of you supposed to go out later?” Lily’s brow furrows. “He told me you’d made plans.”
You stand abruptly, passing her the posters you’ve managed to gather. “Well, we haven’t. Why would he ever ask me to go out with him?”
Lily opens and closes her mouth. “I’m sorry, I’m a bit confused. I-“
“Sorry about the posters. I have to go,” you huff, stepping past her and out the doors. She says your name again, but you don’t look back.
It’s a miserable afternoon. A storm rolls over the city more quickly than you can make it to the station, and the rain is so heavy that several trains are cancelled due to flooding on the tracks. You’re soaked to the skin and shivering by the time you realise it’s been forty minutes, and class has probably finished. You wonder if Lily told James what you said. He’s probably having a big laugh about it with his friends now, saying he'd pay to see your reaction when you realise it wasn’t real.
You don’t cry until you get home, worried that he’ll turn up at the station or on the overcrowded train to witness it. Your roommates, if they hear your upset, don’t care. They tend to operate on their own schedules, and have little interest in what you’re up to. You’re both grateful and grieving for it. You wish you had a group of friends to tell this to, people who would reassure you that you’re not so obvious a target as the pattern has indicated. You wish you had someone who loved you, to tell you that they’d never joke about something like that, that their feelings are genuine. You wish, you wish, you wish.
You hadn’t planned on going back to university the next day, but there’s a football game on the telly that your roommates and their friends won’t listen to without the maximum volume. You don’t complain, just pack up your books and head back in the direction of campus.
The weather has cleared, and you’re not feeling so weighed down by what happened yesterday. Hopefully, James has purged whatever desires he had to humiliate you, and now you can move forward in anonymity. You consider asking the admissions office if you can switch classes, but you’re not sure it’s necessary. James and his group will probably leave you alone. It’s the way it usually goes.
“Hey! Shortcake!” You hear heavy footfalls behind you, and your stomach twists with anxiety. Shit. Even if your shared degree doesn’t have any classes today, James almost always has rugby practice on campus. You should’ve guessed. “Hey, slow down!”
You do slow down, but not by much. James is panting when he catches up to you, still dressed in his rugby uniform and smelling far better than anyone should when they’ve been doing hours of training.
“What is it?” You ask, more sharply than you think you’ve ever spoken to him.
“What happened yesterday? You just disappeared. Are you alright?”
How can he make his eyes so tender when you know he doesn’t care? A surge of frustration rises in your throat.
“I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”
“Well, no it isn’t,” he gives you a half-smile, confusion etched across his handsome features. “We never got to go on our date. And Lily told me-“
“Who cares what Lily told you?” You snap, crossing your arms and coming to a stop. “I’m sorry I ruined your fun, James, but it’s been weeks of this and I’m not in the mood to be the punchline to some stupid joke.”
“What? I don’t know what you’re talking-”
“Please, please, just stop it!” You push your hair back from your face, hating the emotion in your voice. “I know you don’t actually like me, and I know you never actually wanted to go out with me, and I’m- I just want it to stop, please. I’m already having a hard enough time meeting people, I don’t need you making fun of me too.”
James is quiet long enough that you start walking again, but before you can get very far he’s caught you by the elbow. You gasp, mostly at the way his touch seems to burn your skin. He lets go immediately.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“You didn’t,” you say, rubbing your elbow self-consciously.
“Can we talk? Please?” He says softly, searching your face like you’re hiding something. You feel the reverse, less burdened by pretence than you have been in weeks. It feels good to be angry at him, even if it’s painful at the same time.
“Fine.”
You go with James to sit at a bench along the edge of the path, sheltered by a tree with long, weeping limbs. The earth smells fresh from the rain.
“I didn’t know you felt as if I was making fun of you,” James begins carefully. “I never wanted you to feel that way.”
You almost roll your eyes. “I know. The whole point of the joke is that I don’t know I’m being made fun of.”
James scrunches up his face as if the idea is crazy. “What joke? What do you mean?”
“James,” you plead. When he looks no closer to admitting anything, you sigh. “Do you honestly think I ever thought you would genuinely flirt with me? Want to get to know me? Ask me out?” You laugh, but it isn’t as flippant as you want it to be. “I’m not stupid.”
“I never thought you were stupid,” he says immediately. “Why wouldn’t I do those things? Do you- have you thought this whole time that I haven’t really been interested in you?”
“It really doesn’t matter, James.”
“It really does. Is that how you’ve felt?”
You go to confirm the affirmative, but pause. It occurs to you that none of the other boys have ever cared this much about maintaining the lie, or about talking to you after the joke is through. “Isn’t that the truth?”
“No, not at all! Who told you that?”
You swallow, hard. “Nobody.”
“Why did you think it, then? Didn’t I seem genuine?”
You search your mind. Your face feels hot. “When you asked me out, you were laughing. Your friends were laughing.”
“Because I was nervous! And they were laughing because they found it funny that I’d been putting it off for so long- I usually rush into things. Talking to you without confessing my feelings has been a challenge in restraint, sweetheart.”
“What?” You swallow again, finding your mouth dry. You blink quickly. “So… you haven’t been joking?”
He shakes his head immediately, looking vaguely dismayed. “On my mum’s life, never.”
Prongs, what’s the point of just talking to her all the time?
You laugh again. It’s more out of disbelief than anything. “I’m so stupid.”
“You aren’t. You’re smart, that’s one of the reasons I like you so much. There must be a reason you didn’t think I was being serious,” James says.
“Besides the fact he was sitting right next to you?” You joke weakly, startled when he smiles like it’s actually funny.
“Yeah, besides that.”
“Look, a lot of boys used to ask me out as a joke in school. I’m not paranoid.”
“I’m not saying you are, but-“
“And I’m not very attractive, James, it isn’t crazy for me to assume you weren’t doing the same.”
He frowns, sobering up. “It is crazy. Firstly, you are attractive, and I don’t think you should speak that way about the girl I fancy.”
You have no idea how to respond to that, so you shrug.
“Secondly, those boys were twats who probably liked you and weren’t brave enough to own up to it.” He sees your skepticism and relents, “Even if they weren’t, it’s a horrible thing to do and was only about them, not you. I’m sorry it happened. Fuck them.”
“Fuck them,” you agree quietly. This has become an overwhelming conversation in a vastly different way than what you’d imagined. James is a very surprising person.
“I’m sorry if I seemed like I was joking, when I was talking to you this term. I think it was only because I was nervous.”
“I was nervous, too,” you admit. “Because I thought you were pretending, but also, I thought you were only doing it because you’d found out I had a crush on you.”
James does a very bad job trying not to look delighted. You feel warmed the same way you do walking into a cosy café in winter, from the outside all the way in to your bones. “Shut up,” you tell him.
“I didn’t even say anything!” He says brightly. “You had a crush on me?”
You shrug, refusing to look at him. All the anger you’d felt, and the drive you’d had to tell him off for it when you sat down, has gone out of you. Your mind is a whir of all the memories you’d categorised as unpleasant over the past few weeks, suddenly through a warmer lens. You imagine James’ friends laughing after class about how long he’s taking to ask you on a date, instead of how long you’re spending falling for the joke. You remember the way they’d exchanged glances whenever he went over to sit with you on the train, and imagine that it’s because they know how much he likes you instead of how much contempt they have for you. You almost feel guilty for assuming such horrible behaviour of them, despite how real it had felt at the time.
“Was that past tense?” James interrupts your thoughts. You frown at him.
“What?”
“You had or have a crush on me?”
You narrow your eyes. “I don’t know right now. This is very weird, James, give me a minute.”
“Okay! Okay, sorry.” He holds up his hands in surrender, leaning back against the bench and whistling lowly. “I think I must be the most oblivious bloke on this entire campus.”
You hesitate to agree when you’ve spent the past weeks believing something you’d completely made up.
“Not really. Are you sure you actually want to go out with me?”
He nods without hesitating. “I would say obviously, but-“
“Not to me.” You finish, feeling slightly embarrassed.
“Not to you, right. And you’re the only person who matters. I really am sorry.” He touches your shoulder. You don’t move away, even though it burns the same way it did before. It’s not a bad sort of heat. “Not that you should’ve had to, but why didn’t you call me out on it sooner? You must’ve been so miserable thinking I was dedicating all this time to bullying you.”
You think for a moment. “I think it’s usually easier if I go along with it. People don’t get offended if I don’t ruin the joke. I was pretty rude to you, to be fair. I thought it would’ve scared you off.”
“When were you rude to me?”
“Just the other day, at work.”
“What, when you said the café was closing at closing time?”
“…Yes. I didn’t say it as nicely as I could’ve. And other times, too.” It had been closing, truthfully, but it was the first time you hadn’t let James and his friends stay an hour late in a desperate bid to seem likeable. “I told you I had to focus on my notes, once.”
“In the middle of a lecture!” James is laughing, or trying not to with little success. It doesn’t feel like it’s at your expense anymore, so much as it’s at the situation. It is a little ridiculous. “I can’t believe that’s what you considered being rude, shortcake.”
“You never thought I seemed too suspicious of you?”
“It didn’t occur to me, given that you didn’t have something to be suspicious of, as far as I knew. I just thought you were shy.”
You bite the inside of your cheek. “Oh.”
“Are you secretly a massive extrovert? Honestly, babe, if I’ve been seeing the worst version of you these past few weeks, I must really be into you, because I think you’re wonderful just like this.”
Babe. That’s a new one. “I’m not an extrovert, I don’t think.”
James sighs like it’s a relief. “Good. I’ve got enough of them around, anyway.”
You smile, turning your face away. “You’re being so nice to me.”
“Yeah, and I’m breathing. And talking. Easiest things in the world,” James says, which is very cheesy and also quite nice. “Would you look at me?”
You do as he asks.
“Pretty girl,” he tells you, or calls you. You must look stressed by the compliment, because he laughs and cups your left cheek in his warm hand. “You’re such a sweetheart. I’m sorry.”
“Stop,” you protest quietly, but don’t move away. He has lovely eyelashes, and tiny freckles across his nose. His brown skin seems to glow, even in the shade of the tree.
“Can I take you on a date? Genuinely?” He raises his eyebrows in question. You can’t stop the corners of your mouth from turning up, even as you think about it for much longer than you need to. He traces lines on the soft skin under your eye with his thumb. “I really mean it.”
