the time has come for your prickly prince to prepare for fatherhood! what awaits you as the days tick down to the arrival of your first child?
genre/warnings:
suggestive, fluff, pregnancy, protective!aerion who will burn the masses if they ever do you wrong, quarrels here and there, lots of kissing too bc he is ravenous, attempt at poisoning, hurt/comfort, childbirth, overall very self-indulgent, lannister!reader
notes:
another part of the dragon and the lioness series. fluff, protective aerion and uhhh a sprinkle of drama? yeah that's the plot <3
“Every part of you… is mine to taste, wife...”
Once, the very idea of being the Bright Prince’s wife was unfathomable to you. But now...
You had grown to savor the way Aerion kissed you with shameless greed, and most of all, the rare moments when his sharp features softened for you alone while he held you against him. Even his temperament, dramatics, and the irritated arch of his violet eyes whenever something displeased him had somehow become… lovable in your eyes.
Gods, when had that happened?
When had Aerion Brightflame ceased to be your insufferable husband and become the man whose embrace you sought without thinking?
“Mmh…” You blamed the babe growing within you. Surely that had to be the reason, you thought, as you kissed him back with equal fervor, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt while his arms lowered you to your marital bed.
“Heh,” Aerion chuckled under his breath, watching your screwed-shut eyes as you chased his lips, incredibly wanton to him.
Strange, wasn’t it? The way life could twist bitter enemies into lovers before either of them even realized it themselves.
Your breath hitched as his hands slid beneath your knees, spreading your legs apart. He broke the kiss then, drinking in the sight of you— and you became self-conscious, only then realizing that he had made a quick work of your dress and you had been left in nothing but your lace undergarments.
“Y-You can’t...” You pressed your lips together, instinctively touching the swell of your belly. “That won’t… be good for the babe.”
Aerion’s lips curved with visible amusement.
“Oh?” he drawled, violet eyes glinting as they swept slowly over you. “Then why, pray tell, are you dressed like this, sweet wife?”
He was right, this was your own doing. Why would you have chosen such a racy, provokating thing to wear tonight?
Perhaps because—even if you wouldn’t admit it—a part of you had already suspected the evening would end with his hands on you and that dangerously pleased look in his eyes.
“A lesser man might say you want to tempt him,” Aerion mused, tracing a slow finger along your cheek, his smile still unbearably wicked.
“So you are not tempted?” you questioned boldly, meeting his gaze, despite the furious heat blooming across your face.
“No.” He shook his head, leaning closer until his lips nearly brushed yours, his voice smug and smooth as velvet. “I am, after all, a man blessed with extraordinary restraint.”
He said that, yet the way his sharp violet eyes focusing on your lips and the way his fingers drifted between your legs said otherwise.
Really, what man could resist the sight of his wife beneath him— soft, flushed, thoroughly marked as his with a babe in her belly while pretending innocence with those wide, coy eyes?
Your husband decided you were playing with fire, so you would get burned. Aerion suddenly slipped two fingers inside your underwear, before pushing one into your folds that made you wide-eyed and suck in a sharp breath—
“You just boasted about restraint!”
“And I possess it. I’m just choosing not to neglect my good wife,” he countered, his cruel grin returning as he inserted another finger, making you gasp in process.
Perfect. You were unraveling by the second, and he had barely even begun.
“There are, after all, many ways to pleasure an expecting wife like you... without compromising the babe.”
Such was your marital life now— with your prince bringing you pleasure nights after nights with the same greedy devotion he seemed to reserve only for you.
And somehow, this was merely the beginning of your happily ever after.
Ever since the word got out that you were with child, Aerion had become more protective of you.
Suddenly, servants were reprimanded for allowing sharp objects near your chambers, guards trailed several paces behind you whenever you wandered the gardens alone and healthy meals appeared at exact hours, prepared according to whichever elderly midwife had most recently filled Aerion’s head with warnings.
And once again, you noticed it most that afternoon when you merely tried to descend the stairs.
Your husband had been halfway through a conversation with his steward when he abruptly stopped speaking altogether, violet eyes narrowing upon you as you placed a hand against the railing.
“…What are you doing?”
You turned to him, blinking innocently. “Walking.”
Not that he would admit it or realize it himself though.
The steward wisely lowered his head, pretending sudden fascination with the floor tiles as Aerion strode towards you with an irritated frown.
“You nearly slipped yesterday,” he hissed, sliding an arm around your waist as he carefully guided you down the stairs.
You rolled your eyes, remembering how you stepped on a parchment the night before. “It was a harmless accident— and for the last time, no, I wasn’t slipping!”
Truthfully, beneath your outward annoyance, deep inside, you were sort of delighted. Because truly, who would have imagined that the arrogant dragon prince would express concern in ways that were somehow endearing?
Or more like, inconveniently endearing.
“Huzzah,” you declared with the flattest tone the moment your feet reached the bottom step, folding your arms dramatically as you turned to him. “I have survived the dreadful staircase, lord husband. Thanks to you.”
