For being such a dick sometimes, Katsuki Bakugo is a sweet lover. He's slow and gentle, peppering kisses over your face when you whine out at the stretch of his cock pushing against your hole. He rubs your calves when you kick your legs out at his hips, body instinctively trying to push the man responsible for its overwhelm away.
"Baby, it's okay. I promise it's okay. I'll go in, in one go, yeah? Maybe that'll help you out, minimize the feeling of something pushing." Always the problem solver, even when he's flushed a splotchy red all the way down to his ribs, big red eyes staring down at with such a look of arousal on his face it almost hurts to have it directed at you.
And he does push in, in one big push. Lets you adjust for a minute, because your back is arching, nails clawing at his shoulder, kicking your feet against the bed for something solid to set their soles against.
He coos at you, whispering soft little "did so good", "you feel so good around me", "I know it's a little much, but you're tough, yeah?", while he rubs his big hands across the tops of your thighs, leaning down to kiss at your chest. Once you're adjusted he's thrusting in and out, not hard but fast. Fast and gentle, doesn't give you a second to feel overwhelmed.
Even when your digging your nails into his shoulders and your legs are giving those little twitches, he knows it's not because it' 'too much', it's just because it feels good.
He knows this because you can't keep your mouth shut when he's in you, babbling on and on about how good he feels. "Feels- feels sooooo good, Katsu, so good. Love it so much, love your cock so much, feels so so good, please, please, please, please. I love you, I love you, I love you." You sob out that final 'I love you', shaking as you get closer, tears springing in the corner of your eyes as you try to push him away.
He's nailing that spongey spot inside you with every thrust and it's just so good, too good. The feeling of needing to cum is so sharp, an achey feeling in your stomach that has you crying.
"Oh, shhh, shhh, it's okay. You're okay. Don't run from it, you wanna cum don't you? Wanna feel good?" He waits until you nod to grip your hips, holding you down so you can't squirm away from his cock. He wipes away your tears, cups your splotchy red-patched cheek as you shake through your orgasm, hiccuping as you thrash.
He knows better than to pull out, but he also knows better than to keep going. So fine, he doesn't get to cum tonight, or atleast not in you or in the next 30 minutes. But it's fine, it's fine because you're sniffling now, looking up at him all sleepy with a little fucked-out smile and he's never loved anyone or anything more than he loves you.
when you and katsuki first started dating, it was important to learn information about each other at any time possible.. even in the shower. you get home from work, tired and in need of a steamy shower. when katsuki comes home, he joins you. slipping off his sweats and his intamites. he comes in grabbing your stomach from behind. he pushes his face into your wet hair exhaling deeply. “katsuki tell me something about yourself that would shock me”. “well..i cry over animals. literally anything. puppies, kittens, fucking injured squirrels. i will lose my shit. but don’t fucking tell anyone.”.. “ask me what video makes me cry the most. ask me katsuki.” .. “alright y/n what video makes you cry the most, and don’t give me some shitty romcom bull shit.” “i cry over this video of a giraffe that can’t jump rope since his neck is too long.”
…
“a fucking giraffe y/n? that’s so stupid.”
that was the first time you’ve ever heard katsuki’s genuine laugh. till this day you swear that shit came from his core.
Summary: You knew the rules when you agreed to become Titus Danforth's sugar baby.
He spoiled you, dressed you, paid for everything you could ever want. In return, all he ever asked was that you stayed.
But when one whispered conversation convinces you that you've been nothing more than a temporary distraction, you run away... only to discover Titus was never planning on letting you go.
Some men buy affection. Titus buys forever.🩵
Save your money—
And stop makin' me cry.
Put your lovin' where your mouth is...
Your sugar talkin' isn't working tonight.
💋 yes, this fic is inspired by Sugar Talking by Sabrina Carpenter !💋
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Warnings: Dark Romance, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Sugar Daddy/Sugar Baby Relationship, Dubious Consent, Possessive & Obsessive Male Lead, Kidnapping, Manipulation, Emotional Dependence, Power Imbalance, Explicit Sexual Content, Financial Manipulation Is His Love Language, BDSM Elements, Bondage (Silk Rope), Praise & Degradation, Daddy Kink, Oral (F Receiving), Rough Sex, Hair Pulling, Breast Slapping, Clitoral Slapping, Breath Play/Choking, Breeding Kink, Creampie, Pregnancy Talk, Dumbification, Body Possession Themes, Murder Mention, Psychological Manipulation, Reader Discretion Advised, The Safe Word Is Probably "Titus", Titus Danforth Needs Therapy (He'd Buy the Therapist)
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Author's Note: After teasing y'all for so long... I am FINALLY uploading a full Titus Danforth fanfic! This is the longest fic I've ever written (7k), and oh my God... so much blood, sweat, and tears went into her.
She's officially my baby.
While writing this, I kept thinking, "Christ... I'd fold so quick for him." LMAO. Like seriously... if evil, why hot? Explain that.
I tried to keep Titus semi-realistic to the movie, but c'mon, guys... he's a murder-ahh. 😭 The man barely had enough screen time for us to fully dissect his personality in the first place, so I had to fill in the blanks.
Canon or not... our Sugar Daddy Has Separation Anxiety. I won't be accepting criticism on that because, respectfully, he just does lolz.
As always, please read the warnings before diving in! And if you enjoy it, I'd absolutely love it if you'd leave a comment, like, or repost. (I'm not above begging when it comes to this fic. I'm attached to her, okay?)
I really hope y'all love this one as much as I do.
Love y'all 🩵
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...
The marble is cold beneath your bare feet.
You've been padding around Titus's house for three months now, and you still can't get used to how cold everything is. The floors, the walls, the air itself.
As if the whole place is designed to remind you that warmth is a privilege. Comfort is something granted here, not something you're entitled to.
You're heading toward the kitchen for coffee when you hear them: Two voices, drifting from the servant's corridor just off the main hallway.
You should stop. You know better than to eavesdrop on the staff.
Titus has made it clear that his business is his business—
"Curiosity is a dangerous thing in a house like this," he had warned.
But something in their tone makes you pause.
"—Can't believe he's actually going through with it..."
"Why not? It's been in the works for months. The Windsor girl is perfect for him. Old money, good breeding, knows how to keep her mouth shut."
Your heart stutters. You press yourself against the wall, just out of sight, pulse suddenly loud in your ears.
"What about the girl upstairs?" The first voice again, tinged with pity. "...The pretty one?"
A dismissive laugh, "What about her? You think Mr. Danforth keeps girls like that around for anything permanent? She's a distraction. A toy. When the wedding happens, she'll be gone."
The words hit you like a punch to the gut.
You can't breathe.
Wedding. Windsor's daughter.
She'll be gone.
The hallway tilts. You reach out, fingers brushing the granite wall to steady yourself, but it doesn't help. Nothing helps. The world has narrowed to those few sentences, playing on a loop in your head…
He's getting married.
Titus is getting married.
And you—
You're nothing. A distraction. A toy.
…
You remember the first time you met him— some charity gala you'd been dragged to by a friend. He'd approached with that predatory smile, all confidence and expensive cologne.
You'd looked right through him. Told him you weren't interested and walked away while he was mid-sentence.
You'd seen the flash in his eyes. Typically, men were angry when faced with rejection. But Titus was anything but typical.
He was fascinated.
Most women fell at his feet. You didn't even look back.
That's what started it. Your indifference, the refusal.
Every time he called, you didn't answer.
Every gift he sent, you returned.
Every invitation, you declined.
You had your own life, your own plans. And Titus Danforth? No matter how powerful, wealthy, or handsome— he wasn't part of them.
But he loved it. God, he loved it.
The chase thrilled him in a way possession never could. He'd show up at your work with coffee, at your apartment with flowers.
He'd corner you at events, voice low and amused, "Still playing hard to get, sweetheart?"
Like your resistance was a game. Like he knew—
Always knew how it would end.
And slowly, so slowly you didn't even notice, he wore you down. The gifts became more thoughtful, the attention grew more intoxicating. He remembered things you'd mentioned in passing. He made you laugh despite yourself.
He looked at you like you were the only person in the room. In the world.
Your refusal only made him want you more…
You remained strong and steady as long as you could. No, you wouldn’t fall for the charm… or the ridiculously deep pockets.
Until, to your dismay, you’d said yes.
One dinner. That's all it was supposed to be. It’s what you had told yourself. Just get it over it with, then he’ll move on…
But Titus Danforth doesn't do anything halfway. By the end of the night, his hand was on your thigh, his mouth at your ear, voice a dark promise,
"I always get what I want, sweetheart… and I want you..."
You'd surrendered. Let him take you home, let him take you to bed. Let him take everything.
And he did.
For three months, he consumed you. Made you his in every way that mattered. You moved into his house, wore his clothes, slept in his bed.
You became the thing he'd hunted- the prize he'd won
The chase was over.
Now you're just another trophy on his shelf. Used up and worn down. Ready to be replaced by someone appropriate, someone shiney and new.
Someone whose last name opens doors instead of closing them…
The thrill was in breaking you, in making you his.
But once you were? You became disposable, just another girl soon to be forgotten…
...
You should've known.
God, you should've known. Men like Titus Danforth don't fall in love with girls like you.
The servant’s voices fade as they move deeper into the corridor, but you're still frozen. Your back pressed against the wall, chest tight with something that feels awfully like drowning.
How long have you been lying to yourself?
Three months of silk sheets and whispered promises. Three months of his hands on your skin, his voice in your ear, raspy and sweet —
You're mine, sweetheart. Don't forget that.