“Okay,” you agree. “You can take me on a date. Genuinely.”
He laughs happily, and leans forward before you can react. It’s only a kiss on the cheek, and then a quick one on your forehead, but they’re dizzying all the same. You know he must see you blushing.
“Thank god that was all so straightforward,” he jokes. You roll your eyes, letting him pull you to your feet as you stand. He shoulders your heavy bag of books before you can. “D’you want to go and study with everyone? They’re just in the library.”
“Are you going to be there?”
He looks over his shoulder. “Rugby training isn’t technically finished yet. I just saw you walking past, so-“
“I’ve taken you away from training?”
“You didn’t take me away. Anyway, they all know I have a thing for you, lovely, it’s alright.” James grins. “If you want to study in the stands for the last half hour of training, we can go and hang out with the group afterwards?”
You think it’s charitable for him to call them the group and not just my friends. “Do you think that’ll be okay?”
“Yeah. They all really like you- what, don’t tell me you didn’t know that, too?”
James looks so aghast that you can’t bring yourself to admit that you thought they all only tolerated you as part of James’ joke. “No, they’re all really nice. They do always seem sorry for me.”
“Only because I’m always flirting,” James says easily. “Lily says I’m torturing you.”
“You were.”
“Not in a bad way, though, yeah?”
You sigh, exhaling some of the hurt of the past few weeks. James has a really kind face, when you look at it properly. Soft eyes without a trace of malice. He’s the sort of boy you’d only fantasised about going out with, to prove to yourself that you were worth more than joking about.
You smile. “Yeah.”
The two of you walk back to the rugby stands together, and the sun comes out.
childhood friends aerion x princess!reader (house not specified!) pt.2
-18+ noncon! dark themes, breeding kink, obsession, cum eating/finger sucking, light slapping, virgin!reader, blood and bit of biting! ᥫ᭡
the boy you had grown up with was gone. he was a ghost haunting the halls of this foreign castle, a memory that felt more like a dream with every passing day.
you could still taste the sweetness of the honey cakes he’d steal from the kitchens just for you, the sticky glaze on your fingers as you’d laugh and run from the scowling cook. his patient hands guiding yours as you learned to fish, his proud cheer the first time you caught one. you could hear the whisper of the weeping willow’s branches, a green, private world where you’d share secrets…
but the memory of that boy was shattered, irrevocably destroyed, under the blistering sun of the tourney grounds. you had been in the stands. aerion’s opponent’s charger stumbled. aerion, with a cold, detached heart, lowered his lance and, with a single, brutal thrust, drove the sharp point deep into the poor animal. it hadn’t been an act of mercy. it had been an act of impatience, a disgusted finality. the crowd had gasped, and in that moment, the boy you loved had been violently, brutally murdered by the man on the field.
that boy was a lie. this man, prince aerion, was the truth. a beautiful, terrifying predator who watched you with an intensity that made your skin crawl. he was no longer the lanky youth with a quick smile, but a man carved from marble and arrogance, his shoulders broad beneath fine velvet, his jaw sharp, and the light in his eyes had been replaced by a feverish, possessive fire that tracked your every move, a silent, constant threat that promised ownership, not friendship.
you had been at king’s landing for a moon, a political guest intended for his brother, daeron. your father had been pleased with the match, a strategic alliance. but you had seen the way aerion looked at you, the way his brother’s easy smiles were a thin veneer over a disinterest that stung far less than aerion’s obsessive attention.
in your guest chambers, the fire in the great hearth had dwindled to embers, casting long, dancing shadows across the tapestries depicting dragonfire and conquest. you stood by the tall, arched window, the stone a deep, biting chill against your palms, staring out at the moon-drenched gardens. the roses were still in bloom, their scent a cloying sweetness on the night air.
you heard him enter, the soft tread of his boots on the thick rugs, but you didn’t turn around. you couldn’t. to face him was to feed the beast, to acknowledge the power he held over you simply by his presence.
"you’ve been avoiding me," he said, his voice a low, smooth purr that sent a shiver down your spine. it was a statement of fact, not a question. he knew. he always knew.
"i’ve been resting," you replied, your voice thin and brittle.
he was behind you now, so close you could feel the heat radiating from his body. he reached out, his fingers gently brushing a stray strand of your hair away from your neck. the touch was deceptively gentle.
"you are not to lie to me," he whispered, his lips brushing against your ear. "we never lied to each other."
"that boy is dead," you said, your voice trembling with a sudden surge of anger and grief. "i don’t know who you are anymore. i hardly recognize you."
he turned you around to face him, his hands gripping your arms with a force that made you wince. his eyes were burning with a feverish, obsessive light.
"don’t," he said softly, though his grip only tightened, fingers digging just enough to remind you how easily he could hurt you. "don’t pretend you don’t know me."
"i don’t," you shot back, trying to pull away, but he held you fast, immovable. "the person i knew, he wouldn’t look at me like this. like i’m something to own."
a slow smile curved his lips, wrong in a way that made your stomach twist. "own?" he echoed, almost amused. "no. you misunderstand me." his thumb dragged along your jaw, tilting your face up whether you wanted it or not. you hated how your breath hitched anyway.
"i don’t want to own you," he murmured. "i already do. you know so."
you swallowed hard. "let me go."
for a moment, it almost seemed like he might. his grip loosened just slightly- just enough to give you hope. then it tightened again. your pulse stuttered.
"aerion-"
"you think i don’t see it?" he cut in, sharper now, something volatile flickering beneath his calm. "the way you look at me. the way you ache to find him again. that boy you keep mourning."
his lips curled, not quite a sneer, not quite a smile.
"he was weak," he said. "he hesitated. he let you walk away."
his face dipped closer, until you could feel his breath against your lips.
"i don’t."
you shoved against his chest, panic and anger tangling together. "this isn’t love."
"no," he agreed, and there was something almost reverent in the way he said it. "it’s not." his hand slid from your arm to your wrist, capturing it, holding it between you like a promise you couldn’t break. "my father is a fool who thinks alliances are forged with paper and platitudes," he snarled, his grip tightening. "alliances are forged with blood. with seed. with a bond that cannot be broken." he leaned in, his face close to yours, his breath hot against your lips. "i will have you. with or without your consent."
you looked into his eyes, and for the first time, you were truly afraid. you shook your head. "no," you said, your voice unsteady but unwavering. "no. i don’t care what you think this is—you don’t get to take me like i’m some conquest. i am not yours."
his eyes darkened. you forced yourself not to look away.
"you can threaten me all you want," you continued, your pulse roaring in your ears, "but i will never give you what you want. not like this."
for a moment, the only sound between you was your uneven breathing.
"you still think this is a choice," he murmured, almost to himself.
his hand tightened around your wrist, not enough to crush, but enough to remind you how easily he could.
"i am offering you the kindness of honesty," he went on, his voice smoothing out again, that eerie calm settling back over him. "i want you to understand."
you swallowed, forcing your voice not to shake. "understand what?"
his gaze locked onto yours, unblinking.
"that there is nowhere you can go where i will not follow," he said quietly. "no place you can hide where i will not find you."
your stomach twisted, but you shook your head again, more fiercely this time. "i would rather die than belong to you. like this."
"careful," he said softly. "that is not the kind of promise you make lightly."
"i mean it," you snapped, even as your voice trembled.
his expression softened, just for a moment, a flicker of something that looked like pain, or maybe just a memory of it. "i do love you, stupid little girl," he said. "more than you can ever imagine. that’s why you will never be happy without me. that’s why you will never be happy with anyone else."
he crashed his mouth against yours, a brutal, possessive kiss that was more of a punishment than a caress. it was a violation, a theft of the memory of every sweet, stolen innocent kiss you had shared as children and pre-teens. he bit your lip, hard, and you tasted blood, a sharp, coppery tang that filled your mouth.
you struggled against him, pushing at his chest, but it was like trying to move a mountain. he was too strong, too determined. he backed you up against the cold stone wall, his body a hard, unyielding weight against yours. he broke the kiss, his chest heaving, his eyes wild.
"you will learn to love this," he snarled, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. "you will learn to crave it." he slapped you, not hard, but with enough force to make your head snap to the side, a sharp, stinging blow that brought tears to your eyes. "you will learn…because i am determined to train you."
he ripped the front of your gown, the delicate fabric tearing like paper, exposing your breasts to the cold air. he lowered his head, his mouth finding your nipple, his teeth scraping against the sensitive skin. he bit down, hard, and you cried out, a sharp, pained sound that was half-sob, half-scream.
"aerion, please," you begged, your body trembling with a mixture of fear and a traitorous, unwanted heat that was building in your belly.
"please what?" he asked, his voice a low, teasing rumble. "please stop? or please don’t stop? you must be specific, my love."
he wanted you to admit it, to voice the shameful truth that his pain brought you pleasure. he moved to your other breast, giving it the same brutal treatment, his tongue soothing the sting of his bite before his teeth sank in again.
"answer me," he commanded.
his hand slid down your stomach, his fingers pressing into the flesh just above your mound. "do you want me to stop? or do you want me to make you scream for a different reason?"
you couldn’t speak. you could only shake your head, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes. you hated him. you hated him for what he was doing, and you hated yourself for the way your body responded, for the slick heat gathering between your thighs, a traitorous testament to your own depravity.
"i see." he shifted his weight, his own leg forcing your thighs apart. "you want more." one of his hands bunched your dress up enough to where he could rip your smallclothes undergarments off. you couldn’t bring yourself to look down at the pile of ruined fabric on the stone floor.
his hand found your clit, his fingers rubbing rough, merciless circles over the sensitive bundle of nerves. the pleasure was overwhelming, a tidal wave that threatened to pull you under. you were lost in a haze of pain and pleasure, your body no longer your own, but a puppet on his strings, dancing to a dark and violent tune.
"look at me," he demanded, his voice rough.
he stopped when you refused to look at him. he lifted you then, his hands gripping your thighs, and impaled you on his cock in one brutal thrust. you were unprepared, and the sudden, sharp pain of his invasion stole your breath.
you forced your eyes open. he was a monster, a beautiful, terrifying monster, and as the pleasure crested, a wave of pure ecstasy washing over you, you knew he was right. you would scream for him. you would do anything he asked. you were his, body and soul.
