@ferarum ○ 𝕤𝕠𝕘𝕟𝕒𝕣𝕖 𝕒𝕤𝕜𝕖𝕕 𝕡𝕙𝕠𝕓𝕠𝕤 ○
⤷ 『 ❛ push me up against the wall and do dirty things to me. ❜ 』
He laughed softly, dark eyes shining with mirth at her brave proclamation, his dear little sister, Poor shy thing that she was when she'd first come to the Isle cast out by her own family and taken in by his own father instead. The Sandman's own daughter. How delightful that she'd become this instead.
Naturally, Phobos had heeded his father's words despite their mutual disbelief that the Sandman would allow any child of his to be shipped off to the Isle just like that. They had taken her in, cultivated her while his father continued to work on his own projects. Magic may be impossible here, but some things were simply a part of you, and no magical barrier could take it. His father's power was of this kind.
Sure, there would be no NightMares galloping around the Isle, but the fear would always linger.
And now, the sweet innocent thing that Sognare had once been, his sweet little dream, had learned to bite back, to defend herself, and most importantly, to crave him. It had taken time to earn her fragile trust, to let her rely on him and eventually allow him to touch her but oh how it was all worth it.
Make sure she doesn't want to go back.
Well, he's pretty confident he succeeded.
“Oh my little dream~” He purred darkly, approaching her and step by step crowding her against the nearest wall of their hideout, delighting in the little start she made as her back hit the cool rock. “You want me so badly, don't you darling?” Slowly did his hands trail up her thighs, pulling up the hem of the dress she was wearing, grinning at the fact that, yes it was definitely shorter than it had been a few months ago.
His fingers brushed the edge of her underwear and he smirked openly, leaning in to pin her properly and claim her, lips crashing together before he trailed down to her neck where he could leave a few more nice and obvious love bites on her, high enough even a scarf would struggle to cover them. That kind of ownership was always fun to display after all.
She could do little but cling to him as his fingers continued questing, one hand continuing upward as the other lingered to tease her through the thin layer of fabric protecting her core. Calling it her modesty would hardly be apt for how often and how readily she let him at it. Today too, she would find herself taken as requested, as often as she liked.
The Isle was a prison, what more was there for him to do than partake of her?