But you're not, are you?
You never were.
You push off the wall, legs shaky as you stumble back toward the staircase. The house feels bigger now, emptier. Every polished surface, all the expensive piece of art lining the walls…
It all feels like a reminder of how little you belong here.
Your phone buzzes in the pocket of the silk robe you're wearing. His robe, technically.
Everything here is his.
You pull it out with trembling hands.
TITUS: Where are you?
Your stomach twists.
TITUS: Come back to bed.
You stare at the screen, vision blurring. Three months, and you thought you knew what this was. Thought you understood the rules.
But standing here, in his cold, perfect house, you realize you've been playing a game you were never going to win.
Another buzz.
TITUS: Sweetheart.
The word used to make me melt, now feeling like a leash. You don't respond.
Instead, you turn and head up the stairs, bare feet silent on the marble.
Your room- His room. The one he keeps you in, at the end of the hall. You push the door open and go straight for the closet, pulling out the small bag you brought with you when this whole thing started.
It all feels like a lifetime ago.
You're shoving clothes into the bag when your phone buzzes again. And again. And again.
You don't look. You can't.
If you look, you'll lose your nerve. Convince yourself that the servants were wrong. That there's some explanation, and Titus wouldn't do this to you.
But deep down, you know the truth.
Men like Titus Danforth don't explain themselves. No apologies, they only take what they want, and when they're done, they move on.
You were stupid enough to think you were different.
Not anymore.
The bag is packed in minutes. You pull on jeans, a sweater, shoes. Your own clothes. Not the designer things he's bought.
You need to feel like yourself again. You refuse to look, to feel like his.
No longer some kept bird in his gilded cage.
Your phone is vibrating nonstop now. You silence it.
...
The hallway is empty when you slip out of the room. You half-expect one of the servants to stop you, ask where you're going, but no one does.
Maybe they already know.
Maybe they've been waiting for this...
The front door feels impossibly far away.
Every step echoes in the cavernous entryway. You're sure someone's going to appear— expecting Titus is going to materialize out of nowhere and demand to know what you're doing.
But he doesn't.
You reach the door, your hand on the cold brass handle, and for a moment you hesitate. This is it. Once you walk out, there's no coming back.
He won't forgive this.
Men like Titus don't forgive disobedience.
...
Your phone buzzes one more time.
Pulling the door open, you step out into the morning air. It's the first time you've felt warm in months.
-----------------------------
That night, you go out. Old habits die hard.
The club is exactly what you need.
Dark, loud, and anonymous.
Bass thrums through the floor and into your chest, rattling your ribs with every beat. Bodies press together in the strobing lights, a mass of sweat, perfume, and reckless abandon.
You can barely see three feet in front of you.
That's perfect.
You don't want to see. Don't want to think.
Your phone has been ringing for hours.
You don't care.
The music is loud enough to drown it out. Loud enough to drown out the nonstop voices in your head whispering the same thing over and over—
You're nothing. A toy. Disposable.
"Here!" One of your old friends— Sarah, maybe? You haven't seen her since you moved into Titus's house— shoves a shot into your hand. Tequila.
You don't even taste it as it burns down your throat.
Another friend appears with a beer, then someone else with something bright blue and sweet. You let them. You take everything they offer. Any drink, every distraction they’re willing to give.
Tonight, you're not thinking about him. You're not going home to him. Tonight, you're free.
...
"Hey." The voice comes from your left. You turn to find a guy leaning against the bar.
Early twenties. Short, muscular. A patchy goatee that would've made you laugh a week ago. He's cute in a generic way. Safe— Forgettable—
Not your type at all. You like ‘em older. Dangerous. Men who know exactly what they want and take it without asking.
But tonight? Fuck it.
"Hey," you smile back, warm and easy.
He buys you drinks, flirts his way closer. His name is Chad or Brad or something equally bland.
He's charming enough. Compliments your smile, asks about your night, laughs at his own jokes. You nod along, sipping whatever he puts in your hand, letting the alcohol blur the edges of everything.
When he asks you to dance, you surprise yourself.
You say yes.
The dance floor is packed, bodies moving in rhythm to the pounding beat. Chad's hands find your hips immediately, pulling you back against him. He grinds against you, breath hot on your neck. You let him.
You move with him mechanically, your body going through the motions while your mind floats somewhere above it all.
This is what freedom feels like, right?
This is what you wanted.
Your eyes scan the crowd, unfocused and numb. The lights flash red, blue, then dark again. Bodies blur together, as the music plays on so loud, it silences every thought … that's good.
That's what you need.
...
Then you see him.
An older man on the balcony above, leaning against the railing. Dark suit, broad shoulders. The way he stands, commanding and still. Like he owns the entire room—
Your breath stops. No.
Your heart lurches into your throat. You freeze mid-movement, Chad still grinding against you oblivious. You stare up at the balcony, heart hammering so hard you can feel it in your teeth.
Is it him?
The man turns slightly, the light catches his face.
It's not Titus.
Relief floods through you so fast it makes you dizzy. You exhale shakily, hands trembling as you grip Chad's arms for balance.
But underneath the relief is something else. Something darker. Disappointment?
No. That's insane. You ran from him— you left. Why would you be disappointed that he's not here?
"You okay?" Chad's voice cuts through the music, concerned. He's stopped moving, his hands still grabbing tight on your waist.
You force brightness into your voice, a smile onto your lips. "I'm great!" The lie tastes bitter.
Chad seems satisfied, pulling you closer again, his mouth returning to your ear saying something you don't hear.
You move with him. Let him touch you.
Let the music swallow you whole.
But the freedom you ran for, the freedom you thought you wanted, feels like a cage.
There's a hunger deep inside you, rattling against your ribs. A need for warmth and protection. For hands that don't just touch but pin. Hands that restrain, claim and own.
For Titus.
No. You shake your head, trying to dislodge the thought. Let this be easy. Let this be fun.
You don't need that— you don't need him.
It's a lie. You know it is.
It’s written in your bones in the way your body aches for something Chad can't give you. It’s in your eyes that keep drifting back to the balcony, searching for a man who isn't there…
You wanted freedom, but all you feel is empty.
-----------------------------
You don't remember leaving the club.
One moment you're on the dance floor, Chad's hands sliding lower on your hips, breath hot and beer—soaked against your neck.
The next, you're shoving him away. Too hard, it’s too sudden. His face twists in confusion, maybe offense, but you're already moving, stumbling forward.
The room tilts sideways as you push through the crowd, bodies pressing in from all sides. It feels suffocating. Sweat slicked down your back, skin brushing with skin.
Too grabby… Too much.
Not warm. Not strong.
Not him.
...
Fuck.
The night air hits you like a slap when you finally burst through the club's doors, perfectly cold and sobering
You sway on your feet, the world spinning lazy circles around you. Swaying too much, you have to grab the brick wall to steady yourself. Your phone is somewhere in your purse— dead probably.
You fumbled with the Uber app ten minutes ago at the bar and ordered a car that's supposedly seven minutes away.
Seven minutes. You can do seven minutes.
You sink down onto the curb, legs folding beneath you in a graceless heap. The concrete is cold and gritty under your thighs, but you don't care.
You dig through your purse with clumsy fingers until you find the pack of cigarettes you bought on a whim weeks ago.
Titus hates when you smoke—says it's a filthy habit.
Says you're too pretty to ruin yourself like that.
Good.
You pull one out, stick it between your lips, flick the lighter once, twice— your hands are shaking too much. On the third try, it catches.
You inhale deep, letting the smoke fill your lungs, and burn your throat. The sensation familiar.
It doesn't help. Nothing helps.
You're still empty…still aching.
Still—
The car.
You see it before you process it fully. Black and sleek, idling at the curb maybe twenty feet away. The engine purring low and predatory.
The windows are tinted so dark you can't see inside, but you don't need to. You know that car.
Your stomach drops. No.
The cigarette falls from your fingers, forgotten. You stand too fast, the world tilting dangerously. You turn to walk the opposite direction. Your legs feel like water, heels catching on the pavement.
You don't care, you just need to move—
"Sweetheart."
The voice stops you cold.
It comes from behind you, deep and smooth. Laced with something that makes your spine lock up and you freeze.
"Where have you been? Hmm?"
You turn slowly. He's standing there.
Titus.
Tall and broad-shouldered in a dark suit that probably costs more than most people make in a year. His hands are in his pockets, posture relaxed, as if he's got all the time in the world…
Like he didn't just track you down in the middle of the night, as if this is normal.
Your mouth opens, then closes. Opens again.
"Titus—"
"Shh... shhh." He takes a step closer, you take one back on instinct. His eyes track the movement, a flicker of amusement crossing his face.
"That's no way to greet your daddy, is it? Hmm?"
The word daddy sends a shiver down your spine that you hate yourself for.
You're drunk, angry…
You're terrified.
But your body doesn't care. Your body still remembers what that word means. What it brings.
You force steel into your voice. "Fuck you."
For a moment, he just looks at you. Then he smiles— slow and indulgent. Treating you like a disobedient child.
"That's cute." the smile fades. He tilts his head, a small nod toward the car. When he speaks again, his voice isn't commanding, just knowing, like he's already seen how this ends.
"Get in the car."
Your heart is pounding so hard you can feel it rattling against your ribs. "No."
The word comes out stronger than you expected.
Titus raises an eyebrow, and then chuckles. It's the funniest joke he's heard all week.
"No?" He takes another step closer. "You wanna play rough tonight, huh? That what you want?"
"Titus, I don't want to play anything." your voice cracks, but you push through it. "I told you to fuck off." You step back now, trying to create distance.