"that’s it," he groaned, his head falling into the crook of your neck. he began to move, his strokes hard and deep, each one a reminder of his ownership, his power. "take it. take all of me."
you were trapped, pinned between the cold stone wall and his hot, demanding body. your body, traitorous, wicked thing, began to respond. the pain began to melt into a deep, aching pleasure, a heat that spread through your veins like wildfire.
"look at me," he commanded, his hand tangling in your hair, forcing your head back. you forced your tear-filled eyes open to meet his. "you will not finish until i say so. do you understand?"
you could only nod, a choked sob escaping your lips.
he began to move with renewed ferocity, his thrusts faster, harder, each one a calculated stroke that pushed you closer and closer to the edge. the coil in your belly was impossibly tight, a knot of pleasure and pain that was about to unravel.
"please, aerion," you whimpered, your body quaking. "i can’t... i can’t hold on."
"hold it, you better hold it," he grunted, his pace increasing. "i have the power to take it all away." his fingers were on your clit again, pressing down hard, a threat and a promise.
he slowed his thrusts and leaned down, pressing kisses all over your tear-streaked cheeks, condescending, possessive little pecks, like a master rewarding a pet. his lips were soft, a stark contrast to the brutal way he was fucking you.
"why can’t you just love me, hmm?" he whispered, his voice a sickeningly sweet poison. he kissed your temple, then the corner of your eye. "i give you everything. this life, this name, my body. i worship you in my own way, don’t i? this fire between us...it’s a form of worship. but you deny me. you always deny me." he nuzzled your nose, his breath hot against your skin.
the words were a violation, a twisted parody of intimacy. he was trying to fuck his way into your heart…
"say it," he demanded, his hips stilling, his cock sheathed deep inside you. his other hand came up to grip your chin, forcing you to look at him. "say you love me."
you stared at him, your mind a blank slate. you couldn’t. the words wouldn’t come. to say them would be to surrender the last piece of yourself, to let him win completely.
his expression darkened. "say it," he repeated, his voice dropping lower. he began to move again, slow, grinding circles that rubbed against every sensitive spot inside you. "say you love me, and i’ll let you cream all over me. i’ll give you the release you’re begging for. or..." he pulled out almost completely, leaving you empty and aching, before slamming back into you so hard you saw stars. "...or i can keep you here like this all night. on the edge. crying for me. it’s your choice, my love."
the choice was no choice at all. your body screamed for release, your soul screamed in protest.
"please," you sobbed, the word torn from your throat. "aerion, please."
"that’s not what i want to hear," he snarled, his pace picking up again, relentless and brutal. the coil inside you tightened to an impossible degree. white-hot. "say it. say you love me."
he leaned down, his lips brushing against yours, and the dam broke. the pleasure, the pain, the fear, the humiliation. it all crashed over you at once. you couldn’t fight it anymore.
"i love you," you cried, the words a broken, desperate sob. "i love you, aerion! i love you!"
a triumphant, cruel smile spread across his face. "good girl," he purred. and then he let go. his fingers on your clit moved again as he pounded into you. the orgasm that ripped through you was violent, so much so that devastating scream tore from your lungs, your back arching off the wall, fingers gripping his shoulders, your vision going white.
his lips brushed against your ear. "i’m going to fill you with my seed. i’m going to put a babe in your belly. then you will truly be mine. you will carry my mark, inside and out."
his words were a poison, a dark promise that both terrified and thrilled you. you hated him. you hated him with every fiber of your being.
he followed you over the edge with a final, brutal thrust, spilling himself deep inside you with a hoarse, triumphant cry. he stayed there for a long moment, his cock still twitching inside you as he emptied himself into you.
when he finally pulled out, he set you down on your feet, your legs so weak you nearly collapsed. he caught you, holding you up, his arms a steel band around your waist. he looked down at you, his eyes glinting with dark satisfaction. he reached down, his fingers finding the mess between your legs, his own seed mixed with the blood of your torn maidenhead. he brought his fingers to his lips, his eyes never leaving yours.
"would you like to taste your cunny?"
you stared at him, your mouth agape.
"no?" he didn’t wait for an answer. he brought his fingers, slick with your combined fluids, to your own lips. "open," he commanded, his voice soft.
you shook your head, a tear tracing a path through the sweat on your cheek. this was a line, a violation so intimate and degrading it was beyond anything you had imagined.
his smile vanished. "i said, open your mouth." he pinched your chin, his thumb and forefinger digging into the soft flesh, a painful, warning pressure. "don’t make me ask again. everything i give you is a gift. you will accept it. you will taste it. you will thank me for it."
the threat was absolute. you knew, with a certainty that chilled you to the bone, that he would hurt you. he would twist your arm, he would backhand you across the room, he would do whatever it took to enforce his will. slowly, brokenly, you parted your lips.
he shoved his fingers into your mouth, pressing them against your tongue. the taste was salt and iron and something uniquely, shamefully you.
"mhmm, suck," he ordered, his voice a low growl. he held his fingers there, a prison of flesh and bone, until you obeyed, your throat working. only then did he pull them away, wiping them clean on the torn remains of your gown as if they were dirty.
"such a pretty obedient whore," he murmured, his satisfaction returning. his hand rested on your belly, a possessive, final promise, as if he could already feel the child he would plant there, the ultimate claim on your body.
Please please please Aerion smut where its a jousting tourney and he sees you (a Lords daughter) give your favor to a knight going up against him, he beats the shit out of said knight, steals your favor from the ground and steals your favor from the bested knights lance like an insane person. Finding you after and confronting you about why you gave favor to someone else
he is insane for you like actually
Knights Earn, Dragons Take
Aerion Targaryen x noblewoman!reader
✿ aerion is obsessed with you, so when you give your favour to another knight, he has to take matters into his own hands and show you who you belong to (or, aerion steals your favour from another knight and fucks you)
✿ 18+
✿ wc: 6.6k
✿ cw: fem!reader, no y/n and reader is an undefined baddie, SMUT, a smidge of plot, unprotected piv, light breeding, fingering, oral (f!receiving), one (1) pussy slap, pussy pronouns, praise, light degradation but not a lot bc he’s obsessed with you, aerion being himself but also maybe slightly ooc, possessive!aerion, threats of violence so maybe not that ooc, tourney violence, strong language, reader is from an unnamed but influential House with non-specific colours, mention of reader having older brothers but her father is a girl dad and reader can do no wrong lol
You have always drawn eyes.
Beautiful, intelligent, the perfect lady. You were admired by commonfolk and nobles alike for your amicability and wit. Your lord father was a loyal ally to the great House Targaryen and a valiant support during the Blackfyre Rebellion, not to mention a loud and magnetic personality. His parties and tourneys drew thousands from across Westeros—even luring nobles and merchants alike from across the Narrow Sea.
Similar has happened today as you watch with bated breath, your ringed fingers interlinked upon your lap, as a pair of lordlings clash in a flurry of splintered wood from your position in your noble pavilion. Your father roars his approval, cheering loudly as one poor knight topples from his horse, a jagged shard of lance protruding from a joint near his shoulder in his plated armour. You can’t help but cup your hand to your mouth, watching as the poor felled knight is dragged from the tiltyard.
Your lord father takes a deep sip from his goblet, resplendent in the midday sun. He is draped in the colours of your House, as are you, with jewels strung around your neck and wrists, decorated like a shrine. He turns to you, wine still glossy on his lips as he eyes your uneasy expression which does little to match the glittering of your jewellery. You’re now fidgeting with a wreath of flowers, an intricately woven ring of heartseases, carnations and lilies, finished with ribbons of your House’s colours.
“What is troubling you, my dear?” Your father asks, reaching across to place a gentle hand atop your own, the metal of his rings cool against your knuckles.
You exhale and then give him a meek smile. “Nothing, father. I apologise—”
“You are my daughter. Do you believe I do not know when you are lying?” Your father interrupts, giving you a pointed look.
Embarrassment claws within your chest as you drown out the cheers from the large crowd beyond the pavilion, realising that there are likely to be dozens of eyes glued to you. You calm yourself, ensuring your face remains as passive as possible, but you can feel the slightest tremble in your lower lip.
“I—what if I do not wish to give my favour away?” You say, fingers brushing the beautiful wreath in your lap. “I see no point in—”
Your father interrupts you again with a smooth and rather diplomatic confidence you’re sure he uses with everyone he speaks to. It usually gets him what he wants, and paired with the irreverent glimmer in his eyes, you realise why he and Lyonel Baratheon get along so well.
“Do not view this as giving your favour away,” he says carefully, drumming his fingers against your hand as he speaks. “View it as lending your favour to a poor, desperate lad who wishes to impress you. You are helping the needy, which all ladies care to do, do they not?”
You can’t help but scoff, your father battering his eyelashes in an attempt to make you smile with his humoured tone.
“These men are not needy. They are knights,” you reply.
“Ah, but they are still men,” your father utters, withdrawing his hand to pick up his goblet and take another drink. He tips his goblet in your direction before he drinks. “And all men, no matter their strength or their status, are needy when chasing the favour of a lady.”
You mull over your father’s words for a while as he gets to his feet and shuffles towards the entrance to the pavilion. You hear him speaking to someone, you hear the thunderous cacophony of the crowd, the stamping of hooves, the blaring of bugles. And you’re not sure how much time passes before you hear a beckoning call of your name. You look to your side, placing your flowered wreath upon an adjacent pedestal, and see that your father is welcoming a pair of men into your pavilion dressed in black and red.
Your heart stammers in your chest as you hurry to your feet, Baelor and Maekar Targaryen appraising you as you drop into a perfected curtsy.
“Seven blessings,” you utter, tone light and airy, your flower-sweet perfume lingering around you as you dip.
Your father introduces you, a beaming smile split across his face, both by name and a proud declaration, “my little dove, my pride and joy.”
Humour sparkles in Baelor’s eyes as he turns back to your father, settling onto a chair on his other side. “You have sons, do you not?”
Your father lets out an annoyed puff at the mention of his sons, then shakes his head as he sinks back into his own seat, Maekar settling with a grunt on the other side of his brother. “My sons are… spirited. My daughter, however, is perfect.”
Something like relatability crosses across Maekar’s face, the subtle hint of a smile as warmth grows in your chest. He’s put you on a pedestal with his praise, and now you can feel even more eyes on you as you settle back into your seat.