Aerion leveled you with a scathing look.
. . .
Soon, it was evident before the rest of Summerhall too.
You lifted your chin, eyes flashing with righteous indignation. “You dismissed a maid yesterday because she served me tea that was slightly too hot. Aerion, this has become ridiculous!”
The Bright Prince, however, remained unmoved, believing his actions were perfectly sensible. “She had one job yet failed to perform it properly. It could have scalded you.”
“You also confiscated my riding boots!”
“You are not riding, wife—”
Behind the half-open door of the solar across the hall, two spectators to your marital quarrel were your husband’s brothers. Daeron raised an eyebrow while young Aegon looked moments away from bursting into hysterical laughter.
“You are enjoying this far too much, Egg,” Daeron muttered dryly.
“Can you blame me?” he whispered back. “This is Aerion we are talking about. Aerion!” He gestured dramatically towards the door with both hands. “The same brother who once claimed affection was ‘a weakness designed by the gods to humiliate men’!”
Well, neither Daeron nor Egg had ever imagined they would witness their notorious middle brother reduced to hovering over his wife. This was indeed a sight.
“I have ridden since childhood!”
“And now you are carrying my child, woman—”
Daeron gave up at last, a chuckle escaping him too. “I never thought I would live long enough to see Aerion become a mother hen.”
“A dragon hen,” Egg corrected conspiratorially, as he strained his ears, thoroughly enjoying your marital dispute.
Another moon passed by, and the maester advised you to get more rest from now on as later moons will prove far more taxing on your body.
However, a royal summons arrived from King’s Landing not long after. The King himself intended to host a grand celebration tourney in honor of the birth of your first child—and both you and your husband were commanded to remain at court for the remainder of your confinement.
You were leaving Summerhall behind, but that was the least of your concerns.
Aerion would be entering the lists.
You had known he would before he even said it aloud. Aerion Brightflame would sooner stop breathing than ignore an opportunity to prove himself before the realm. Under ordinary circumstances, you would proudly bestow your favor upon him and watch him ride with your head held high, but—
Your labor pains could begin while he was in the field. He would be absent from the birthing chambers. Worse, he could get injured—
The thought should not have affected you as much as it did. Men rode in tourneys, princes fought for glory, and discomfort in childbed is how women served the realm.
And there was also another matter that occupied your mind—
“The shape sits high,” the midwife in King’s Landing had declared while measuring your belly, now heavier and more pronounced than ever in your seventh moon. “And my lady craves salted meats more than sweets. It should be a boy.”
Everyone seemed most pleased by the possibility. Aerion himself made it clear he favored a son. You, however, found yourself uncertain what to feel.
. . .
“Where is my lady wife?”
Contrary to what most might have assumed, Aerion was not particularly pleased to be back in King’s Landing.
The long journey from Summerhall had exhausted you so thoroughly that you had scarcely risen from bed for several days. Sure, the grand tourney stirred his excitement— his grandsire honoring the birth of his firstborn with such spectacle was a distinction not even his cousin Valarr had received.
But King’s Landing was still where rumors of another Blackfyre uprising drifted through like smoke, and with your confinement only weeks away, Aerion found himself increasingly ill at ease. These days, peace only came when you were somewhere within his sight.
“The Lady Lannister is bathing in the royal spring, my prince.”
The spring behind Aegon’s High Hill had long since become property of the royal family, secluded from common visitors and hidden behind walls of stone and tangled greenery. It was meant to be a place of relaxation— but still not somewhere his heavily pregnant wife should be wandering unattended.
His irritation simmered all the way through the winding path. The afternoon sun filtered through the trees overhead as Aerion pushed past hanging branches with impatient steps. He had half a mind to rebuke you the moment he arrived—
But every thought dissolved into dust the instant he saw you.
You stood waist-deep within the pristine spring waters, your body half-submerged in the cool waters. A white shift covered your breasts, but the generous swell of your stomach was exposed under the sunlight. Layers of skirts floated around you like scattered clouds, preserving your modesty while doing very little to dull the breathtaking sight before him.
The sight of you beneath the open sky, drenched in sunlight and water was ethereal. He was rooted near the edge of the spring, spellbound.
At nights, he had worshipped that divine body of yours with greedy hands and wandering lips, had learned every sigh you tried to hide, had savored the softness of your thighs, and the sleepy way you clung to him.
But, in the light of day, the temptation of you felt almost cruel.
His gaze lowered shamelessly over the curve of your figure, lingering upon your barely concealed breasts first, before trailing lower. Pride unfurled hotly in his chest at the sight of your rounded belly, heavy and almost ripe. You carried his blood there.
Aerion exhaled slowly through his nose, though it did little to calm the sudden heat crawling beneath his skin.
You noticed him then.
Your eyes lifted towards to him, and the moment your face softened at the sight of him, whatever remained of his irritation died completely.