His smile widens, something manic in it now, unhinged that makes your stomach twist.
"Yeah, okay, baby—“
You turn and start walking before he can finish, fast. Your heels click against the pavement, too loud in the quiet street. You don't know where you're going.
You just know you need to move. Need to get away from him, from that car. From the way his presence makes your entire body hum with want and fear in equal measure.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you."
His voice is closer now. Fuck.
"Fuck off," you throw over your shoulder, now walking faster, internally begging your body to cooperate and fight the alcohol confusing your nervous system. .
"So tough, huh?"
He's gaining on you. You can hear his footsteps, steady. Unhurried— he's not even trying. He knows he'll catch you. He always catches you.
Your steps quicken. Your breath comes in short, panicked gasps. The street is empty. No one around. Just you and him, and the sound of your heels on concrete and—
His arm wraps around your waist from behind.
Decisive— Inescapable—
"No-"
You thrash, but he's already lifting and turning you. Suddenly you see the car door open. A servant, blank-faced and efficient, holding it wide. You're pulled inside before you can scream or think. Then Titus is in with you. The door slams shut, the car is already moving.
"LET GO— LET GO OF ME!"
You're kicking, clawing, but his grip is iron.
He maneuvers you into the seat with terrifying ease, one hand pinning your wrists, the other braced against your hip.
"Baby, please—" His voice almost gentle. "Stop resisting. I know you don't want to fight it."
The car speeds away, city lights blurring past the tinted windows. You're trapped. You're his.
And the worst part?
Some dark, traitorous part of you is relieved. You whine, a sound caught between protest and something else entirely. You twist against his hold, your body still thrashing even as your muscles betray you, going soft where they should stay rigid.
Part of you is screaming to fight harder, to claw your way out of this car. Out of his grip.
But another part… the one aching for him, melts into his chest. You hate yourself for it. You hate that your body knows exactly what it wants, even when your mind is still trying to convince itself otherwise.
...
"You're supposed to be MARRIED." The words rip out of you before you can stop them. You're still breathing hard, wrists aching where he had held them. Body still pressed back against the plush leather seat.
Titus has let you go now, but he's still close. Too close. His presence fills the entire car.
He goes still.
Completely, utterly still.
"And why is that?" His voice is soft, with danger playing in it .
"I heard the servants talking." You're shaking now. From anger, fom fear, from all the alcohol still sloshing through your system. "You're supposed to be married to Windsor's daughter- don't give me that shit."
His eyes narrow.
For a long moment, he just looks at you. Then he shakes his head, slowly. He’s disappointed.
"Poor girl." His voice is almost pitying. "For someone so brave, you're acting real stupid."
"Fuck you—“
"Careful." The word cracks through the car like a whip, violent and loud. You flinch. His expression shifts, no longer amused by your antics. The patience gone.
Now, replaced by cold, hard authority.
"I let a few of those slide." His voice drops, lethal. "No more."
You're breathing too fast, your chest tight. But you can't stop. "I don't want you, Titus." The words taste like ash. "Go get fucking married."
For a moment, there's silence…. then he laughs.
Soft at first, then louder. Now cackling, head thrown back, shoulders shaking. It's the laugh of a man unhinged— a man who's lost his mind—
"What's so goddamn funny?"
He wipes his eyes, still chuckling, and leans forward. His face now inches from yours, a cruel smile grows,
"What's funny," he says slowly, "is that you think I'd let anyone tell me what to do."
Your breath catches.
"The Windsor clan is dead." His voice casual. "I made sure of it."
Silence.
The words don't make sense. They can't.
You stare at him, mind scrambling to process— "What—"
"It was none of your fucking business anyway." he leans back, crossing his arms, "But now you know. Windsor clan is dead. No daughter to marry, sweetheart."
He chuckles again, shaking his head. "What a ridiculous idea. That's what had you running, huh?"
You can't speak. Can't breathe. Dead…
He didn’t say it explicitly say it, but you knew. He killed them— killed an entire family because— because what?
Because they tried to arrange a marriage? Because they thought they could control him?
"Yeah," he nods, watching your face. "Guess it was."
The silence stretches.
Then his expression shifts, teeth clenching.
"So what?" his tone biting, "You go grind on some filthy man for a few hours? Ignore my texts? Leave me? What's all that for, huh?"
You shake your head, tears welling in your eyes
Fuck
Don't cry— don't cry.
"Ah, poor baby—" his voice softens, mocking,"The bad old man hurt your feelings, huh?"
"Fuck. You." It comes out broken and cracked. Your voice barely a whisper.
He goes still again… he sees it now.
How shaken you are, close to shattering. But, he can't ignore the disobedience. He won't.
A knowing smile grows on his face.
"Tell you what," voice eerily calm. "You get in the house. Go upstairs. Strip. Wait for me. And I'll let that slide."
You want to resist, want to fight back, want to tell him to go to hell. But nothing comes, your silence answer enough.
"Good." he nods, satisfied. "Don't wanna be harder than I have to, sweetheart... I'm a busy man. Don't make this difficult."
Don't say it. Don't—
The words fly out before you can stop them.
"I hate you."
...
The mans eyes narrow. His smile doesn't falter, if anything, it widens.
"So that's how it's going to be?"
-----------------------------
You're sitting on the edge of his bed when he enters.
Still dressed despite him in that dress. The short one that clings to every curve and leaves nothing to the imagination.
The one you bought with your own money because fuck him and his rules. Fuck his carefully curated wardrobe of things he deemed acceptable for you to wear.
You didn't strip like he told you to— refusing to give him the satisfaction.
The door opens slowly. He steps inside and closes it behind him with a soft click that makes your stomach drop. His eyes find you immediately, sweeping over you, lingering on the dress.
His jaw tightens. He crosses the room in three strides.
Before you can react, his fingers are at the hem. Pulling at the fabric, lifting it slightly. Inspecting it like it's evidence in a trial.
"So you wore this one out, huh?" His voice is low, edging on dangerous.
You swallow hard but don't look away. "Yeah. I did."
He tugs the fabric again, harder this time. You feel the dress ride up your thighs. His eyes threatening you just with his gaze.
"I didn't buy you this one." his words an accusatory.
You lift your chin, defiant despite the tremor in your hands. "No. I did. I can buy my own shit."
For a moment, he just stares at you. Then a smile creeps on his face. You’re horrified. That smile… the smile of a man who's just been handed another reason to break you.
"Still fighting, huh?"
He releases the dress and steps back, turning toward the mini bar in the corner of the room. His movements are unhurried. He has all the time in the world…
Like you're not sitting there with your heart hammering in your chest, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
He pours himself a drink— Whiskey, neat— takes a slow sip with his back to you. The silence stretches. You watch the line of his shoulders; how his hand grips the glass, controlled precision of every movement.
Finally, he turns, leaning against the bar, as he takes another sip. His eyes lock onto yours, the weight of his gaze making it hard to breathe.
"You're gonna regret that if you keep it up..." his voice soft, almost gentle. But there's nothing gentle about the promise in his words.
"I don't need you, Titus." your voice comes out quieter than you intended., "I can take care of myself..."
The words hang in the air between you.
He huffs a laugh, "Can you?" He takes another sip of whiskey, his eyes never leaving yours. "Is that what tonight was? Taking care of yourself?"
…
Yes. No.
You don't know really.
Your jaw tightens. "Yes." you decided.
"Hmm." He pushes off the bar, moving closer. His presence too far, yet close enough to make you feel small. "So grinding on some nobody in a club—that's you taking care of yourself?— Getting drunk off cheap shots your ‘friends’ bought you? Wearing a dress that screams 'desperate'?"
"Fuck you."
"There she is." His smile widens, satisfaction etched on his face. "There's that fire. Where was all this backbone when you were running away, huh? When you were ignoring my calls like a scared little girl?"
"I wasn't scared—“
"Bullshit." His voice cuts through yours like a blade. "You were terrified. Still are. That's why you're sitting here in that pathetic excuse for a dress, trying to convince yourself you don't need me."
Your hands curl into fists on your thighs. "I don't."
"Then leave." The words leaving him quick. He gestures toward the door, completely detached.
"Go on. Walk out. I'd like to see you do it. See you try..." he chuckles, entertained by the thought, "Go buy your own shit. Grind on whoever the fuck you want."
He tilts his head, watching you. "What's stopping you? Now that I've given you my permission... Precious freedom."
You open your mouth… nothing comes out.
Because you can't. You both know you can't.
"That's what I thought." He takes another step closer. "You don't want to take care of yourself, sweetheart. You want me to do it. You want me to tell you what to wear, where to go, who to fucking talk to. You want me to own you."
"That's not—"
"It is." His voice drops low and vicious. "And the worst part? You hate that you want it. You hate that you need me. That's what tonight was really about, wasn't it? Punishing yourself for needing me."
You can't find it in yourself to reply. To meet his eyes, To breathe.
"I won, baby. I played the game perfectly, and you fell right into my hands. My prize is you. I have you. Completely."
He leans closer, voice dropping to something almost tender, almost loving— "So why do you keep fighting what we both know you love?"
Your throat tightens, your vision blurring. "Stop."
"Why? Because I'm right?"
A tear slips down your cheek before you can stop it.
He sees it.
His expression shifts just slightly, the cruelty softens. Anger that had been coiled tight in his shoulders releases. For a moment, he just watches you. Studies the tear tracking down your face like it's the most important thing in the world.
He sets the glass down slowly, the movement painstakingly controlled. His eyes never leave yours.