—✿—
Across the tiltyard, Aerion Targaryen watches you from the flap of his tent as servants and smiths attend to his intricately plated armour. His violet eyes trace the lines of your face from afar, the curves of your body beneath your dress and skirts as you sit, mostly obscured by the low walls of the raised pavilion. He watches the way you join politely into conversation with your father, his uncle and his father, and he can imagine that you’re saying all the right things. That pretty little mouth of yours would say all the right things, wouldn’t it? Would it plead and beg sweetly too?
“My prince,” some kind of servant says hesitantly as he approaches, cloaked in the colours of your noble House. “Your mount is ready.”
Aerion acknowledges him for the briefest of moments with a bored look, before his eyes find you once more. Your father and Baelor are laughing at something you’ve said, and you dip your head like the polite lady you are to hide most of your smile. He sees, too, the cute little wreath you are now toying with, and he realises, with something sick and sharp building in his gut, that it would look perfect around his lance.
With purpose, the prince strides away from his tent, finding his steed at the edge of the tiltyard. Servants help him into the saddle, before he’s securing his feet into the stirrups and urging his warhorse forward through the sawdust-thickened mud of the tourney grounds. Another knight, already arranged against him at the ruling of your father—“It is my tourney, in honour of my nameday, so I can do as I please,” the lord had announced—canters towards the pavilion.
Aerion pulls his horse to a stop as he watches with narrowed eyes as the knight—a knight from somewhere in the Reach, he thinks he remembers—requests your favour. Or at least, Aerion assumes he does, for he cannot hear anything over the angry rush of blood in his ears as jealousy rips raw through his chest.
You bow your head and rise to the edge of the pavilion, and gods, you look a dream—the material of your skirts flowing around you as you dip, the curve of your breasts and neck on full display as you slip your wreath onto the knight’s lance. Aerion faintly hears the roar of the crowd as the Reach knight says something to you that makes you beam, your smile splitting widely across your face as your father claps.
Then, the knight takes your hand in his and fucking kisses it. Plants a gentle kiss to the back of it before he’s turning his horse away with a triumphant smirk.
Aerion is seething. Anger boils hot inside him, and with an angry, too-hard thrust of his hips, he urges his horse towards the knight, and the pair meet in the middle of the field for a brief moment. Aerion’s eyes drop to the wreath around the knight’s lance, his jaw flexing, violet eyes flashing with an unbridled fury that has him wishing he could drive his lance through the other man’s throat.
Maybe he will.
“It seems the lady has given me her favour,” the Reach knight says with a sickening smile that makes Aerion want to punch him in the face. “Best of luck, for I intend to honour her virtue greatly and de-horse a dragon today.”
Aerion scoffs. “You impudent little rat. If I do not kill you today, I will slit your throat on the morrow for use of such words.”
The Reach nobleman does not look put-off in the slightest, which, admittedly, takes Aerion by surprise. The knight simply smiles and then pulls down his visor, cantering back to the edge of the tiltyard, leaving Aerion alone in the middle, swamped suddenly by the sounds of a jeering crowd of commonfolk. Anger burns in his veins as he turns with a curse, trotting back to where his squire awaits him, his lance primed and ready.
He’s going to kill that fucking knight. And then he’s going to have you.
—✿—
You watch the knights ready themselves as the trumpeting of bugles pierce the clamour of the crowd. Your fingers are crossed against your lap as you watch the young knight you had bestowed your favour on roll his shoulders and clutch his lance and shield, ready. Your father offers you a side-long glance.
“Are you happy now, my dear?”
You don’t turn your head to speak with him, eyes on the tiltyard. You can’t help the way they fall from your favoured knight to the opposing side, where the imposing Prince Aerion is being handed his shield and lance. “Happy may be too strong of a word.”
Your father chuckles. “Well, these men are certainly needy for your favour.”
You huff. “Yes, as you have said.”
“Yes, but I failed to mention,” your father begins, clearing his throat. “That when a needy man does not earn a lady’s favour, well…”
Your stomach squeezes tightly as you watch the dangerously beautiful face of Prince Aerion vanish behind his helm as he shuts his visor with a rough hand.
Your father shakes his head, chuckling again. “They become quite dangerous.”
With a blare of a horn and a surge of noise from the crowd, both knights take off galloping towards one another. You grip the arms of your chair, watching with your heart in your throat as they get closer and closer, lances poised, before they clash—wood chips flying, metal grinding on metal.
You gasp when Aerion forces his lance through the Reach knight’s shield, shattering it completely. The end of the other knight’s lance makes impact with Aerion’s shield, but the now-jagged tip of Aerion’s lance drives through a gap in his plated armour. You hear the Reach knight let out a sharp shout of pain as the lance drives into the flesh beneath his armpit, and he tips sideways off of his horse.
“What a charge!” Your father remarks to Baelor and Maekar, the three men watching, transfixed, as the Reach knight’s horse gallops away and Aerion whirls his around, hounding for a second run.
The black steed takes off again, and Aerion dips his lance low, much to the detest of the crowd, who jeer and curse and throw stones, as Aerion’s lance lands a decisive blow to the staggering nobleman’s armoured back. He is thrown forward into the mud, winded, piece of wood protruding from his side.
You raise a hand to your mouth as you watch Aerion dismount his horse, dragging the tip of his lance through the mud. He’s not stopping, you realise, as he stomps through the muck to kick the fallen knight onto his back. Then, tossing his lance aside, he brings two hands to his shield and slams the heavy base of it down atop the knight’s helm, the visor denting with the impact. Aerion brings the shield down again, and you find yourself shooting a hand out to grip onto your father’s.
Sensing your concern, your father nods to a man near the edge of the pavilion. The man quickly blows into his bugle, and relief washes over you as Aerion, body heaving, pulls away from the unmoving knight. However, terror quickly seizes you when the prince stalks a few feet away to pick the fallen knight’s shattered lance from the ground. He snatches the favour—your favour—from the broken lance and then lifts his visor.
His eyes find yours as he clutches your favour, bringing it to his chest as he stares up at you. The crowd shouts at him, but he ignores them. You can see the way he ignores them, eyes transfixed on you, the dainty garland engulfed by his hand, crushed in a vice-like grip.
You continue to hold onto your father, who angles his head to whisper to you, “See, my dear? Dangerous.”
—✿—
That evening, you successfully manage to avoid Aerion by locking yourself away in your chambers, informing your father that you feel unwell and intend to retire early. Of course, he knew you were lying, but noticing the dullness in your eyes and the unease that seemed to seep from your pores, he let you go with a kiss to your forehead. Now, as the sun sinks beyond the horizon, and your father and the visitors dine across the castle, you light the candles around your chambers until the room is bathed in a soft, golden light, shadows flickering against the wall. You calmed yourself with a bath, and now sit before the fireplace in your soft linen chemise, a book in your lap.
The flames light the pages well and warm the bare skin of your arms and legs.
The quiet is punctuated, however, by a sharp knock on your door. It is much too forceful to be one of your servants, and for the briefest of moments, you wonder if one of your guards has something to ask of you. You pad towards the door, standing just behind it as you unbolt it and open it a crack.
“Open up, little dove,” Aerion utters, and you yelp in fright as his strong fingers curl around the edge of the door and shove inwards.
You jump back, heart in your throat, as he enters your chambers, violet eyes alight and reflecting the flickering flames of the fire and surrounding candles.
He looks you up and down, the point of his tongue running along his bottom lip. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
You shake your head, hugging your arms around your body. The heat of his gaze burns through the thin material of your chemise, and despite the trepidation rooting deep in your gut, something warm gathers at the base of your womb, your nipples hardening.
“No,” you whisper. “No, my prince, I’ve just—”
“I won your favour,” he interrupts you quickly, stalking forward after slamming—and bolting—the door shut. “And you’ve been hiding from me.”
Some semblance of courage seizes you in that moment as you remember what your father had told you. You lift your chin a little as he crosses the room, predatory like a lion. Or perhaps a dragon.
“You did not win my favour,” you hiss at him, but you find yourself backing up in response to his movements. “You stole it. No proper knight would steal another’s favour.”
A dark smile splits across his serpentine features as he creeps closer to you. He wears his House colours, blacks and blood-reds, his tunic and doublet dark and fitting against his strong chest and lean torso. The pale skin of his hands and throat are a stark contrast.
“It was always supposed to be mine, little dove, whether you knew it then or not,” Aerion says, stopping only when your back hits one of the wooden posts of your canopy bed. “I simply saw an opportunity to take it back.”
You scoffed, but it came out more as a breathless sigh. “Knights do not—”
“No, they do not,” Aerion whispers, stepping forward once more to pin you to the post, his chest flush to yours. One of his hands seizes your chin, forcing you to look at him, and your hands fly out to rest against his forearm. You don’t push him away. He continues, “Knights earn, my sweet girl, but dragons take, don’t they?”
“I…” You can’t speak, your tongue heavy in your mouth as he maintains eye contact. Your body heats beneath your chemise, blood honey-thick in your veins as you attempt to form a sentence, but your words fail you.
“I am a prince of the realm, blood of the dragon,” he mutters, trailing a finger across your jaw, up along your cheek before cupping your face. The press of his rings are cold to your heated skin. Your lips part, a feather-light sigh escaping you. “And I will take whatever I want. Do you understand me?”
You find yourself nodding, the warmth of his body against yours pulling something tight in the base of your tummy. Your hands squeeze at his forearm, feeling the soft skin and the sparse blond hair there. No scales, no fire.
“So, from this moment forward, you will not grant your favour to anyone but me,” he tells you, hand back on your jaw. He grips you tightly, and a meek yelp leaves you, his hold bruising, the back of your head knocking lightly on the wooden post. “And if you do, I will sever the head of whomever is brash enough to seek your favour, and mount it to the post of your bed for you to look at whilst I fuck you. Do you understand, or shall I repeat myself?”
“I understand,” you say quickly, voice squeaky with both fear and the restriction of your jawbone. “I understand, my prince.”
Aerion approves, for his eyes flash brightly and a purr escapes his chest as he dips forward and presses his lips to the corner of your mouth. It is soft, tender, and he trails his mouth over the curve of your jaw and down onto the slope of your neck. His other hand rubs over your hip, and your breath hitches in your chest as his hand smooths down your front. It trails over the material covering your mound, before slinking beneath the short hem and brushing against the airy linen of your smallclothes.