“Well?” you asked with a coy smile, tilting your head slightly. “Are you merely going to stare, husband… or are you going to join me?”
Like some bewitched mortal lured by a river nymph from old Valyrian tales, the Bright Prince descended the stone steps without hesitation. His boots scraped against damp stone as he shrugged off his doublet with careless impatience, dark eyes never once leaving you.
By the time he stepped into the spring, he was clad only in his dress shirt and breeches, the cool water curling around him as he crossed towards you and drew you effortlessly into his embrace from behind.
“Standing there as though the Maiden herself rose from the spring,” Aerion murmured against your ear, lips brushing the damp skin beneath it. A faint smirk tugged at his mouth. “Did you intend to torment me in broad daylight?”
“I needed time to think,” you countered softly, though your breath caught when his wandering hands settled upon your chest beneath the wet fabric.
“To think? About what?”
You bit your lower lip as the waters lapped gently around the two of you. The way your face now marred with a frown made him click his tongue.
“Speak, wife. I dislike that look upon your face.”
“You are going to join the tourney,” you admitted at last, turning to face him. “While I may very well be laboring alone.”
“I shall return victorious,” he vowed, his violet irises blazing with conviction. “I shall place every honor I win before you and our child, just as it should be.”
Yet he could feel how you were unsatisfied with his answer. Aerion sighed quietly before lowering his mouth to your shoulder, brushing a kiss against your damp skin.
“You fret too much. The midwives will attend you day and night. You have nothing to fear— I will make certain of it.”
You pursed your lips, feeling foolish for being sullen knowing his presence would be demanded in the field regardless, but you just couldn’t help it.
Aerion fell silent for a moment, his hold around you tightening almost instinctively beneath the water.
“Look at me,” he commanded suddenly, and you did reluctantly, your lips still puckered in dissatisfaction.
Gods, how sweet could you be?
“Stop filling your little head with nonsense. I will return to you unscathed. Your task is to rest, eat whatever strange cravings seize you, and carry my child safely.”
His thumb traced the line of your jaw, tilting your chin up so you couldn’t stray from his gaze.
“Aerion—”
“I’m not finished.” His tone sharpened, though the hand cradling your face remained gentle. “I have ridden in tourneys since I was barely tall enough to hold a lance. I have been thrown from horses, split open, battered, and yet I remain standing before you now. And you think some hedge knight or a lordling’s second son could best me?”
A ghost of arrogance curved his lips. “I think not.”
His violet eyes swept over your face then. Gods, you looked painfully sweet like this— so soft with vulnerability.
“You carry blood of the dragon,” he murmured, his palm spreading over the curve of your belly beneath the water. “Do not insult either of us by imagining I would fail to return to you. And if your labor does begin while I am away...”
The thought seemed to sour his expression. “Then you will endure it exactly as I know you will. Know this, I will return to your side the moment I am able.”
You frowned faintly. “That is hardly comforting.”
Aerion snorted, his lips curling into a smirk. “You married the wrong man if you expected sweet comforts from me, wife.”
You let out a soft scoff despite yourself, some of your spirits finally lifting seeing his infuriating confidence.
“There,” he murmured smugly, poking your cheek when you broke into a little smile. “Are you done sulking now?”
“Perhaps not for long,” you countered lightly, throwing him a look. “If my husband fails to comfort me properly, perhaps I ought to find another man willing to do so.”
Aerion’s expression hardened at once, violet eyes narrowing as his grip around your waist tightened beneath the water.
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“I would.”
A dark look crossed his face, then—
He devoured your lips, one powerful arm locked securely around your waist while his other hand tangled in your hair, cradling the back of your head. The cool spring water rippled sharply around you as he deepened the kiss with blatant possessiveness, as though determined to remind you exactly who you belonged to.
When he broke the kiss, you breathlessly clutched his body for support. Breathing heavily against your lips, his voice dropped to a fiercely low growl—
“I wouldn’t let another man touch you while I still draw breath... oh sweet wife of mine.”
“My lady, I trust you are well?”
House Targaryen hosted a grand luncheon several days later within the halls of the Red Keep, gathering notable lords and ladies from across the realm.
You had been navigating the crowd with practiced grace when a warm, familiar voice cut through the ambient noise. Turning, you found yourself facing your cousin-by-law, the Prince Valarr Targaryen.
“Your Grace,” you greeted with a bright smile and slight curtsy. “Yes, I have been well.”
The Young Prince had arrived from Dragonstone with his wife. From where you were, you could see the princess consort mingling with other guests with radiant smile and perfect decorum.
She truly is beautiful, you often thought to yourself. Delicate features, graceful bearings, eyes that seemed almost luminous beneath the candlelight— it was easy to understand why bards wrote songs about her beauty.
Valarr’s gaze dipped towards the unmistakable swell of your stomach, far too prominent now to be concealed beneath your dress.
“Good to see you, really. How far along are you now?”
A wistful smile came to your lips. “Near enough that everyone has begun hovering over me as though I might break apart at any moment.”