Then he's crossing the room slow. Each step making your heart thud faster. Fuck. This is it.
He stands above you, assessing. Before you can react, he's kneeling in front of you, the sight alone steals your breath.
Titus Danforth on his knees. For you.
His hands find your thighs. The grasp warm and familiar, rubbing slow circles up and down over the fabric of that dress. It’s grounding and claiming all over again.
"What can I do, baby, hm?" his voice has shifted entirely. Soft now, coaxing. "Trip to Morocco? Want another credit card?"
"No—" The word comes out broken. You hate how fragile you sound.
His eyes study you with extreme focus. A flicker of desperation behind his cold exterior.
"Come on, let me take care of you." his voice drops lower, almost pleading. Though you know Titus Danforth doesn't plead for anyone.
His eyes travel across your face, scanning every microexpression. Every breath you take.
That's when you see it.
The panic settling on his face.
Not the panic of a man losing control, but something raw, something that terrifies him. His dark eyes search yours with an intensity that borders on desperation.
You realize he's not afraid of losing you.
He's afraid of your pain.
Of the tears. Of the fact that he can't simply buy your happiness back into existence. It's a vulnerability that shouldn't exist in someone like him, yet there it is.
The obsession manifesting as a need to fix you,
To make the hurt disappear,
To be the only thing that matters enough to stop your crying.
...
"Let me fix it up for you, huh? What?... what do you need?" The question hangs between you, loaded with a promise of something deeper than material value. He's not offering money anymore.
He's offering himself.
The only thing that's ever made you feel whole.
His hands still for a moment, then continue their slow, deliberate path. Up… Down…. The heat of his palms seeping through the thin fabric, warming you from the outside in.
He tilts his head, studying you like you're the most fascinating thing he's ever seen.
"No, you're right..." a slow smile curves his lips, dangerous and knowing. "I think I know what you need."
Before you can respond, his hands are pushing the dress up your thighs, spreading your legs. His eyes go dark as he settles between them, shoulders forcing you wider.
His fingers trace the edge of your panties. Lace, delicate, and soaked through. He hooks his fingers in the waistband, with a touch feather-light, and pauses. His gaze lifts to yours, holding you captive.
"You want me quiet, huh?" His voice is low. Teasing, "You want my mouth here instead?"
Your breath catches. You can't speak, only nod.
He smiles, satisfied. You've just given him exactly what he wanted.
He begins pulling the lacy fabric down inch by inch. Torturously slow. His knuckles brush against your skin as he slides them down your thighs, over your knees, now past your ankles.
He tosses them aside without looking, his attention fixed entirely on you.
Then his hands are back on you. Warm palms sliding up the inside of your calves, your knees. Spreading you wider.
He leans in— the first kiss lands on the inside of your knee softly, then another, higher. And another.
His lips trailing up the sensitive skin of your inner thigh with agonizing patience. Each kiss a promise. Each touch making your heart race faster, your head dizzy.
"So soft," he murmurs against your skin. "So fucking perfect... All mine."
Your fingers twist in the sheets beneath you. Your hips shift, seeking more, but he takes his time. Kissing and tasting.
Building the anticipation until you're trembling beneath him, thighs shaking with the effort of staying still.
When his breath finally ghosts over your core, you whimper. "Titus—"
"Shh."
"P-please."
His mouth is on you before you can finish the thought. Hot and demanding, his tongue dragging through your folds with obscene precision.
You gasp, your hands flying to his hair. Fingers tangling in the dark strands tugging. He groans against you, a sound of pure ecstasy vibrating through your entire body.
"My poor girl," he murmurs between strokes of his tongue, voice dripping with condescension. "Just needed her pussy touched, huh? Need me to make you better?"
Can't answer. Can't think. Can't do anything but feel.
His mouth is relentless, sucking your clit with just enough pressure to make your thighs shake, then soothing it with his tongue. The rhythm is maddening.
"You know I take care of my girl. Always will. Just stay right here for me..." His hands grip your hips, holding you in place as you try to squirm away from the intensity.
There's nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide from the pleasure he's forcing on you.
"That's it, baby… Let me take care of you."
The pity in his voice should make you angry.
Should make you push him away. But instead, it makes you wetter. Makes you grind against his face as he devours you like a man starved.
When you come, it's with a broken cry that echoes through the room. Your body shaking, fingers twisted in his hair, holding him against you as wave after wave crashes through you.
He doesn't stop.
Not until you're whimpering. Not until you're begging.
He wants you boneless and trembling in his hold. Completely undone.
Then he pulls back, his mouth glistening. The look of pure possession in his eye.
...
"Now, on the bed." the command is soft, yet irrefutable. You obey without thinking, crawling backward onto the silk sheets.
Here you are again, listening to a man who will never keep you. Fuck
He stands, unbuckling his belt with slow, deliberate movements. Transfixed as he watches you sprawled across his bed.
When he's finally naked, he climbs over you. The sight steals your breath. His body is a masterpiece of controlled power. Strong shoulders tapering to a carved abdomen, muscles defined and dangerous. Scars mapping his chest and ribs, each one a story of violence you'll never fully know.
His skin is warm, radiating heat as he settles over you, caging you beneath him.
"You're mine," he says, his voice low and absolute. "I'd never marry someone else. You understand me?"
You nod, breathlessly. There’s still some uncertainty toying with your mind.
He catches it; the flicker of doubt in your eyes.
"You don't believe me?" his jaw tightens.
Your mind searching for response, but the words die in your throat before they can take shape.
"Answer me." His voice rough and strained, as if the words hurt him to say. Your doubt cutting deeper than he wants to admit.
Tears well in your eyes. You hate it.
Hate that he can see you like this.
His expression softens slightly. He leans closer, his forehead nearly touching yours. When he speaks again, his voice is barely above a whisper.
"You're going to know it." A vow he carries with him always. "I'm going to make you know it. You won't ever doubt it again. Got it?"
Your heart hammers against your ribs. You nod, not trusting your voice.
"Now who do you belong to?"
Your lips part, trying to form the words, but they come out barely audible, "Y-you..."
"Say it."
"I'm yours."
"Good girl."
Then he reaches over to the nightstand drawer. The movement so practiced, your breath catches.
You already knew what he was doing.
He pulls out the rope. The same black silk rope that has held you still in his grasp time after time
"Can't have you running again," he murmurs, his voice almost conversational as he takes your wrist in his hand. His touch is gentle as he wraps the rope around it, looping it with precision.
Each knot is tied with the expertise of someone who's done this before. Who's planned this.
"Need you right here. Need you still for me."
He secures your other wrist, pulling both arms up above your head, tying them to the headboard. The rope is snug but not painful.
He knows exactly how tight to make it. Knows the difference between restraint and harm.
"There," he says, leaning back to admire his work. His eyes trace the line of your body, bound and waiting for him. "Perfect. Now you can't go anywhere. Now you're exactly where you belong."
Your stomach flips as you test the restraints. They don't give. You're completely at his mercy.
And God help you, you want to be.
He crawls back on top of you, settling his weight over you. His eyes are dark, pupils blown. They rake over your face with an intensity that makes your breath catch— no softness now.
Only the look of a man who owns what he's looking at. Possession.
"Now," he says voice low. His hand comes up to your jaw, lifting your chin up to meet his eyes.
"Now you're gonna pay for that smart mouth, yeah?"
The words are a promise and a threat wrapped into one. His thumb traces your lower lip, and there's something almost tender about the gesture.
You nod softly.
A smile grows on his face. "Good. No more fight in you, huh?"
He shifts his weight, spreading your legs wider with his knee, positioning himself between your thighs. His cock runs against your entrance, a deliberately torturous drag, making you shudder.
"And you're gonna take every fucking inch of me. Understood?" His voice is a low growl against your ear. No room for negotiation.
Then he's pushing inside you, one brutal thrust that splits you open. The stretch is immediate, overwhelming, stealing the air from your lungs.
You cry out, your bound hands jerking against the restraints. "Titus— wait—"
"No." His voice is iron. "You don't get to run anymore."
He doesn't give you time to adjust, doesn't ease the burn, just pulls back and slams into you again, setting a punishing rhythm that makes your vision blur.
Each thrust drives deeper, harder, like he's trying to fuck the defiance out of you.
His hand comes down on your breast. A sharp, stinging crack that makes you gasp. The pain blooming hot across your skin.
"This what you needed?" His hips drive forward, another brutal thrust, impossibly deeper.
Then his hand finds your core, fingers splayed against your clit before he delivers another sharp slap. The pain hot and electric.
"Needed to be reminded who you belong to?"
"Titus— fuck—"
"That's right." Another brutal thrust. "Say my name. Let me hear it."
"Titus—" Your voice breaks on a moan as he’s hitting that sensitive spot inside you. The one that makes your vision blur and your muscles spasm.
"Good girl." His hand wraps around your throat, not gently. He squeezes, your airway narrows. Your pulse hammers against his palm, frantic and desperate.
"Just needed some sense fucked into you, huh?"
You try to nod, but his grip tightens. Your bound hands jerk against the restraints,
Instinct screaming at you to fight, to pull away.
But he doesn't let go. Just keeps fucking you, keeps choking you. His eyes locked on yours with an intensity almost frightening.
"That's alright, baby." His voice is soft now, but his hand doesn't loosen. "Just take it. Don't need to think no more."
Your vision starts to blur at the edges, body caught between panic and pleasure. Between the need for air and the need for him.
He loosens his grip just enough, lets you gasp in a desperate breath, then tightens again. "Just be mine." voice demanding. The words break you.