The heat of his fingers and the gentleness of his touch has your hips bucking involuntarily, eyelids fluttering as he sucks at your pulse which thrums heavily in your jugular.
“I’ve heard whispers about the sweet little dove that nests within this castle’s walls,” Aerion breathes against you. The coarse pads of his fingers press against your clothed core and a quiet sigh is coaxed from your chest. “I never imagined she’d be such a good girl—such a good listener.”
He rubs two fingers back and forth over your clothed slit, the gusset of your smallclothes growing damp with your slick. The heat of your core against his fingers makes him groan into your neck, his sharp teeth skimming your sensitive skin as he sucks at the junction of your neck and shoulder.
You hold on to his forearm as it rocks with the movements of his hand, but you should be wrenching him away, cursing and screaming and begging for your guards to seize him, to haul him away for attempting to corrupt your virtue. But you don’t. Your brain is fuzzy, your heartbeat heavy in your core, nipples catching on the linen of your chemise and brushing against his doublet. You can’t believe how your fear has turned into lust as the Targaryen prince works two of his fingers against you, his lips suckling at your neck while he grips your jaw tightly still.
The hands you have on his forearm trail up, caressing the bare skin, then dancing across the sleeve of his tunic. He groans against you at your touch as you wind your fingers over his shoulder, then flatten across his chest, caressing his pectorals beneath the padded doublet. His mouth withdraws as he pants against the curve of your shoulder, one of your hands threading along the back of his neck, nails scraping through the short hair that grows at his nape. You grab a fistful, stroking his scalp, before tightening your fingers and tugging gently.
Aerion pulls back and growls, then slams his mouth to yours. The kiss is harsh, more teeth and tongue than anything you’ve ever experienced, his lips burning hot against yours. The fingers he pushes against your clothed slit dip against the fabric, pressing against the puffy bud of your clit, pinching before rubbing a heavy circle. It makes you stutter out a moan against his mouth, which he uses to curl his tongue against you deeper, sliding across your teeth. He tastes of wine and ash, and something metallic, the richness of blood on his snake-like tongue. A sound of deep pleasure, a loutish grunt from the back of his throat, knocks against your teeth as he kisses you, the hand he has on your jaw forcing you to be completely pliant beneath him.
Aerion pulls back after a long moment, pressing a wet, saliva-slick kiss to the corner of your mouth once more before speaking lowly into your ear, “Are you going to be good for me, little dove? Are you going to give me what I want?”
“Yes,” you whisper, pleasure a firm knot in the base of your belly already as he continues to slide his fingers back and forth against you, the fabric of your smallclothes soaked through, tacky against your folds.
The prince tuts at you, his fingers vanishing from your core. You whimper at the rush of cool air that hits you, but he quickly closes the space when he taps four fingers roughly against you—a measured smack against your covered cunt, which rips an embarrassingly loud moan from your chest, head falling back against the post.
“You are a lady,” Aerion chastises you whilst he acts more unlike a prince than any nobleman you’ve ever met. His palm cups your core now, soothing the dull ache caused by the smack. “Answer nicely.”
You pant, eyes watering as you meet his, lips swollen from the force of his kiss. “I–I’ll be good, my prince. I’ll be good for you.”
He smiles. “Of course you will.”
Then, his palm shifts, two fingers looping through the band of your smallclothes and tugging. The material all but tears as he pulls it down your legs with such aggression it makes your hips buck. Your slick cunt is bared to the tepid air of your room, the fireplace dwindling now, and you squeeze your thighs together as you kick your undergarments away. His other hand leaves your face to join his other in pulling your chemise over your head, tearing it away from you and tossing it across the room. It disappears into the shadows and you’re left bare before him.
He groans at the sight, eyes dropping to where he kicks your legs apart with his foot, trailing his hand over your mound and dipping into the silken wet heat of your folds. Fingers slide over your puffy clit, and he groans again at the way your body jolts against him. His other hand squeezes one of your breasts tightly beneath strong fingers, nipple crushed beneath his palm, making you moan.
“Oh, my poor girl, you’re soaked,” Aerion whispers, almost in disbelief, as he runs two fingers through your slit, gathering slick between your folds. “Pretty little pussy’s drooling for her prince, isn’t she?”
His middle and ring finger find your hole, slick and warm and too empty. You huff out something that sounds like his name, but the syllables are lost as the pads of his fingers trace circles around you. You lean your head back, baring your throat to him, allowing him to swoop down and attach his mouth to a soft patch along the column of your trachea. As he does this, he—with surprising restraint—works the blunt tips of his fingers past the entrance of your cunt. He pushes, and pushes still, until your silken walls open around the intrusion, the bump of his knuckles rubbing against your posterior wall, sending electric shocks into your womb.
“She’s taking me so well,” Aerion lifts his head to utter against your cheek, and he nearly smiles when he feels how hot you are there.
He curls his fingers and presses further until the top of his palm rests against you. Quickly, he retracts his fingers before plunging them back into you, and the wet squelch that fills the space between you makes you suck in a breath, ears ringing.
The prince hums darkly, kissing your cheek. “Oh, she’s mouthy too, is she? Pussy’s got something to say?”
He repeats the movements, the wet plap-plap-plap of his fingers rutting into you, and his palm hitting your wet folds, makes his cock twitch painfully in his breeches. You whine out, embarrassed, pleasure as heavy as an anvil in the base of your stomach, Valyrian steel threatening to sever the cord of tension that withheld your release.
“Please,” you find yourself begging as your hands grip his shoulders. The contrast of Aerion being completely clothed while you stand before him, naked with slick dribbling down your inner thighs, has a sort of drunkenness washing over you.
His other hand, kneading your breasts still, shoots up to slap a palm across your mouth as he works his fingers in and out, pace quick and unrelenting. He angles his head down to watch where his forearm flexes as he shoves his fingers into you—he pulls out, lines up to add a third, and then forces them in, and the stretch makes you yowl against his palm.
“Easy, little dove,” he utters, pulling his fingers away only to hike one of your legs around his hip, giving him a deeper angle to drive his fingers back into you. Three fingers stretch you open and curl deep inside you, pressing against the gummy spot inside that forces a tremor through you. You moan against his hand, breath coming in quick pants, eyelids fluttering as he fucks his fingers into your cunt.
The pace is animalistic, rushed. Aerion grunts as his arm works, the other gripping the lower portion of your face so he can listen to the way your pussy takes him. He can feel dribbles of slick running down his wrist, smearing across your inner thighs. Your walls clench him tightly as he nails the best spot inside you, and he marvels in the way your leg trembles against his hip, your nails digging into the thick material at his shoulders as he urges you towards release.
You say something against his palm, but it is muffled. He wrenches his hand away and finally looks at your face as you manage to puff out, “M’gonna… come…”
Aerion pulls his fingers from you, your pussy clenching around nothing. You curse loudly, and then moan his name, eyes springing open when he drops your leg. He hides his smile as he sinks to his knees before you, hands grasping the doughy flesh of your inner thighs to spread your legs. His head slots between them, and he exhales a forceful blow onto your soaked cunt. The air makes you keen, hand shooting out to grasp his hair.
“Gods, just look at her,” he voices from below you, hands moving across your thighs. His thumbs find your folds and he spreads you open for him, slick webbing between them. The feeling makes you whine—and then the feeling of his tongue, pointed and firm, curling into your hole has you whining even louder.
The narrow slope of his nose rubs perfectly against your puffy clit as he works his tongue inside you, curling between your walls, slick and warm. His hand is wet against you as he holds you open for him, a series of soft, dragon-like huffs suffocated in the heat of your pussy as his tongue coils inside you.
The stretched cord of your release is pulling taut in your abdomen once more, and you find yourself rocking your hips against his face in chase of it. Pursuing a hare through the long grass, adrenaline mounting, hound’s teeth closing in.
“My prince,” you whine, hips twitching. “Gods, I’m going to—ah—”
He hums against you and the cord in your lower belly snaps and splinters inside you. Your orgasm racks through you, pleasure white-hot in your chest and womb, spreading through your veins as your pussy clenches around his tongue. You moan his title loudly, pelvis stuttering against the rigid lines of his face as he works you through your release. Your hole spasms around his tongue, clit thrumming with your heartbeat.
He hums again when some of your release dribbles down from the corners of his mouth, running down his chin, and when he pulls away, a string connects his lips to you. It snaps when he runs his tongue over his lips, sitting back on his haunches to admire the glossiness of your pussy and the way your hole clenches around nothing.
“Pretty girl…” Aerion muses, leaning forward to press one last kiss to your clit before getting to his feet.
His cock is painfully hard, pressing against his breeches and the seam of his trousers. Grinding his hips against your pelvis, Aerion drags his hands up your sides, caressing you softly, before placing them either side of your face. He kisses you, lips slick atop yours. A sinful thrill runs up your spine as you taste the faint musk of yourself on his tongue, an earthy-sweet ichor that Aerion will fist himself to the memory of for months to come.
“Your favour is mine,” the prince says against you, before the warmth of his mouth disappears and he’s spinning you around. Still fully-clothed, he pushes his body against your back, keeping you warm. “You are mine.”
You suck in a breath as one of his hands brands you between the shoulder-blades, rings biting against the skin as he forces you to bend. You curl over the end of your bed until your chest presses flat to the sheets, your arse bare against the tent in his trousers. You breathe out an “o-oh fuuuck” as he grinds his clothed cock—the imprint thick against the cleft of your arse—in firm, teasing thrusts.
After quickly ripping his doublet from his body, suddenly too hot, Aerion keeps one hand to your upper back, pinning you to the bed while his other works in unfastening the ties and clasps of his trousers. He nudges your legs wider apart with his feet as his trousers loosen finally, and he can dip his hand into his breeches, shucking them down enough to fish his cock out. He hisses quietly behind you as he fists himself, tip red and ruddy, beads of precum wetting the slit. He chokes on a groan when one slips down his frenulum and along a prominent vein on the underside.
“Gods, little dove, what are you doing to me?” Aerion groans, angling his hips forward to drag the head of his cock down the split of your arse before tapping it against your pussy. He spreads your folds with the blood-flushed tip as you mewl out, incapable of giving him a properly-worded answer.
He chuckles at that, and you are surprised when he bends to press a line of kisses down your sweat-dampened spine. You arch for him as he tongues the dip at the base of your spine, teeth nipping at the skin.