That earned a quiet laugh from him. “Still, you are in your most delicate state now. I imagine my cousin can’t stay still as well.”
“Well, one can hardly blame the prince!”
You were still smiling when another voice suddenly joined the conversation. You turned to find Lord Manderly, stout and red-faced from the midday wine, waddled over with an easy grin, goblet in hand.
“With a wife as lovely as you, oh lady—” he slurred, “I imagine Prince Aerion guards you like a dragon atop treasure!”
“You flatter me, my lord,” you answered politely.
Lord Manderly waved a dismissive hand, laughing boisterously. “Not at all, not at all! Though I confess, recalling how the Prince Aerion making quite the spectacle of himself—” he turned to Valarr, “with you, my prince, years ago...”
Ah, that story you once heard in a passing too. The tourney in King’s Landing, in which Valarr and Aerion fought each other in a contest of arms, supposedly, over pride.
Valarr’s expression shifted almost immediately. “My lord—”
But Lord Manderly, either oblivious or too deep in wine to notice, continued on cheerfully enough—
“For a long time, everyone was talking about how the Bright Prince was quite captivated by Her Grace’s beauty! Enough to demand her favor and fight her husband!”
You blinked, realization settled over you with sudden, uncomfortable clarity.
“My lord, if I may.” Valarr cleared his throat, a restrained but cross look on his face. “Words are wind. A tourney floor is full of grand gestures and exaggerated flattery. I assure you, everyone would do well not to concern themselves with such baseless rumors.”
Lord Manderly’s red face drained of color all of a sudden as the weight of his social blunder finally registered.
“Oh Seven— forgive me, my lady!” he said quickly, turning towards you with genuine embarrassment. “A foolish old man’s rambling, is all! My deepest, most sincere apologies— I meant absolutely no disrespect to you, nor to Prince Aerion!”
“Think nothing of it, Lord Manderly,” you replied smoothly, your voice a perfectly crafted mask of composure. “The wine is indeed potent today.”
Relieved to be dismissed, Manderly excused himself with hasty bows, and Valarr quickly steered the conversation back to safer waters before he also excused himself from you.
You appeared to be smiling, but deep inside, you were perturbed.
Your eyes involuntarily scanned the crowded solarium, searching through the sea of silks and velvet until they landed on your husband standing amongst a cluster of knights and courtiers.
And right in that moment, you caught how his gaze followed not you, but the princess consort at the far corner of the hall.
Something inside your chest curled unpleasantly, but you decided not to dwell in it. Whatever might have existed between them once, they meant nothing now, you assured yourself.
So, to distract your wandering thoughts, you reached for the tea the server had offered to you, thinking to calm your nerves—
Until the citrus scent suddenly turned rancid in your senses, so putrid it made your stomach lurch violently that you spit it out and let go of the porcelain cup.
. . .
When a loud crash rang through the solarium, Aerion’s attention snapped instantly toward the disturbance.
And much to his surprise— in the middle of it stood you.
Standing amidst shattered porcelain, you had one hand covered your mouth while the other clutched at your abdomen, your face drained of all color as though you might collapse where you stood.
He immediately dashed towards where you were, nearly sending one poor lord stumbling aside in his haste. The crowd parted instinctively for him as he crossed the hall at frightening speed.
By the time he reached you, his hands were already on you.
“What happened?” he demanded immediately, gripping your arms as his eyes swept frantically over your form.
You swallowed hard against another wave of nausea. “T-The tea…”
“What?”
You shook your head weakly, leaning into him. “It tastes so foul—”
His gaze snapped toward the shattered mess beside your feet. Without hesitation, Aerion crouched and snatched up what remained of the broken cup from the floor. The pungent scent hit almost immediately, and his expression darkened in realization.
Moon tea. He recognized it instantly—it had once been his most reliable safeguard during his years frequenting whorehouse before he wed you. He had forced it into those unkempt women after he was finished with them.
However, even a single sip could have made you miscarry. Someone has intended exactly that.
Aerion surged back to his feet at once, turning towards you so quickly with wild eyes.
“Did you drink any of it?” he demanded harshly. “Did you?”
You shook your head immediately. “No—”
Relief struck him so violently it almost looked painful.
Aerion closed his eyes briefly before gripping the back of your head, pulling you to his embrace. You breathed in his scent, your nausea receded somewhat.
Around the two of you, the solarium had begun to descend into chaos. Voices overlapped in alarm while guards moved swiftly through the hall. Servants looked petrified, several nobles already retreating from the tables entirely as whispers of poison spread like wildfire.
Moon tea. At a royal luncheon. You. When Aerion lifted his head again, the relief in his expression had vanished entirely, and in its place was pure fury.
“Seal the hall,” Aerion ordered sharply, but at first, no one moved quickly enough for his liking. “I said seal the fucking hall!” he roared, his voice cracking through the hall.