Your orgasm crashes through you without warning. Violent and all-consuming. You clench around him, your body shaking, nails digging into your own palms as you come harder than you ever have.
The lack of oxygen makes everything sharper, brighter, more intense.
"Fuck—that's it." he groans. "That's my good girl. Coming on my cock like you were made for it."
He doesn't stop, just keeps pounding into you, hand still wrapped tight around your throat. Controlling your air. Controlling you.
The praise spills from his lips mixed with filth—
—so fucking tight, taking me so well, knew you needed this, all mine sweet girl, so pretty under me
Until you can't tell where the degradation ends and the worship begins. Another slap to your clit. Another squeeze of your throat. You're drowning in him, in the sensation.
In the absolute certainty that you belong to him and no one else.
His thrusts grow erratic. His breathing ragged against your ear as his hips drive into you brutally with each move.
His mouth curves into a cruel smile. Something dark flashing behind his eyes. An idea— a twisted, sick thought— "I'm gonna fill you up," he grunts, voice dropping dark. "Keep you right here. Keep you full and pregnant"
Your eyes go wide "Titus- !"
"Shh, shh—" His hand tightens around your throat, cutting off your protest. "I know baby, I know it's just what you need. Just take it. I'll give it to you."
You whine, a sound caught between shock and need, body trembling beneath him. You claw at his throat, need him to hear.
"A-are you sure?" The words escape uncertain and fragile. You can't let him do this. He'll be tied to you.
He can't.The words now echoing again.
You're nothing. A toy. Disposable—
His laughter pulling you from your thoughts, rumbling against your neck,
"Of course, sweetheart—" Another brutal thrust that steals your breath. "I'm gonna fill this pretty pussy up. Make you mine forever. No more running."
Your breath hitches. He's serious.
He wants this.
His hips stutter, a guttural groan tears deep from his chest. Raw and uncontrolled, your name spills from his lips like a prayer.
He buries himself to the hilt, entire body going rigid as he spills inside you. Hot, deep, and overwhelming. You feel him pulse, the ropes of cum flooding your core, marking you from the inside out.
His hand tightens one last time around your throat as he grinds into you, making sure every last drop is buried deep inside you.
"So good," he moans against your skin. "Fucking perfect. F-fuck— There it is..."
He stays there, still buried inside you. His forehead pressed to yours, eyes shut resting. His breathing heavy, ragged.
The emotions hit you all at once.
A dam breaking. The walls you've built so tall tonight, every drink, the endless lies. Every moment of pretending you didn't need him comes crashing down in a single, devastating wave.
You can't hold back the sob that escapes you. It tears from your chest before you can stop it, your entire body shakes with the force.
Titus jolts, eyes snapping open. The look of relaxation vanishes instantly, replaced by something you've never seen before.
True unbridled terror.
"Baby" His voice cracks. "What's wrong? Fuck, are you hurt?"
His hands move immediately. Frantic and desperately. He pulls out of you carefully. You feel the loss of him like a physical ache.
But he's already reaching for the restraints, fingers working the knots with practiced efficiency.
"Talk to me, sweetheart. Did I hurt you?"
The silk falls away from your wrists, and before you can even process it, his hands are cupping your face. Rough palms cradling you like you're something precious, something fragile.
"Look at me. Look at me."
But you can't. The tears won't stop, streaming down your cheeks in hot, relentless tracks. Your chest heaves with hiccuping sobs that you can't control.
"You can't, Titus—" words coming out broken, barely audible, "—You can't have a baby with me."
He goes completely still.
His hands don't leave your face, but everything else about him freezes. The panic fades, replaced by quiet.
Silence stretches between you. Heavy and suffocating.
Then, slowly, he pulls you into his chest. One arm wraps around your back, the other hand threading through your hair, stroking and soothing.
His touch is so gentle it makes you cry harder.
"And why is that?" His voice is soft, now coaxing a confession from you.
You try to speak, but the words won't come. They're stuck in your throat, tangled with the sobs and the shame.
The overwhelming certainty that you're about to lose him. You just look at him.
His eyes lock onto yours. Dark— unreadable as always. "Sweetheart... what is going on?"
...
"I'm not permanent." The words tumble out in a whisper. "I'm not... I'm not meant to be here."
His brows furrow, confusion flickering across his face.
You force yourself to continue. To say the thing that's been eating you alive since the moment you overheard those servants.
"I don't have class. Or some high status. I'm not from a rich family. We can't— you're just gonna leave for someone who—"
"No." The word cuts through the air like a blade.
You freeze shocked into silence. "Titus..."
"No." His voice is stern now. The softness is gone, anger rumbling in his chest.
He shifts, pulling back just enough to look at you. His hands still frame your face, but his hold tightens.
"I've lived life long enough having family controlling me. People telling me what to do..." his voice unwavering. "I am the goddamn High Seat. I am in control." His voice grows louder, more forceful. The authority in it makes your breath catch.
"I say what goes."
Your heart hammers against your ribs.
"Whatever I want goes. I fucking want this."
You nod softly, but his expression doesn't change.
He looks dissatisfied.
His hand slides down, fingers now gripping your chin, forcing your eyes to meet his. There's no escape from the intensity of his gaze.
"I said— I want this. Do you understand?" His thumb brushes over your jaw, contrasting the steel in his voice. "No one can stop that. No one can stop me. Yes?"
"Yes." The word comes out small.
"Good."
Silence falls around you again, but this time, it's different. Heavier, now weighted with something you can't quite name.
His hands, rough and possessive just moments ago, now soothe over your skin gently. He leans forward and presses a soft kiss to your forehead, then another.
You close your eyes, letting the tenderness wash over you. Then his voice cuts through the quiet.
…
"You know I killed the Windsor clan, yes?"
Your eyes snap open. You feel his gaze on the top of your head. Waiting…
"Y-yes."
You can't manage to look at him. Your heart is racing again, but for a different reason now.
"Look at me, sweetheart." he command.
You lift your head slowly. His eyes find yours immediately.
"Don't you want to know why?"
You shake your head. No.
You don't want to know. You're terrified of what he'll say— but he tells you anyway.
"I did it for you."
The words hang in the air between you.
You're horrified. Shocked, disgusted.
But somewhere deep inside, somewhere you don't want to acknowledge,
You find yourself enthralled by it.
You can't form words. Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. His face is expressionless watching you take in his words. Waiting for your reaction.
"I—"
"I'd do it again." He cuts you off. His voice is cold now, matter-of-fact.
"Again, and again to have you. To have you here by my side." His eyes narrow. There's something dark in them, something unhinged.
Something you should run from.
But you don't, you just nod along.
"I won't have you leaving me. Won't let something as stupid as a 'good match' get in the way." His hand moves to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair grounding, yet claiming.
"You're here now. You'll always be here." He says it with perfect certainty. Like he's reiterating something he thought you'd already known. You did.
Somewhere deep inside, buried beneath the fear.
Under the doubt and panic, you knew.
You nod softly. "Okay, Titus."
A smile slowly grows on his face, pure satisfaction in his eyes. "Good... that's my girl."
He pulls your head back down to his chest. His arms wrap around you, holding you close. His heartbeat is steady beneath your ear.
"Now rest. We've got a long day tomorrow."
You close your eyes, letting the warmth of him seep into your skin.
"We're going to the lawyer tomorrow."
Your eyes snap open. "What?"
"Shh—don't worry your pretty head about it. I'll figure it all out. I'll arrange the ceremony."
The words turn your stomach.
He couldn't mean—
No. That's ridiculous.
You've known Titus for six months. Been with him for half of that.
Your head lifts, searching his eyes. They're fixed forward. Calculating, deciding. Already planning for you. He's serious.
Your stomach drops, your breath catches.
He's going to marry you.
The realization settles over you like a weight, heavy and inescapable. Your head drops back to his chest. His hand strokes through your hair slowly like he's already won. And maybe he has.
Because despite the fear, despite the shock,
Despite that voice in your head screaming that this is insane—
You're not running.
You're still here in his arms, in his bed, in his life.
Dennis who wears panties except this headcanon goes beyond gender.
Transman Dennis who wears panties because he doesn’t like the fit of men’s underwear. Plus he can’t afford to buy all new underwear. And pads fit in them without struggle.
Transfem Dennis who wears panties because he likes the way they’re snug around his package and come in pretty prints and everytime he changes his scrubs at work he got a little reminder that he was always a pretty girl.
Cis Dennis who wears panties because it’s his dirty little secret and also Robby and Jack like it.
Warnings: Smut, porn with some plot, Gwayne being a little pathetic, dom-ish reader, afab reader, fem!reader, kissing, penetration (P in V), unprotected sex, bathtub sex, cowgirl, dirty talk (just a little), some praise, a bit of begging, fluff, no use of y/n, not proofread.
Word count: 2.6K
Part 1 (the first one explains who the reader is but I think this can be read separately too)
a/n: the love i feel for him came as a complete surprise
Requests open
You felt him before you saw him.
Your woods had always been quiet. The war had made them a bit less so, but still quiet enough for you to notice he was near almost immediately.
You craned your head toward where you heard footsteps, eyes scouring through the green for his strawberry locks. He was not hard to find, not with the way he was bumbling through the bushes.
The moment Gwayne's eyes fell on you, a wave of relief washed through him.
You looked the same as when he last saw you, though now you were accompanied by a raven who rested on your arm. He had not seen the animal when he was here last, but something told him that you had long been companions.
You raised your head softly in greeting, which caused him to give you a slight nod.
“My lady,” he muttered, a bit out of breath.