“So good for me,” he breathes against you, and groans as he pulls back to stand a bit straighter.
Still grasping the base of his cock, he runs the head up and down your folds once more, pressing firmly to your clit—“there we go, this sweet girl gets a little kiss,” he says under his breath—before he lines up at your entrance. He says louder, “I deserve this, little dove. This is my prize.”
And then he’s thrusting into you in one deft movement. Your eyes roll, fingers gripping the sheets as you cry out, an echoing moan causing the flames of nearby candles to flicker. An animalistic growl tears from Aerion’s chest as he buries himself to the hilt inside you, the silken walls of your cunt moulding like clay around him. The ridges of his cock slide against you just right, and the prince grips your hip and glues you to him.
“Fuck, fuck, you’re so tight,” Aerion grits out, canines gnashing as he bites down the pleasure crawling up his diaphragm.
“Please,” you call out to him, cheek to the sheets, a tear slipping from the corner of your eye. “Please, my prince, please move.”
Aerion grunts, but doesn’t chastise your begging. Instead, he does what you ask of him, withdrawing until the head of his cock is just nestled inside you, before rutting back in. You whimper out a pathetically meek string of gasps—“ah–ah–ah,”—as he sets a pace, his hips smacking against your arse, the fat rippling. He grunts and groans, the sounds have your pussy tightening along with his movements.
He keeps you anchored to the bed. The hand between your shoulder blades is strong and unmoving, and the hand on your hip clenches around the softness there with a vice-like grip, forcing your arse back onto him as he moves. The pace is quick and rough, packed full of desperation as he stuffs your wet cunt over and over. His cock stretches you open, splits you apart, curls up towards the plug of your womb. Desperation is translated through the way his deep grunts end with the lightest lilt, a slight whimper at the end.
All men are needy when chasing the favour of a lady.
“Hgnh—fuck, come on, sweet girl, that’s it. Y-yeah, that’s it, stay just like that,” Aerion mutters, rambling as his eyelids droop low, sweat beading high on his forehead and at the hair on his temples.
You can’t do much but bend and take it, cock filling you perfectly, the angle driving him deep against a spongey spot inside you that punches whimper after whimper from your throat. He groans when your back arches further for him. “That’s my good girl, that’s my girl—pretty little dove taking my cock like a dirty fucking whore.”
You moan in response, clit pulsing and body starting to shake. You tremble against the sheets of your bed, pleasure building like the rush of water beneath your skin. Rising and rising, suffocating you as the head of his cock drives you closer and closer to release.
Aerion knows you’re close.
“I know, sweet girl, oh, I know,” he coos down at you, caressing your back as he plows into you from behind. The bed creaks with the force, the sheets bunching beneath you. “Let me feel you. Give me your favour, little dove.”
The ball of tension in your belly grows tighter and tighter as your body grows hotter and hotter. Small moans of his name fall from your lips. Not his title, but his name. He doesn’t reprimand you for it, too obsessed with your soaked cunt wrapped tight around his cock, but he’ll be sure to scold you later. For now, he maintains his pace, watching the way your hips bounce against his pelvis, sweat still building in a light sheen along your spine.
“Aerion.” Then, with a realm-shattering moan, you come around him, legs locking up tightly, fists clenching the sheets.
Your eyes snap shut as stars burst behind them, your second orgasm crashing over you. Your lower belly pulls taut, pussy clenching around his cock as the pleasure crests, and Aerion takes it with a groan of your name, pace faltering slightly as he pushes deeper into you.
You’re boneless against the bed now as the prince uses you, his cock twitching, thrusts becoming shallower. He’s rutting into you, humping the curve of your arse, cock barely leaving the drooling sheath of your cunt as his high rears like a hissing serpent inside him.
Knights earn, dragons take.
Aerion groans your name, collapsing half-way on top of you, the hand on your back moving to the side of your head to hold himself up as he grinds his cock into you.
“I’m going to spill inside of you,” he mumbles, tongue flicking out to wet his lips. “Yeah, m’going to fill you, little dove. Fill this pretty pussy with my seed. Every—uh, fuck—everyone’ll know who you belong to i-if you’re round with my babe.”
You whine, screwing your eyes shut, overstimulation leaking into your gut like molasses, but you know he’s not going to last. You can feel his cock jerking inside you with each sloppy thrust.
“Uh-uh, none of that, m’lady,” Aerion murmurs, words drawing together now: pussy-drunk. “You’re mine—your favour is mine. You belong to the dragon.”
Then, with one last growl of your name between clenched teeth, Aerion comes inside of you, release filling you in hot ropes as his cock twitches. He’s buried to the hilt, a wanton groan leaving his lips as the warm walls of your pussy milk him, take him. The heat that fills you, the sensation of growing full, makes you hum out a pleased moan.
Slowly, the prince pulls his softening cock out of you and wipes his shaft along your arse cheek. The stickiness makes you huff out at him, and he laughs as he tucks himself back into his breeches, drawing his trousers back up.
His seed leaks out of you as you attempt to pull yourself onto your bed, turning to lay on your back and watch as he retrieves his doublet from the floor and begins pulling it over his head. You didn’t expect aftercare, but the absence of his warm body against you makes your heart contract beneath your ribcage.
Aerion notices the brief expression of discontent that passes over your face. He rolls his eyes, smoothing his hands through his hair, clearing the strands that stick to his skin with sweat.
“I left your father’s feast for this,” he says, bending down and placing his arms either side of you. He cages you against the bed, nose brushing yours. “I will finish my meal and make your father happy, and then I will return and fuck you to sleep.”
The prince presses one last lingering kiss to your mouth, a surprisingly sweet gesture, before he retreats and heads for the door. He unbolts it and looks back over his shoulder, watching as you reach blindly for your chemise, limbs pleasure-lax, eyes tired. He sighs loudly, stalking back across the room and scooping your chemise from the floor. Pale fingers snap around your wrist and he pulls you into a sitting position.
“Arms up,” he orders, and you do as you’re told. He shoves the chemise roughly down your arms and then over your head. His fingers brush your softening nipples as he lays the fabric back over you. He shakes his head as you blink up at him like a doe. He grumbles, “Pathetic.”
But you’re sure he doesn’t really mean it, especially when he cups your cheek and caresses your cheekbone for a fleeting moment, before he’s heading back towards the door. He opens it and vanishes without a look back, closing it with a firm slam. But even with his abrupt exit, you can’t help but smile as you sink beneath your sheets, his seed and your slick leaking out between your thighs.
All men, no matter their strength or their status, are needy when chasing the favour of a lady.
———
is he obsessed with you? yes. is he going to give you aftercare after you gave his your favour to someone else? no. he’s moody like that smh
—summary: after a drunken night with you husband daeron, under the unknown gaze of valarr. the young prince's curiosity is sparked when he is made to go to the two people who may help him.
—warnings: MDNI 18+, FILTHHH /j, porn with some plot, semi targcest (like daeron watches and instructs valarr on what to do), reader and daeron are married, allusions to pregnancy, voyeurism/exhibitionism, p in v, unprotected sex (be safe yall wrap it b4 you tap it little ones are expensive), oral (fem!receiving), drunk!daeron and drunk!reader at the beginning who have sex while drunk, fingering, inexperienced!shy!valarr, handjob, i am a ‘valarr’s white hair streak is sensitive’ truther, but if I have forgotten anything lmk in comments!!
—notes: call yourselves kiera of tyrosh w the way ur moving. first ever smut piece kinda nervous, if this flops i will delete my whole blog /j. also kinda nerv posting this so uh if you do leave feedback be nice pls,,my inner whore sort of jumped out with this so enjoy.
—notes p2: part two will be dropped soon it's just this got too long and i thought it'd be better to break it up. it will be dropped probably on friday!
—word count: 5.1K
—requests are open! read this b4 sending an ask!
You both laughed wildly as you stumbled through the depths of Summerhall. Daeron drunken words lost on both of your ears as you made way into his study.
You both slipped away from the castle hours ago indulging in wine at an inn. The remnants of celebration on the arrival of his uncle and cousins.
“We have to be silent.” He whispered, bumping into you as you opened the door.
“I can be silent, can you?” You said a dopey smile resting on your face.
Not even a moment later Daeron had you sat on his desk with your dress hiked to your thighs.
His mouth and tongue worked wonders as he held your legs open. Lapping at your core as if it was the finest wine known to man.
Unbeknownst to you both, Valarr stood still face flushed red as he looked through the window.
He went to find Daeron in his study to continue their previous talk on princely duties. A rare heart to heart for the heirs.
Daeron’s study used to hold bedding ceremonies, but after some handsy drunk Lords and one crack in the door later. Or so story and history say. It was remodeled into a regular room, which later became his study.
Valarr’s eyes locked on your form as you whined loudly and grinded on his cousin's face. The whimpers and moans sending shocks through his body that he’s only heard stories of.
“Fuck Daeron.” You cursed giggling as he continued to lick wildly.
Your fingers weaved into his sandy blonde hair and pushed him closer. His fingers prodded your entrance already wet from his movements.
Valarr watched as you removed your straps from your shoulders. Your breasts bare to the world and nipples hard.
He couldn’t help the way his hand moved down towards his member. But nonetheless he shook his head and turned away.
This is unbecoming of a prince. They both don’t know you're here. He thought as a wave of embarrassment flowed through him.
Your eyes screwed shut, clenching onto Daeron’s fingers as they glided smoothly along your walls.
“You can let go.” He mumbled as he hit a spot all too familiar to his hands and cock.
With a shout of his name and a tug to his head you came all over his fingers shaking.
Valarr held his breath, his member straining in his pants. He listened as Daeron kissed you. One kiss turned to many.
He peeked around the corner as you stood up from the desk, red and black dress pooling to your feet. Your body bare for anyone to see.
Daeron walked towards the table beside the desk grabbing cups and wine that he left prior to your escape.
He handed you a cup and took a lazy sip of his own. He stood behind you moving your hair behind your shoulders.
He kissed at your exposed neck, droplets of wine making contact with your skin.
He hummed as he placed a hand on your waist and kissed your cheek. He used his hips to nudge you forward over the desk.
His hands ran along your skin before releasing himself from his breeches.
His tip kissed your entrance as a familiar feeling of fullness invaded your body.