Kingsguard immediately surged into motion. Doors slammed shut. Panic rippled through the gathered guests as guards began seizing servants and blocking every exit from the hall.
“No one leaves this place,” Aerion continued, drawing you protectively against his side while his vengeful gaze remained fixed upon the crowd.
“I want every servant, cook, and miserable soul here questioned. One step forward— and I will have your head severed and hung to rot in Flea Bottom for all to see.”
You could feel the hammering of his heart in your ears. His expression still murderous, it was only when he looked back down at you did some fragment of restraint finally return to his face.
“You are certain you swallowed none of it?” he asked again, quieter and softer this time.
You looked up at him, eyes wide and glassy. “I am certain.”
Aerion searched your face carefully, as though trying to convince himself you truly stood unharmed before him.
And in that moment, you found yourself clinging to him instinctively—your steadfast protector amidst the chaos.
The entire castle remained in uproar long after you had been escorted back to your chambers. The server who had handed you that accursed tea was apprehended with ease, and Aerion had gone personally to beat the fear of the gods into him in the dungeons.
Yet another Blackfyre loyalist hidden amongst the castle’s walls like a serpent. No one told you exactly what became of him, but when your prince returned not long after, there had been blood across the cuffs of his tunic that certainly had not belonged to him.
By then, relief and exhaustion had finally overtaken you, dragging you into a light and restless sleep. You awoke sometime later in his arms, to the soft crackling of the fire.
His deep violet eyes were fixed on you, dark shadows under them as if he hadn’t been resting at all.
“You’re not sleeping...?”
“Was about to.”
Though he tried to conceal it, exhaustion lingered plainly across his face. It was rare to see Aerion so bare and vulnerable like this.
The memory came rushing back all at once then. The putrid stench, the panic in the hall, the horrifying realization that someone had wanted you and your child dead before they had even drawn breath—
A tremor ran through you before you could suppress it and your husband engulfed you in his embrace, holding you tightly.
“Cease this at once, wife,” he whispered in your ear, sounding almost irritated despite his obvious and clumsy attempt at comfort. “So long as I draw breath, no one will harm you.”
Your eyes burned. “What did you do to him?”
“What? You expected mercy from me tonight?”
“No.” You shook your head against his chest, your voice small and bitter. “Make him suffer first, and only then do you give him a painful death.”
That actually managed to pull a dark smile from him. “No,” he murmured, his chest rumbling against you. “I will make him rot first. Death is a mercy he has to earn.”
A faint smile tugged at your lips when you pulled away from his hold, though worry still lingered beneath your ribs.
“There.” Aerion brushed a stray tear from your cheek with his thumb, his violet eyes warmer than you had ever seen before. “Better already.”
How both of you reached this point astonished even you. The mad boy who had terrorized your childhood, your enemy who had become your destined husband— Aerion Brightflame was your greatest bane of existence too.
Yet here you were, trusting him more than anyone else alive in Westeros. You knew his cruelty, but you also knew his loyalty—and you knew, just as surely as he would make anyone who ever came close to harm you rue the day they ever did, he would guard you like a dragon atop treasure.
And because of that, the doubt in your voice was softer than it might have once been when you finally asked:
“…What if the babe is a girl?”
Aerion’s brows furrowed immediately, as though the question itself puzzled him.
“A princess,” you explained, fingers drifting protectively over your stomach. “You value a son and heir above all else. But who could have known the will of the gods?”
Aerion stared at you for a long, unreadable moment, as though carefully weighing your words before at last letting out a scoff.
“Mark my words now, wife, for I will not repeat them. I require that this child, boy or girl, survives.”
You blinked, caught off guard by his words. However, his expression hardened slightly afterwards.
“And the same goes for you. If you don’t, I will never, ever forgive you.”
In that moment, you thought you would willingly give everything of yourself to place this child safely into his arms. You would give him a son too, gods willing.
You reached for your husband then, pulling him down into the purest and sweetest of a kiss.
“Be welcome, noble knights and lords of the realm!”
Commoners and nobles alike buzzed with excitement for the grand tourney, their cheers echoing throughout the stands. High up on the royal dais, King Daeron stood, his voice amplified by the roaring acoustics of the arena as he opened the games with salutations.
“...and this glorious day has been made all the more blessed by joyful news,” the good king proclaimed proudly. “My beloved granddaughter has begun her labors! May the Seven grant fortune to every combatant this day!”
Down on the field, however, the King’s words brought no celebration to the man affected most.
Aerion sat atop his warhorse, motionless. Beneath his dark armor, his chest rose and fell in sharp, shallow breaths. While other knights waved jovially at the crowd, his gaze was locked entirely on the opposing end of the lists.
Your pains had started since last night. Through the early hours of midnight, you had endured them in silence, determined to hold yourself together a little longer, yet occasionally curling into him for comfort. By dawn, however, you were in tears, and every hour after that became a new torment for you.