“I did not expect to see you, Ser.”
The raven crowed at him, but you were quick to shush it.
“Don't worry, dear. He's harmless.”
Gwayne could not tell if you were talking to him or to the bird.
“I thought you said you knew things.”
“I did,” you said, raising your arm, causing the raven to fly off into the night sky. “Till you came along.”
Gwayne's brows furrowed at your words.
“You cannot see what will happen?”
“In truth, I don't know if I ever did. Perhaps I just saw what was most likely to happen, and not what would be.”
Something passed over Gwayne's face. You noticed it instantly.
“My words grieve you,” you stated.
“Yes,” he confessed. “I may have made a mistake.”
You raised a brow at him, silently questioning.
“Might be best if I just show you.”
He turned looking back into the bushes he had come from. You tried to look for whatever he seemed to be searching for. It took you a moment, but then you saw it—a flash of orange between the green.
“It is alright,” Gwayne called softly. “She will not harm you.”
You watched as the orange shifted, inching closer and closer until a boy was revealed to you. He shied away from your watchful eyes, keeping his gaze on the ground as he moved. It was only when he was standing next to Gwayne that he dared look at you, and even then it was only for a brief moment.
They were related. You could tell almost immediately.
“This is my nephew, Daeron.”
Gwayne's words only confirmed your thoughts.
You made your way over to them slowly.
Daeron trembled like a leaf as you approached. For some reason, it pained you to see him so frightened. If he had been a man, you might have relished the reaction, but he was only a boy, and you would not harm him.
“No need to be frightened,” Gwayne whispered.
“Your uncle is right, boy. You need not fear me. I am—”
You paused, brows furrowing as you got close enough that, if you reached your hand out, you would be able to touch Daeron.
Gwayne glanced at you in confusion, not understanding your sudden hesitation.
“Dragon blood,” you whispered.
The little bit of color left on Daeron's face seemed to drain away at your words.
You could feel Gwayne tense for a moment, uncertainty filling him. His hand hovered at the hilt of his sword. He did not want to harm you, but he would do so if you put his nephew in danger.
Luckily, he didn't need to take such drastic measures.
Your face opened into a smile, the largest one Gwayne had ever seen you wear. You placed your hand up, shushing Daeron softly as he flinched. Once your palm came in contact with his chest, you let out a soft hum.
“Breathe, boy. 'Tis alright.”
Despite his wide eyes, Daeron did as you asked, taking a deep breath in. You nodded at him, closing your eyes. You stayed like that for a while, eyes closed, your palm pressed against Daeron's chest as he breathed.
“She is not with you, is she?”
“My lady?” Daeron breathed.
“Your dragon,” you whispered, your eyes still closed. “She is not with you.”
“We had to leave her. A dragon would—” Daeron faltered for a moment.
“Call too much attention,” Gwayne finished for him.
Your eyes snapped open, your head turning to look at Gwayne. He returned your gaze, causing a soft smirk to grace your lips.
“Shame,” you muttered, taking a step back.
You observed them for a second before turning on your heels and walking toward the house.
“I'll make dinner.”
Daeron and Gwayne watched your frame disappear into the house, both of them frozen in confusion for a moment before following you inside.
Gwayne sat at the table, his eyes unfocused as he stared at nothing. Absentmindedly, his finger traced the rim of the cup before him.
The soft padding of feet against stone caused him to snap out of his thoughts. He watched you as you returned from deeper in the house. You made your way to your worktable, barely sparing him a glance. Gwayne had become used to this behavior. He took your lack of attention toward him as an opportunity to observe you in silence.
“It took him a while to settle,” you finally spoke, still not turning to face Gwayne. “His heart was beating so fast in his chest, it was like treating an injured bird.”
Gwayne let out a soft sound at your comparison. It was a mix of agreement and amusement. You turned to face him then, leaning against your table for a moment before walking toward where he sat. Gwayne lifted his head to look at your face as you stood before him, his blue eyes tracing over your features.
You lifted your hand to his face, your fingers tracing softly over his skin. It took everything in him not to let out a sigh at your touch. Not to close his eyes and nuzzle into your soft hand.
“The bath is ready for you,” you whispered, your fingers still moving against his cheek.
Gwayne knew he did not need to say anything. The moment you took your hand from his face and returned to your table, he got up, making his way to the bath.
He sat in the warm water, trying to still his beating heart and rid himself of the thoughts of you that had suddenly seemed to plague his mind.
He was not startled by your presence this time. Unlike when he'd first been here, he now felt like he knew you. So when you stepped from behind the wall, he did not flinch. If anything, he sank deeper into the water.
Unconsciously, his eyes went to your hands, expecting you to be carrying some sort of elixir to place on his wounds as you had done before.
This time, however, you carried nothing with you.
Upon looking at you, Gwayne noticed you wore something he had never seen you in before. A robe of such deep blue it looked like the night sky itself.
“How is the water?” you asked as you walked closer to him.
“Warm,” he sighed, desperately trying to keep his voice level.
“Good,” you said.
And then, to his great surprise, your hand moved to the tie of your robe.
Gwayne's eyes widened as you dropped the piece of clothing to the ground, leaving you completely naked before him.
He should avert his eyes. It would be the gentlemanly thing to do.
But something about your expression told him that you wanted him to look.
So he did.
His eyes traced over your skin with something that wasn't quite greed, but not entirely innocent either.
You walked up to the bathtub, your eyes never leaving his as you moved. You lifted your foot, motioning to get into the bath.
Gwayne's hand snapped up before he could even think about what he was doing. Your gaze flickered over to his extended palm, surprise flitting across your face for a second before you accepted his gesture, your hand moving to hold onto his as you stepped fully into the water.
Your hands remained intertwined as you sank into the water, your thighs moving against his as you settled onto his lap.
Gwayne shuddered as you sat, finally releasing your hand. You stared at each other in silence, the water splashing softly around your bodies.
Gwayne was flushed, his lips slightly parted as he waited for what you were going to do.
When your hand moved to his chest, your nails grazing his skin softly, he allowed himself to close his eyes, a breathy sigh escaping him without shame.
You smiled at the reaction, but Gwayne could not see it with his eyes closed.
You shifted slightly, your body grazing against him, causing him to let out a soft groan as his eyes snapped open.
You were so close to him now that he could feel your breath against his face.
His hand, which had been gripping the edge of the tub desperately, moved to your face, gently cupping your cheek. His eyes moved from yours to your lips, and, as if understanding his silent request, you inched closer, your lips slotting against his.
The softness of the kiss surprised him. He had grown so used to your distant behavior, to your short words and cold demeanor, that the warmth that seeped into his body as you kissed him had been most unexpected.
Unexpected, but not unwelcome.
His other hand moved to settle on your thigh, squeezing the skin softly as you deepened the kiss. He did not know if you did it on purpose or not, but your body rocked softly against his, making his breath hitch as you rubbed against his hardening cock.
But from the way he felt you smile against his lips, he realized it had been done on purpose.
His hand left your cheek, slipping beneath the water so he could grip your hip. He pushed you down slightly, and the soft breath you let out against his lips at the action made him feel like the luckiest man in all of Westeros.
You bit at his lip, tugging it as you began to rock your hips, his hands gripping onto your skin with such force you'd be surprised if you didn't bruise.
Gwayne called your name softly, causing you to lean back slightly so you could look at his face.
“Yes?” you breathed, never stopping your gyrating motions.
“May I—” he groaned, his eyes snapping shut as you hit a particularly sensitive spot. “I need to be inside you.”
“Oh?” you said, a teasing lilt to your voice.
“Please let me—ugh—I promise I'll—fuck...” His breath hitched as your nails dug into his chest, rougher this time.
“You'll what?” you teased.
“I'll make you feel good,” Gwayne managed through gritted teeth.
“Oh, is that so?”
You leaned forward, your tongue moving against his neck before your lips came close to his ear.
“A knight that knows how to fuck,” you whispered, your teeth nipping at his earlobe.
Gwayne groaned at your words, his hips jerking up almost involuntarily. The action caused you to let out a small moan despite yourself, and the sound had Gwayne practically whimpering.
“Is that what you want, Ser Gwayne? To fuck me?”
“Yes,” he breathed. “Please.”
“You're cute when you beg, Ser.”
“Fuck,” he groaned.
“Oh, do you like it when I use your title? Is that it?” you questioned.
Gwayne could not manage to speak, so he simply nodded enthusiastically. You hummed softly, smiling at his state.
“Go on then, Ser. Fuck me.”
That was all he needed.
Gwayne moved so quickly you were shocked there was still water left in the tub when he settled you into the position he wanted.
Your mouth opened in a slight moan as he entered you, the intrusion stealing the breath from your lungs. Gwayne was not much better off, his brows deeply furrowed as he breathed out a string of curses.
Once you finally grew accustomed to the feeling, he began to move, his hips lifting quickly into you. The water splashed around your bodies as you moved in tandem, both desperately chasing the pleasurable feeling of being together.
You were doing a good job at keeping quiet, breathy moans escaping you with every thrust of Gwayne's hips. The knight, however, was having a harder time. Your hand snapped up to cover his mouth as a particularly loud moan threatened to escape him.
“Shh,” you whispered. “Don't want to wake the young prince.”
The groan that slipped from Gwayne vibrated against your hand.
“You're close,” you stated, your free hand moving to rest on his chest to keep yourself steady.
Gwayne nodded against your palm, his brows furrowing deeper. You leaned forward, nipping and kissing at his throat, your body growing aware of your own closeness to cumming the more soft sounds escaped Gwayne.