A whisper of his name floated through the air as the silence in the room was taken over by the sound of skin on skin.
Although Valarr couldn’t fully see the effect they had on you. The way you gripped and clawed at the table told him everything he needed to know.
In no time your whispers became shouts while Daeron stilled, filling you with everything he’s got.
Heavy breaths filled the room as Daeron stepped back and sat down at his chair. You nestled yourself into his lap giving him a kiss.
“You think this will be it Dae?”
Daeron hummed a knowing glint in his eye. He grabbed the cup on his desk fully finishing the abandoned wine.
Valarr took a shaky breath, feeling himself pulse. He backed away from the door and window before going back to his bedchambers.
Well not before telling his guard to take an hour or two off.
The next morning you sat beside Daeron smiling at the array of food. The best cure for your late night festivities.
As you waited for Maekar to arrive everyone else had their plates readied and cups full.
The only person missing besides Maekar was Valarr.
When he did arrive he couldn’t bear to look anyone in the eye as if his transgressions were hanging above his head.
It wasn’t uncommon for a prince to witness such affairs. Hell he’s heard stories from other young lords and princes on their adventures to pleasure houses.
He’s only ever been to one but nothing much came from it. So his mind easily kept going back to last night.
The way your hand held Daeron’s head, the way you screamed.
Maekar arrived, allowing you all to eat and drink. Valarr sunk further into his seat, thanking the Gods he could just stuff his mouth with food instead of thoughts of you.
If only life were that easy.
“Valarr can you pass me the berries?” You said, the bowl just out of reach and right in front of him.
The young prince looked up for a moment. He stared at your awaiting hand before nodding and handed you the small bowl.
He stayed silent, opting to push around the food on his plate rather than eat it.
Any time he wished to speak he only directed it to the others at the table.
He was grateful his brother, Matarys, held most of the conversation at the table. His father and uncle indulged in the conversations of future parties and feasts in their honor.
You and Daeron however paid the world no mind as you sipped your wine and ate sausage and eggs.
Another thing Valarr was grateful for.
The days that followed preparations for the welcoming feast were underway. You and Daeron kept yourselves busy, fleeing the castle at night only to come back by dawn wasted and handsy.
Valarr however kept himself busy by either locking himself in his bedchambers or just staying quiet while everyone else filled space.
In a week's time the official Royal Welcoming feast began. Kicking off a full month of celebration.
The first week was feasts gathering the nobles and royals.
You sat at the head table alongside your husband and the rest of his family. The seat beside you was empty as Baelor and his sons were to be announced as guests. The other two empty chairs were beside Maekar and Aerion.
The doors to the great hall opened as a herald walked through.
“Presenting His Grace, and Heir to the Iron Throne, Prince Baelor Targaryen and his sons Princes Valarr and Matarys.”
The hall erupted in applause as the trio made their way to their seats. Matarys was quick to sit beside Aerion while Baelor sat next to Maekar.
Valarr’s face paled as he noticed the only other empty seat was next to someone whose breasts he saw not long ago.
“Are you alright Valarr?” You whispered as he sat down.
He gave a polite nod as the servants began placing cups and plates all around the hall.
“Perfect.” He said looking down at the silverware.
You furrowed a brow unconvinced. You’ve noticed his silence for the past few days. Originally you chalked it up to the long exhausting travels. But seeing as he spoke fine to his other cousins that did not seem to be the case.
You turned to Daeron. “Has something happened with Valarr?”
“Don’t know.” He shrugged his thoughts distractedly on the fresh lemon cakes in front of him.
You stared back at Valarr once more before Maekar announced for everyone to eat.
You’d speak to him later. After the feasts a show would be held, you’ll use it as your time to strike.
You walked around the various pavilions, Daeron on your arm. You spotted Valarr on the far end just moving with his guards.
“I’m going to speak with Valarr.” You whispered to Daeron who nodded.
You made your way over to the prince who stilled at your approach. His guards stepped back momentarily.
“May I speak with Prince Valarr?” You asked, your tone giving no room for rejection. He looked at you for a brief moment.
“Walk with me.” You asked, motioning to your surroundings.
Valarr knew he couldn’t deny your request, he had the reputation to uphold.
“Are you alright Valarr? Truly?” You asked as you both began to walk around.
“You seem in a daze as of late. I just want to make sure you don’t need to visit a maester or something.” You continued looking over to him.
His eyes stayed fixated on the ground as if he planned to intimidate it.
“Valarr whatever it is you can tell me. If it’s something personal I won’t tell your father.” You whispered.
He stopped for second only going a few steps before you. There’s no way he could say what’s affecting him, especially to your face.
“It is not something you’d understand.” He said, continuing his stride.
But you were quick to catch up.
“Then speak to Daeron. He may be mentally absent for the majority of conversations but when he breaks through it just a little bit he can give good advice.”
He cursed himself at your kindness. You only want what's best for him.
“I hope to catch him at one of those moments.” He said.
A smile crept onto your face as you nodded.
“I wish you well, Valarr.” You said as you walked away.
He stared up at the sky briefly.
“I know you all above have an issue with Targaryens please make it known now so I don’t suffer later.” He whispered.
By that night he was upset he was still alive. He held his wine close as he sat on a bench watching everyone dance and sing.
Each member of his family tried coaxing him to dance but each time he’d spot you or Daeron his heart felt like it’d stop. He didn’t want to turn this celebration into a funeral.
When he did happen to get up, a honey cake catching his eye, he knew he’d be doomed.
Daeron stood eyeing the array of desserts. His hands behind him as he looked around not sparing a glance anywhere but the trays.
Valarr turned around looking to make some form of escape but instead met your eyes across the room. You held your cup up looking between them.
Valarr felt your stare as he stepped next to Daeron. “May we speak cousin?”
“Did she speak to you too?” Daeron asked. “Would you care for some wine to make our little walk and talk easier?”
Valarr smiled and nodded.
Daeron and Valarr walked the perimeter of the pavilion, chalices in hand. Silence filled the air as each didn’t know how to begin the conversation.
But they knew they couldn’t go back in without saying something. They watched as you left the pavilion with a guard. No doubt proud of yourself for getting them to finally speak.
“When did you see your first woman?” Valarr spoke up first.
Daeron paused for a moment to think.
“Gods, ages ago. Four and ten maybe.” He answered.
“How about you?” Daeron asked.
Valarr stood silent making Daeron scoff in disbelief.
“Valarr no.” He whispered his eyes glowing with amusement.
“It’s not that I’ve never been with one, I have. Just we weren’t satisfied so it doesn’t count.” Valarr put his hands up defending himself.
“Not satisfying, what did you do?”
“I don’t remember, it’s been over a years time. Many things have happened since.”
Daeron shook his head. “So you’ve only been with one woman.”
Valarr nodded, feeling slight jealousy. It was no secret Daeron had his fair share of sexual relations prior to marriage. He heard the whispers around both Dragonstone and Kings Landing.
He wasn’t jealous in the traditional sense. As the firstborn son of the heir to the Iron Throne, he could have anyone he chooses. He was just not raised that way.
But seeing you both that day, you were a woman he couldn't choose stung him.
“How are you able to please a woman?” Valarr blurted out.
“I want to learn so in the future I am good to my wife beyond just titles and personality.” He continued.
Not even Valarr himself knew what he meant when he said that. Any woman would be glad to be with him, he’s heard it for years.
“And you thought to come to me?” Daeron took a sip of wine as they sat down at a bench at the far end of the celebration.
“I’ve heard stories cousin, of things you’ve done in pleasure houses prior to marriage. People talk of it sometimes.”
Daeron let out a light laugh looking over at the young prince. “What a reputation that proceeds me. First ‘The Drunken’ and now ‘Sex Fiend’.”
They both laughed this time.
Valarr took it as his moment to finally come clean. If he was to get genuine advice he had to tell him.
“The truth is Daeron, I saw you both.” He admitted as he took a long sip of his wine.
“Ah, accountability. I applaud it.”
“You aren’t upset?”
“Why should I be? I may not be the fiercest fighter or the most competent person to exist. But I am confident in my abilities to please, you’ve heard the stories.” Daeron gave the stunned man a wink.
Valarr nodded in agreement as there was nothing else for him to say.
“Look I cannot tell you directly how to pleasure a woman because no woman is the same. However I do know of one woman. Since you’ve seen what we have done already, why not take a chance.” Daeron was quick to say.
Valarr was taken aback at Daeron’s forwardness. He knew the wine loosened people’s speech but this was a whole different story.
“I’ll ask her and see what she says. If not, I'll tell you the best pleasure houses in all of Westeros.” He held Valarr’s shoulder looking at him motioning to the open air.
“But for now cousin, I take my leave and my head aches.” Daeron shook his head leaving the boy once again stunned into silence.
Valarr watched as Daeron left. If thoughts weren’t flowing through his head he would’ve thought he died.
You were already in bed when Daeron stumbled in.
His face was red and movements sluggish but his face held a grin that made you know how his night went.
“How was everything?” You asked
“Food was good. Wine even better.” He said stripping off his cloak.
“And your talk with Valarr?”
Daeron pointed his finger out to you and shook his head. “You would have never guessed it.”
You sat up waiting as your husband continued undressing. He flopped his body onto the bed next to you propping himself on his elbow.
“He saw us.” His eyes were playful as they were drunk.
“Saw us? Us doing what?”
“What married people do to make children.”
You blushed, placing your head into your hands. He was right, you never would have guessed it.
“And well he wanted to learn how to please a woman.” Daeron continued moving to rest his head on your lap. “I gave him an offer.”
“Which was?” You asked your hands lazily playing with his hair.
“We teach him how to please a woman. He’s already seen us.”
Your hand stilled as you looked down at him. “Are you sure?”
“Yes he did see us, he was as red as our house banner when he told me.”
“I mean are you sure you want to teach someone else how to please a woman, especially your wife?” You laughed, your nerves making themselves known.
“Targaryens have done nastier things in our history. I can’t have that poor boy out in the world with a miserable wife. That’s just itching for another war.” He grumbled, sleep already taking his eyes.
Even in his drunken stupor he did have a point. For centuries Targaryens had married off sibling to sibling, cousin to cousin, uncle to niece. This was surely no different.
You adjusted Daeron before laying back. Maybe the arrangement won't be so bad.