But when it came time to see him off this morning, you had refused to look weak. Sweat clung to your face, and your eyes were glistening, but a fierce light burned right through them. Gripping his armor, you had hissed a command through gritted teeth:
“Win that fucking tourney, and only then are you allowed come back to me, husband.”
“Son of Prince Maekar of Summerhall—”
A violent, dark impatience overtook him.
“Grandson to King Daeron the Good—”
If he had to tear through every knight in the Seven Kingdoms to get back to your side, he would do it. And he would do it quickly.
“Prince Aerion Brightflame of House Targaryen—”
Lowering his visor with a sharp, echoing snap, Aerion gripped his lance. He would come back as a victor, exalted and feared, and you would give him his child.
Your child too. He knew already they would be sweet, just like you.
“—will choose his first opponent!”
. . .
The air inside your birthing chambers was thick by midday, smelling heavily of copper, sweat, and the sharp scent of crushed lavender oil the maids used to soothe the air.
But there was no soothing the agony ripping through you.
Another of your heartbreaking wails filled the air when another violent contraction hit, seizing your spine and twisting your abdomen with a malice that stole the breath straight from your lungs.
“Push, my lady! You must push!” the midwife urged, her hands busy prodding you beneath the heavy linens. “The child is close, but you cannot lose your strength now!”
Your body felt broken, torn apart from the inside out. Your eyes were rimmed with tears of pain and pure exhaustion, blurring the stone walls of your chambers into a hazy nightmare.
Your prince was out there tearing through the realm’s finest knights just to earn the right to return to your side. He was conquering the field for you. For this child.
And you would not fail him on your own battlefield.
“Again!” the midwife commanded when that familiar, iron grip curling and seizing your womb once more. “Now, my lady!”
But the next wave was the most terrible pain you had ever experienced, and your voice cracked into raw scream as you pushed with every last shred of strength left within your body.
You could feel the crushing pressure, the burning fire, the blinding and unforgiving sensation of your very body being split apart—
The midwife cried, her voice rising in triumph over the distant rumble of the arena:
“I see the head! One more, my lady! Give me everything you have!”
. . .
“The Prince Aerion wins!”
He had done it. The second he threw the other knight off his horse and he yielded, he had ridden his warhorse, torn his helmet off, and marched towards your chambers like a specter of death.
In his frantic rush to end his final foe, he had made one careless mistake though— leaving his guard down just enough for a lance to slice a deep gash down his forearm, and now crimson blood dripped steadily onto the pristine floors with every step towards your chambers.
He had been told that you had tethered between life and death—shivering before falling unconscious the moment the child was born.
“My prince! You cannot go in there!” a maid cried, stepping in front of the heavy oak doors, her hands raised in horror. “You are covered in filth! The lady must be kept clean, the babe—”
“Get a maester to dress my wound,” he spat viciously, making the poor girl recoil. “Now.”
The maester came soon, scrambling to pour a wine over the wound to cleanse it, hastily wrapping a fresh linen binding over the gash. It was a rushed job, done in mere seconds. The white linen instantly bloomed with a fresh patch of red. His attendant quickly wiped the sweat and grime from his face and helped him out of his armor as fast he could.
Aerion shoved them away after they were done, turning back to the heavy doors, but the midwives still stood there, hesitant between duty and fear.
His arm burned, exhaustion and blood loss leaving him half-delirious, and they knew better than to deny him his right. Aerion stormed into the chambers, drawing gasps from the wet nurses and your maids. Instinctively, every gaze in the room flickered toward the small bundle wrapped in linen within the cradle beside the hearth.
They expected him to demand his heir. They expected him to look for the son he had so desperately coveted—
But to their surprise, he didn’t even spare a glance at the cradle. Instead, he crossed the room in a few long strides and went straight to where you lay still.
“Wife,” he breathed hoarsely, reaching for you at once. “I am here.”
You were deathly pale. Your eyes fluttered open weakly, as if you were pulling yourself back from a long, deep sleep.
Then, you looked up and smiled at him— so beautiful and tender it nearly broke him.
He gathered you into his arms, engulfing you in a fierce, crushing hug— pressing a hard kiss to the crown of your head. You let out a watery laugh, clutching at him too.
“It is a son,” you told him with pride. “He looks just like you.”
Aerion let out a quiet, disbelieving chuckle at that. In truth, the idea of a daughter didn’t seem terrible to him at all right now.
In fact, now that the thought had crossed his mind, he found himself wanting a pretty little girl too... one who had your eyes and your smile.