You managed to make your way to the knight's ear, your nose pressing against his cheek as you whispered sweetly, “Let go, Ser.”
Gwayne's hips bucked one last time as pleasure washed through him. His teeth sank into one of your fingers, using it to muffle the sinful sounds that escaped him as he came. The pain mixed with the pleasure of him inside you, and before you knew it, your body was crashing into his as you let out a silent moan, your mouth wide as your eyes rolled to the back of your head.
The water was long cold, but it did not bother either of you. You sat between Gwayne's legs, your back pressed to his chest as you enjoyed his closeness. His hand moved up and down your arm, tracing shapes and letters against your wet skin.
For the first time you'd seen him, Gwayne seemed completely at ease. You'd be lying if the knowledge that you were the one who had put him in such a state didn't make your heart flutter with unexpected feelings.
Gwayne placed a kiss to your hairline. There was no need for him to do so, which made the action that much more meaningful.
“We'll have to do something about his hair,” you said suddenly, pulling Gwayne out of the blissful state he had found himself in.
He let out a deep sigh, the action echoing against your skin.
You turned your head to look at him, one of your hands moving to play with his hair.
“And yours, for that matter,” you whispered as your fingers toyed with his locks. “Though it is a shame. I quite like your hair as it is.”
Gwayne smiled at your words. His hand moved to yours, tugging it away from his hair and to his lips so he could place a tender kiss on the back of it.
“We will deal with all that another time,” Gwayne muttered, his lips still pressed against your skin. “After all, there are other things than the war.”
You let out an amused huff, recognizing your own words being echoed back to you.
“You are right, Ser,” you whispered, inching your face closer to his so you could place a chaste kiss upon his lips.
Gwayne hummed softly against your lips, and when you parted from him, your body moving back to its original position against his chest, he couldn't help but notice how you settled deeper into the water, relaxing against him.
Gwayne smiled, his arms moving to wrap around your waist beneath the water.
He would deal with it all tomorrow. Tonight, he wished to think only of you and the feeling of your skin pressed against his.
A slow, indulgent smile curves across Draco’s sharp features as he gazes up at you from between your trembling thighs. His pale hair falls forward in soft strands, brushing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs like cool silk. One long elegant finger traces lazy, maddening circles around your fluttering entrance. Never dipping inside, never giving you the stretch you’re aching for—just enough pressure to make your slick walls clench uselessly around nothing.
He knows exactly what he’s doing. The little hitch in your breath, the way your hips twitch toward his mouth, the soft, broken whimpers that spill from your lips. He drinks them down like fine wine. Every sound you make is deliberate fuel for his ego, and the low, pleased hum that vibrates in his throat tells you he’s savoring every single one.
Your wide, glassy doe eyes lock onto his silver ones, pleading, shimmering with unshed tears of frustration. Something softens in his expression—just for a heartbeat—before that familiar wicked glint returns. He leans in without breaking eye contact and seals his mouth over your swollen clit in one hot, open-mouthed kiss.
The sudden wet heat makes your spine bow off the sheets. His lips are plush and firm at once, sucking gently, then harder, tongue flicking once against the oversensitive bud until your thighs quake around his ears. You chase the pressure instinctively, hips rolling up in a desperate grind, but he’s already pulling back with a slow, obscene pop, leaving your clit throbbing and glistening with his spit.
A pitiful whine tears out of you before you can stop it. You huff in frustration, chest heaving, and the sound of his deep, velvet chuckle rolls over your overheated skin like a physical caress.
“Patience, darling,” he drawls, voice low and syrupy with amusement. “Y'know I always give you what you want.”
He makes a deliberate performance of it then—long fingers moving to the cuffs of his crisp white shirt. He rolls each sleeve up with agonizing slowness, revealing inch after inch of corded forearm. The pale skin is dusted with fine golden hair; thick blue veins snake beneath the surface, flexing subtly as he works the fabric higher until it bunches at his elbows. The sight alone sends a fresh gush of wetness dripping down your slit—your greedy little cunt clenching so hard it almost hurts.
“Beg a little prettier, baby.”
Draco settles back between your spread thighs like he owns the space and you. His broad shoulders nudging your knees even wider. He’s a vision in the low light, pale skin kissed with a faint flush high on his cheekbones, silver-blond hair slightly mussed from your earlier fingers, those storm-grey eyes locked on yours with lazy, predatory patience. The tip of his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, slow and deliberate, and the sight makes your cunt clench so hard a fresh bead of slick wells up and trickles down.
“‘S’pretty, Draco,” you breathe, eyes wide and shining with pure, helpless adoration as you stare down at him. You know it’s not enough, he loves making you work for it, but the words tumble out anyway, soft and reverent.
He huffs a quiet, amused sound against your skin, the warm puff of breath making your swollen clit twitch. “Sweet girl,” he murmurs, voice velvet-wrapped steel. “You think batting those pretty lashes is going to get you what you want?”
His fingers never stop their cruel circuit. Long, elegant digits gliding through your drenched folds, circling your fluttering entrance with feather-light pressure. You’re soaked, obscenely so; every slow pass of his fingertips drags more of your slick downward until it’s coating the sensitive skin between your cheeks, pooling cool and slippery against your puckered hole. The wet sounds are filthy in the quiet room. Soft, rhythmic schlick-schlick as he toys with you, never pushing inside, never giving you the stretch or friction you’re dying for.
He dips his head and starts trailing open-mouthed kisses up the tender inside of your thigh slow, deliberate, teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver. First one thigh, then the other, lips plush and hot, tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your skin. He’s close, so close, his sharp nose brushing the crease where thigh meets cunt, but he skirts around your aching center every time, leaving your clit throbbing untouched, pulsing with every heartbeat.
“Please, Draco,” you whimper, voice cracking on his name. “Need your mouth—or—or your fingers—plea—oh!”
The plea breaks into a sharp, needy gasp as he finally—finally—presses the flat of his tongue against your entrance in one long, languid lick. He groans low in his throat at the taste of you, the sound vibrating straight through your core. Then he pulls back just enough to speak, lips shiny with your arousal, voice rougher now.
“Louder, darling. Tell me exactly what this greedy little cunt needs.” His middle finger dips just inside you—barely past the first knuckle—curling once, teasing your fluttering walls before slipping free again. “Use your words, or I’ll keep you like this all night. Dripping, clenching, begging, and getting nothing but my tongue on your thighs.”
Your hips jerk helplessly toward his face; another pathetic whine spills from your throat as more slick leaks out, warm and sticky, sliding down to dampen the sheets beneath you.
His smirk is devastating, like he’s savoring the exact moment your composure cracks. He watches you with hooded silver eyes: your lashes fluttering, squeezed shut in pure, trembling frustration; your lips swollen dark and glossy, bitten raw from trying to stifle the pathetic little sounds spilling out of you.
“Want t'come, Draco, please.”
The words come out high and broken, a full-on whine that curls straight through him. Warm, liquid satisfaction slithers down his spine, pooling low in his gut. His cock is achingly hard beneath the strained fabric of his trousers and has been for the last half hour, throbbing in time with every squirm of your hips, every fresh gush of slick that coats his hand. He hasn’t even touched himself, hasn’t needed to; your wrecked little pleas and the obscene wet sounds of your cunt are more than enough to keep him on the razor’s edge.
“Yeah?” His voice is low, rougher now, velvet fraying at the seams.
Without warning he pushes one long finger inside you—all the way, slow and deliberate—until the cold bite of his signet ring presses flush against your soaked entrance. You gasp, hips jerking up instinctively, trying to chase more, but he twists the digit once, curling it hard against that spongy spot that makes your thighs shake… then stills it completely.
Just… lets it sit there.
Thick and unmoving, stretching you open just enough to remind you what you’re missing. Your walls flutter desperately around the single intrusion, clenching and releasing in frantic little pulses, trying to pull him deeper, but he doesn’t budge. The contrast is torture: the cool metal of his ring biting into your overheated flesh, the heavy, unyielding pressure of his knuckle against your entrance, the slick heat of your own arousal dripping down his wrist in slow, sticky rivulets.
“Why should I let you come?” he murmurs, tilting his head like he’s genuinely curious. His free hand slides up your thigh, thumb brushing feather-light over the trembling muscle there, smearing your wetness across your skin in a lazy, possessive arc. “You’ve been such a good, whiny little thing tonight… but good girls earn it, don’t they?”
He leans in closer, breath hot against your clit close enough that every exhale sends a fresh jolt through the swollen bud, but still not touching. Your hips roll uselessly, chasing the ghost of friction, and another pitiful whimper escapes you.
“Look at this mess you’re making,” he continues, voice dripping with mock sympathy as he watches another bead of slick slide down to join the growing wet spot beneath you. “Dripping all over my hand, clenching around one finger like it’s the only thing keeping you alive. Such a pretty little thing.”
He finally gives the smallest, cruelest curl of his finger, just enough to graze that spot again, before going still once more.
“Tell me exactly why this greedy cunt deserves to come on my fingers, darling. Make it convincing.” His eyes flick up to yours, dark with want. “I could just leave you like this, empty until you’re crying for real.”
Your breath hitches on a sob; your whole body is trembling now, thighs quaking around his shoulders, cunt spasming uselessly around that single, unmoving finger.
He waits.
Patient. Smug. Utterly in control.
And loving every second of your unraveling.
Then, finally—mercifully—he moves after watching an angry tear slip onto your cheek. Oh, he could be so mean. Maybe you had earned it after all.