In the days that followed Valarr stayed waiting for an answer. He didn’t want to seem too eager and ask outright what it was.
You decided to take it upon yourself to give him the answer, not trusting Daeron to be tame with his words.
You spotted him at the drinks table. You stood next to him, opting to grab a cup and pour some cider.
He stood drinking his wine not bothering to look around.
“You know you have to look me in the eyes if we are to lie together Valarr.”
He smiled into his wine before turning to you. He couldn’t run now so might as well face the music.
“I’m sorry for what happened and what I saw.”
Always the polite Prince.
“It’s fine. Was it entertaining?” You asked.
He choked a little at your words, coughing as you let out a sly smile. His ears reddened.
“Whenever you are ready let Daeron know during the day, I’ll be ready by nightfall.” You bid him farewell and walked away in search of your husband.
The following day Daeron gave you the news that Valarr spoke to him. True to your word, by nightfall you were prepared.
You wore a silk dress waiting for your husband to arrive after supper.
It was no different than the typical chemise you’d wear to sleep. A simple deep red silk, an homage to your husband, and now his cousin.
Daeron walked in not long after you brushed your hair. Valarr followed behind him, arms behind his back.
His eyes held both nervousness and wonder as he looked around.
“Valarr.” You called out. He looked at you, eyes trailing your body.
You walked across the room holding out your hands to him, which he took.
“If you change your mind at any time, you can let us know and leave. We will never bring it up.” You said.
“We will act as if this has never happened.” Daeron said leaning on your vanity.
“I’ll keep it in mind.” He nodded.
He knew deep down he wouldn’t change his mind.
“Shall we begin then.” You said voice laced with a sweetness no dessert could compete with.
Valarr nodded a newfound shyness taking over his body.
Daeron walked behind you, his hand swiping your hair over your shoulder. Your neck exposed to the cool air of the room.
He placed soft kisses along the side looking at Valarr intently. He held his hand up beckoning him over.
Valarr obliged by coming face to face with him.
“Firstly you want to entertain her. Entice her before the big event.” Daeron spoke.
Valarr nodded, Daeron ran a finger along your neck making you shiver.
“This is a common spot. Try it.” Daeron instructed stepping back.
Valarr looked at you for a moment waiting for any glint of refusal. However you nodded, stepping closer.
“If you do it then suck a spot long enough you leave a mark.” You whispered.
The prince nodded as he placed his face in the crook of your neck.
Soft kisses in its stead. Following your advice he lightly nipped the section securing a gasp from your lips. You felt his smile before he suctioned his lips to the area.
Daeron’s footsteps echoed about the room as he walked around. He gave you a wink before grabbing a chair and sat. He raised his chalice before taking a sip.
A perfect seat for the show.
Valarr stepped forwards making you move back onto the desk. He removed his head from your neck, a smirk playing on his lips at the darkened piece of skin.
“Good job.” Daeron said with a small applause.
“Now put her on the desk.”
Valarr picked you up with ease placing you on the wooden desk.
“My love if you’d be so kind. Remove your straps, give the princeling something else to see.”
You rolled your eyes at your husband's words. But you did oblige, dropping the thin straps allowing the flowy silk to rest at your hips.
Daeron stood up and placed a hand on Valarr’s shoulder.
“This is the best part.” Daeron stepped forward hiking the bottom half of your dress to meet the top half. In one swift movement he took anything underneath off.
Letting your core meet the breeze in the room. Arousal already peeking through your folds.
He held up two fingers sticking them in between your lips. You dipped your head forwards until you reached his knuckles. A groan fell from his lips as you stared up into his eyes.
If he wasn’t teaching Valarr his tricks, he would’ve easily bent you over the desk or had you on your knees.
He pulled them out and went on his knees. Placing one leg over his shoulder, you moved the other giving Valarr a full view.
“First I’ll teach you with your fingers then we can move onto bigger things. Come here.” Daeron said, causing Valarr to sink to his knees beside him.
Daeron slid his wet fingers over your center using both to trail your slick around. You gasp feeling him circle your nub.
He pulled back, licking his fingers. He let out a hum before grabbing Valarr’s hand. Valarr’s gaze was intense as he looked between your wet folds and his hand.
“Do the same. The middle and ring will give you more of an advantage.” Daeron said, placing the hand on your mound.
Valarr’s movements were softer than Daeron’s. You held your breath as he mimicked his cousin's actions. Daeron grabbed Valarr’s wrist, making him stop.
He flipped his hand over, putting his palm into the exposed air. Daeron was gentle as he lifted the drenched digits.
“Place them inside. I’ll handle the rest.” He whispered moving them back in place.
Taking his word, Valarr slid his fingers into your awaiting entrance. A whine echoed through the room as his knuckles reached the bottom.
Daeron’s thumb made quick work as he circled your bud.
“Not all women can release just by having your fingers and cock in them. So we play with this to add to the pleasure.” He said moving his thumb quicker.
“Isn’t that right sweetheart?” He asked, placing a kiss on your inner thigh.
You nodded, sinking into the feelings. The feeling of Valarr’s cautious movements and the feeling of Daeron’s hasty ones.
“Fuck.” Valarr groaned as a ring of white began to appear at the base of his fingers.
Bucking your hips forwards you chased his fingers, eyes rolling back as he sped up his pace.
“Valarr.” Your voice was barely above a whisper.
If he wasn’t so attentive he would’ve missed it and he would’ve hated himself if he did.
He held his breath feeling you tighten on his fingers. The heat surrounding your slick gummy walls mixed with the clench made his head spin.
He could only imagine how it felt to be inside of you.
Another thing now he truly was jealous of Daeron for. The fact that that drunken mess of man has the pleasure of sinking into you whenever he pleases. Fill you whenever you want.
He mentally prayed to the Seven his future wife was eager for his touch because he will be eager to please.
“Wait.” You called out making the pair cease their movements.
“I need someone inside.” You said.
Valarr made a mental note to visit every Sept in Westeros to offer every fiber of his being as gratitude for the blessing they just gave.
“We are inside.” Daeron teased as he stood.
He used his free hand to nudge your head up giving you a heated kiss. Your tongues mold together with ease. You snaked your hand behind his head grabbing a handful of hair. You gave a quick tug breaking the moment.
“You first then him.” You smiled as Valarr pulled back.
He admired his fingers as they glistened in the light. The painful ache of his member finally breaking through his daze.
Daeron was first to adjust himself onto the silk sheets. He was quick to remove any piece of clothing that may slow his next moves. You were next grabbing his member, giving it a quick few tugs.
Valarr was last enamored as he watched you both get lost in each other's touch. He watched as you turned to face him, eyes filled with hunger.
His eyes trained to the spot where his fingers were just moments ago. His resolve faded as you sunk down onto Daeron’s cock, a moan spilling from all three of you.
“You did make good work of her cousin, I slid right in. Now I’ll make her all perfect for you.” Daeron choked out as he held you in place.
“Place your thumb where mine was before.” He said.
“While you do this I can please you if you’d like.” You smiled, eyes half closed.
Such politeness given the situation. Being between both men had your mind in a haze. The pleasure of it all etched on your face.
It was embarrassing how quick he nodded his head.
Valarr freed himself, his member greedy for attention beads of arousal making themselves known.
Your gentle hand reached out and spread them over his tip. The sensation making him close his eyes to savor this very moment.
Daeron rolled his hips up making you squeal and tug on Valarr.
“You should keep your eyes open. If you miss anything you may never get another chance to learn.” He teased as you continued your movements.
Valarr’s eyes fluttered open.
He looked to both you and Daeron, then down to where you connected. He was there to learn and although Daeron’s tone wasn’t sincere, what if there was some truth to it.
What if he’d never get a chance to do this again?
He watched as Daeron quickened his movements. Your hand slowed down as he bounced you up and down his length.
Valarr’s eyes stayed glued as his cousin pounded up into you. He didn’t care for his pleasure at the moment and placed his thumb on your nub. He quickened his pace making you twitch and moan.
“Valarr use her hand.” Daeron said, looking over at him.
“They way I move in her, do the same but with her hand.”
“If it helps I will also move.” You said as you squeezed the base.
As Daeron lifted you, so did your hand. As he pushed you down, Valarr thrusted his hips up.
The rhythm pulled loud whines from the Prince. The embodiment of someone proper reduced to complete filth.
His usual straight posture became the opposite as he curled into your touch.
Your moans embedded themselves into his brain as he humped your hand. His thumb halted as you grabbed his face.
Your eyes flickered to his lips, his eyes were glossed over as yours had tears. Leaning forward you pulled him into a heated kiss.
Moans and whines meshed together as your tongues and mouths moved in sync. Your free hand held his head close, not daring to break away. His own holding your face gently.
Your fingers weaved into his hair giving a harsh tug on the right side where his white streak laid.
His hips bucked forward as a shiver ran down his spine. You let out a small laugh as you pulled away.
Daeron’s grip on your hips grew tighter as his movements were becoming sloppy.
“At this stage Valarr, you’d want to rub her faster so she can–fuck–release with you.” He choked out, his voice strained as he tried to hold it together.
Valarr’s face was flushed as he took in the feel of the room. His cousin thrusting his hips up, a gorgeous woman with her hand wrapped around his cock.
His stomach tightened as he looked down at your core. The effect Daeron’s cock had on you was obvious as the moonlight hit the area clearly. He was drenched with your arousal, some of it running down onto the silk sheets as Daeron continued to move his hips quicker.
Quick moans and gasps filled the room as you leaned forward gripping the sheets.
Daeron stilled cursing loudly, pushing your body down fully onto him. Painting your inner walls white, some slipping out the sides as he lifted you just slightly.
The sight made Valarr follow close behind watching you shake and whimper as you came.
He could only imagine the feeling of you being wrapped around him. The only thing that could suffice this urge was the ropes of white coating your hand and body.
Heavy breathing filled the room as you three tried to catch your breaths. You leaned back into Daeron letting out a light laugh.
You all stayed silent for a moment soaking in what just happened.
Daeron was first to break the silence as he lifted you from him. His eyes glanced between you and Valarr. He smirked at your marked chest and torso.
“I believe we are ready for the next part of your lesson.”
spcncershybrid, 2026. I do not condone my work to be copied, fed into ai, or translated and do not claim it as your own, thank you. Feedback is welcome!