History would fondly remember the romance between the bitterest enemies who found the truest of love, for the realm had borne witness to that auspicious day—
The dragon prince has won his triumph, and so has his lion princess.
tagging @marianntorres2611 @starkleila @huntmewithdogs @pinkfunland @dauntlesshereticleviathan @laylavynna @dabishou @ireneisbored @menacing-pfeffernusse @xxvelvetxxx @icebearcucumber as per request! thank you for reading if you have reached this far <3
how would modern!aerion react to find ls masturbating
18+ (smut). mdni. good morning to me! i missed them!
three things happen in very quick succession.
first: offense.
genuine, petty, sexual offense. because he is right there. he exists, he's within a five-mile radius of you, he fucked you this morning in his shower with your back against the tile and his hand over your mouth purely to piss you off, and now, six hours later, you're in his bed touching yourself like he's dead? like he doesn't have a tongue? hands? a perfectly functional cock that is demonstrably interested in helping you with this?
he stands in the doorway for a full three seconds just staring at you with this look of pure affront on his face. mouth open. rings glinting as his hand tightens on the doorframe. you haven't noticed him yet (your eyes are closed, head tipped back into his pillows, your hand moving between your legs in slow, distracted circles) and the sight of it does something complicated to his brain chemistry, but the first thing it does is piss him off.
"are you serious right now?"
your eyes fly open. you freeze, hand still between your thighs, and the look on your face makes him even more annoyed because you shouldn't look smug. because clearly you've decided he's not enough for you, clearly he's failed some crucial fucking metric if you're—
"i'm here," he says, gesturing at himself with the kind of theatrical irritation only aerion can manage. "i'm—i fucked you this morning, you were literally still shaking when i got you your coffee, and now—what, i'm obsolete? you've moved on? should i leave you and your hand alone?"
you blink at him. then, slowly, you smile.
and that smile (god, that fucking smile) flips something in his brain from offended to oh no.
second: he wants to watch.
the offense was performative, a thin crust over the actual reaction happening underneath, which is that aerion targaryen has just walked into his bedroom and found you (his wolf, his nightmare, the only person alive who makes him feel like he's coming apart at the seams) touching yourself in his bed, and he didn't get to see it from the beginning.
he should have been here for this. he should have gotten to watch your face when you started, should have seen the exact moment you slid your hand down, the first catch of your breath. the way your hips shifted against his sheets. and he missed it, and that feels, somehow, like a personal slight.
"how long have you been—" he starts, and his voice has gone quieter now, lower, the performance dropping. he's still standing in the doorway but his weight has shifted forward. his eyes have gone dark, pale lashes lowered, fixed on your hand. "how long?"
you don't answer immediately. just hold his gaze, your hand still resting between your thighs, not moving. waiting.
"were you thinking about me?" he demands, and it comes out rougher than he meant it to. needier.
you hum. noncommittal.
his jaw tightens. "were you saying my name?"
"...maybe."
"maybe." he laughs, but it's not a joyful laugh. it's the laugh that means he's about to make you regret being coy with him. "show me, then. i want to see what i missed. i want to hear you say it."
and here's where whole thing tilts from offense into something else entirely. because aerion could fuck you right now (he wants to fuck you right now, you can see it in the way he's looking at you, the tension in his shoulders, the way his rings catch the light as his hand flexes against the doorframe) but he doesn't move. he stays where he is. watching.
"go on," he says quietly. "finish what you started."
third: mutual masturbation. or he just fucks you. he's no saint.
aerion tries.
he genuinely, earnestly tries to be patient, to let this play out, to talk you through it the way he's been fantasising about doing since the second he walked in and saw your hand between your legs.
he leans against the doorframe. he watches you touch yourself. he tells you (voice low, mean and shaking slightly at the edges) exactly what he wants you to do. "slower. no, slower, don't finish yet, i didn't say you could finish."
and it works. for maybe ninety seconds it works. you follow his instructions, your hand moving the way he tells you to move it, and he watches with this focused, predatory intensity, and his own hand drops to the front of his jeans (just resting there at first, palm pressing against the obvious line of him) and you can see him fighting it, see him trying to be good, to make this last.
but then you say his name.
just a soft, breathless "aerion" as your hips lift off the bed, and that's it. that's the end of his self-control. his hand is already working his jeans open as he crosses the room, and by the time he reaches the bed he's shoving them down his hips along with his briefs, and he's crawling over you with and his mouth already finding yours.
"you're impossible," he mutters against your lips, one hand batting yours away so he can replace it with his own, fingers sliding into you without preamble. "actually impossible. i was going to—i had a whole—fuck, you're so wet—"
"you were going to what?" you manage, gasping as he curls his fingers.
"i was going to watch," he bites out, sounding genuinely aggrieved about it even as he's sinking two fingers deeper, his thumb finding your clit. "i was going to be good, i was going to let you finish like this and then fuck you after, but you—you said my name—"
"sorry," you lie, not sorry at all.
"no you're not." he pulls his fingers out, and before you can complain he's lining himself up, the head of him pressing against you. "you're never fucking sorry, you do this on purpose, you—"
he sinks in.
all at once. just one smooth brutal slide until he's buried completely, the stretch of him a punishment, and you're making a sound into his mouth that he swallows like he's starving for it.