Two more fingers join the first in one brutal, slick thrust, stretching you wide around the thick intrusion. The cold bite of his rings drag along your fluttering walls; the stretch burns so good it makes your eyes roll back. He doesn’t give you time to adjust—just curls all three deep, pads grinding ruthlessly against that swollen, spongy spot inside you while his thumb finds your clit and starts circling with firm, relentless pressure.
“ah!—fuck—Draco—!” The words come out slurred, high and wrecked.
He growls low against your thigh, the sound vibrating straight to your core. “That’s it. Let me hear how stupid this pretty cunt gets when I finally fuck it right.”
His pace turns punishing, long, rough strokes that piston in and out, curling on every drag out to bully that spot until your hips are bucking wildly, chasing the brutal rhythm. Wet, obscene squelches fill the room with every thrust; your slick coats his hand to the wrist, dripping in thick strings down his forearm, soaking the rolled-up sleeve of his shirt. The mess is everywhere, cool and sticky between your cheeks, pooling beneath you, making the sheets cling to your ass.
You come hard and fast on the third brutal grind against your g-spot—back arching off the bed, a strangled scream tearing from your throat as your walls clamp down like a vice around his fingers. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow. Just keeps fucking you through it, thumb grinding merciless circles on your clit until the pleasure twists sharp and painful, tipping into overstimulation.
“Draco—s'too much—can’t—!”
“You can,” he snarls, voice rough with his own fraying restraint. “And you will.”
He scissors his fingers on the next thrust, stretching you wider, making room for the obscene gush of slick that follows. Your second orgasm builds terrifyingly fast—coiling low and tight, different this time, almost too intense. Your thighs clamp around his head; your hands fist the sheets so hard your knuckles bleach white.
“C'mon, baby,” he coos mockingly, lips brushing your pulsing clit. “Give me another one. Make a fucking mess all over my hand.”
One more cruel curl, one more punishing grind of his thumb and you shatter. This one rips through you like lightning. Your whole body locks up, then convulses; a hot, gushing rush floods out around his fingers as you come so hard your vision whites out. You’re shaking, sobbing his name in broken little gasps, cunt pulsing and fluttering so violently it almost pushes his fingers out. He works you through every aftershock, slowing only when your cries turn truly wrecked and your hips start jerking away from the overstimulation.
When he finally pulls his fingers free with a wet pop, you’re boneless—limbs heavy, chest heaving, cunt still twitching with aftershocks. A thick string of your release connects his glistening fingers to your swollen entrance before it snaps. He brings them to his mouth, sucking them clean with slow, deliberate drag of his tongue, eyes never leaving yours.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice thick with dark satisfaction and something all too fond. “Fucked dumb already and I haven’t even put my cock in you yet.”
He rises onto his knees between your spread thighs, finally undoing his trousers with shaking hands. Proof he’s been just as wrecked by this as you have. His cock springs free: thick, flushed dark at the tip, veins standing out stark against pale skin, already leaking steadily. It looks obscene next to your smaller, trembling body—too big, almost, for how swollen and sensitive you already are.
He grips the base and drags the fat head through your soaked folds, coating himself in your release. The blunt pressure against your entrance makes you whimper, hips twitching toward him even though you’re oversensitive and shaking.
“Beg one more time,” he rasps, voice strained now, control hanging by a thread. “Tell me how badly this tight little cunt needs to be split open on my cock.”
“Please Draco, need it—need you—fuck me p–”
That does it.
He snaps his hips forward in one deep, ruthless thrust, burying every thick inch inside you until his hips meet yours with a wet slap. The stretch is overwhelming; you feel split open, stuffed full, the head of him nudging so deep it presses against your cervix. Your walls flutter wildly around him, still spasming from the overstimulation, trying to adjust to the impossible girth.
“Fuck,” he groans, forehead dropping to your shoulder as he fights not to come right then. “So fucking tight—even after all that.”
He starts moving slow at first, savoring the drag of your slick walls clinging to every ridge and vein Then meaner, harder, hips snapping with bruising force. The bed creaks under the onslaught; your tits bounce with every thrust; the wet slap of skin on skin mixes with your broken moans and his ragged breathing.
You’re gone. Mind blank, body nothing but sensation. Overstimulated, oversensitive, coming again almost immediately on the first few brutal strokes, walls milking him so hard he curses under his breath.
“Again,” he growls, angling his hips to grind against your clit with every thrust. “Come on my cock again, pretty girl. Milk me dry.”
Somehow you do, shaking, sobbing, coming so hard tears leak from the corners of your eyes. He fucks you through it, pace turning sloppy and desperate, chasing his own release now.
“Gonna fill this greedy cunt up,” he pants against your neck, teeth grazing your pulse. “Mark you inside and out—make sure you feel me for days.”
One final, punishing thrust and he buries himself to the hilt, cock pulsing as he comes with a low, guttural groan. Hot, thick spurts flood you, so much it leaks out around his base, mixing with your own mess. He grinds slow circles through the aftershocks, drawing out every last tremor from your overworked body until you’re both trembling, spent, and dripping.
He stays inside you for long moments after. Softening slowly, still twitching while he presses lazy, hot kisses along your jaw.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, voice wrecked and tender now. “Took everything I gave you so perfectly.”
You can only manage a weak, blissed-out whimper in response—fucked dumb, just like he promised.
Summary = Getting sold to the girl group KATSEYE? Classis wattpad story. But not for you. Your the daughter of a priest in a small town, you where kind of an wild girl, exploring everything that's forbidden. But when your father founds out through rumors that you've kissed a girl, he had to take serious action. So he sold you to a friend of him, Missy Paramo.
Hello everyone, I hope you all enjoy my headcanons. Don't forget to thank rikathesmolpupper. Her headcanons gave me the inspiration to write about my headcanons. I hope you all enjoy😊.
Also, like in my Valentines Day Series, I'm going to be a bit... self indulgent.
Pierrot
Pierrot 10,000% has a breeding kink. ( You can try to pry that headcanon from my cold, dead hands, but you won't be able to. )
Pierrot doesn't drink alcohol.
Pierrot loves popcorn. Unlike Ticket Taker and Jester, who constantly end up with the popcorn in their teeth, Perrot doesn't have the same issue. So yeah, more popcorn for Pierrot 🍿.
He smells like vanilla, freshly baked bread, honeysuckles, cinnamon, and slightly like caramel. The smell is like if Spring and Fall had a baby.
Pierrot's monster form is wolf like, mammalian, warm-blooded.
Pierrot's favorite flavor of pop tart is chocolate 🍫.
When Pierrot is in heat/rut and plans on impregnating MC, he does things a bit... differently than the other members of the circus. Unlike Harlequin, Ticket Taker, Jester, and Doctor, who can impregnate MC by laying eggs... Pierrot can't. His monster form is more mammalian than the other circus members' monster forms, but that doesn't mean Pierrot can't impregnate MC another way. ( If you are male or identify as male, then you and Pierrot can adopt ). The way Pierrot impregnates MC is sort of how mammals breed. ( Warning: SMUT NSFW ) Pierrot will put MC in a doggy style position so that way when he cums inside Mc gravity will help the cum go deep inside them. He will bite the nape of MC's neck, thrust his cock inside them, and when he is about to cum he slams his knot inside MC, getting it stuck, bottoms out, and cums deep inside MC's core, praying that his seed takes. His cum is thick and sticky which helps to impregnate MC. His knot is the size of a coconut.
Pierrot's cum tastes like floral honey🍯, cherries🍒, brown sugar, and vanilla. It's highly sweet, delicious, and addictive. The intoxicating flavor keeps you coming back for more.
His kisses taste like honey🍯, honeydew, vanilla, cinnamon, sugarcubes, and... floral tea. It's sweet, passionate, caring, and addictive.
Pierrot knows how to play the flute.
Pierrot's aftercare after his heat/rut is top-notch. After he snaps out of his lust muddled mind, and once his knot swells down. He runs a relaxing bubble bath with MC's favorite bath bombs and cleans MC with their favorite bath gel. Once he gets MC out of the bathtub, he wraps MC in a warm soft towel and rubs lotion onto MC's skin. After MC is all comfortable and dressed in a nice clean pair of pajamas, Pierrot heads to the kitchen to make MC some food. Once the food is done, Pierrot sits next to MC and handfeeds MC. Once all the food has been eaten, Pierrot and MC cuddle and fall asleep.
Pierrot purrs when MC pets or scratches his head/horns.
Pierrot howls everytime he cums. It wakes up the other members of the circus at night.
His cum is a milky amber orange color, it doesn't glow in the dark.
Pierrot's favorite season is Fall, he loves the weather, the falling leaves, and the seasonal treats and smells. It's also Spooky Season. He feels more comfortable going out in public this time of year, not to mention he loves going on Fall dates with MC.
If Pierrot could choose any job he wanted, he would choose being a chef, maybe a pastry chef, or probably a baker. He would most likely choose all of the above.
Pierrot's monster form has long fluffy hair/fur.
He LOVES hot chocolate.
Pierrot HATES spicy stuff.
Pierrot likes tea more than coffee or soda. He just drinks coffee so he can see MC when they are at work☕.
I know I have already made this clear in my Valentines Day Series, but I have to say it again. Pierrot 10,000% has a food play kink. He will lick whip cream off MC's body, slowly savoring the taste of MC's skin.
One of Pierrot's hidden hobbies is woodcarving.
Pierrot loves to dance with MC.
Pierrot loves to give MC oral pleasure. He makes them cum so many times, he loves their taste, he is addicted to MC's taste.
He has a love-hate relationship with mochi ice cream. He loves the flavor but hates the texture.