"there," he breathes, pulling back just enough to look at you, his eyes gone lavender-dark and slightly wild. "there, fuck, this is what you needed, wasn't it? not your hand. me."
and he's right, obviously, he's always right about this even when he's insufferable about it, but you're not going to give him the satisfaction of saying so. you just wrap your legs around his hips and pull him deeper, and aerion makes this low, broken sound and starts moving.
he fucks you mean. he fucks you like he's annoyed about it, like you've personally inconvenienced him by being so fucking hot that he couldn't keep his hands to himself for two full minutes. his rhythm is rough and uneven, chasing his own pleasure more than yours because he's petty and you ignored him in favour of your own hand, and he's going to make sure you know exactly what you were missing.
except—
except he can't help himself. halfway through he slows down, his forehead dropping to yours, and his hand slides between your bodies to find your clit again because aerion targaryen is incapable of fucking you without making you come. it's a point of pride. and he'd rather die than let you finish yourself off when he's right here.
"say it again," he demands, voice rough.
"say what?"
"my name. say it the way you were saying it when i walked in. i want to hear it."
you smile against his mouth. and then, because you're generous, because he's fucking you so perfectly you can barely think, you give it to him.
"aerion."
he shudders. full-body. his hips stutter, rhythm faltering for half a second before he catches himself and drives back in harder.
"again."
"aerion—"
"fuck, yes, like that—"
and when you come, it's with his name in your mouth and his hand between your legs and his cock buried so deep inside you that you can't tell where you end and he begins. and aerion follows maybe ten seconds later, finishing inside you with a low, guttural sound and his teeth in your shoulder and his rings digging into your hip hard enough to bruise.
afterward, when you're both catching your breath and he's collapsed half on top of you, still inside you because he's clingy even when he pretends he's not, you run your fingers through his sweaty pale hair and murmur, "you know, i was thinking about you."
he lifts his head. eyes narrowed. "obviously you were thinking about me."
"the whole time."
"i know."
"you didn't know. you asked."
"i was—" he stops. recalibrates. "i was confirming."
you grin. "you were jealous of my hand."
"i was not—"
"you absolutely were."
aerion glares at you. then, because he's a bastard, he shifts his hips just enough to make you gasp, still sensitive, and smirks when your nails dig into his shoulders.
"next time," he says, voice low and smug, "you wait for me."
"or what?"
"or i'll make you wait." he kisses you, slow and wet, sucking on your bottom lip. "and i'll make you watch while i finish myself off. see how you like it."
you both know he's lying. you both know he could never have that level of discipline when it comes to you or his pleasure. but you let him have it anyway, because he's pretty when he's pretending to be in control, and because he's going to fuck you again just to prove a point.
Coming to your uncle to seek answers, he teaches you something far more dangerous instead: that perfection is a cage you’ve mistaken for virtue. Long before you realize you’ve crossed a line, it isn’t innocence you’ve lost, but the desire to ever be good again.
WORDS: 4421
WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT—MDNI; canon typical incest/Targcest (uncle & niece), slightly dubious consent, p in v, oral (fem receiving), hand job, slight pussy spanking (once), corruption/corruption kink, innocence kink, daemon being daemon, afab reader with valyrian features (silver hair and lilac eyes)
NOTES: @schniiipsel this is for you. <3 it‘s leaning more towards the book canon than the show.
The sun hangs high above King’s Landing, casting golden light through the garden’s arched trellises draped in blooming flowers. Bird chirps around you, much more prominent with the gardens being otherwise quiet at this hour.
You sit on a marble bench near the roses; your back straight, ankles crossed and a book lying open in your lap. It’s filled with stories of queens and ladies who were everything you’ve always been told to become–graceful, noble, good. Perhaps even perfect.
Being far too engrossed in your stories, you don’t really notice him at first.
But Daemon notices you.
He stands beneath a stone archway, watching you, before he steps forwards, his boots crunching softly against the gravel.
You lift your head immediately, a polite smile on your lips. “Uncle.”
Daemon has seen you like this plenty of times before, your perfect posture, the perfect obedience, and it makes his teeth grind. He’s not the only one that notices what a stark contrast you are to your older sister, acting exactly the way that’s expected of her as the heir.
A muscle twitches in his jaw as he approaches. “That is a dull way to spend the day,” he says, eyeing you with caution.
You know there is not truly ill intention behind his words. Someone like him—someone that would rather spend weeks on end in his dragon’s saddle in complete freedom—just can’t seem to be enthusiastic about things that are required by duty.
Your fingers briefly curl against the parchment of the book, before you’re smoothing it out with your thumbs again, schooling your expression in serene neutrality. “I was told it is my duty to read this,” you reply evenly. “Queen Alicent said knowledge of proper conduct is essential for a princess.”
There’s no protest in your voice, and no hint that you want to do something else entirely. It’s not accompanied by a sigh, a roll of your eyes or a completely different way of rebellion like your sister might’ve shown at being forced through another lesson.
He steps forwards without a warning, reaching out, and closes the book with one decisive snap. “Duties,” he repeats, tasting the word on his tongue like it’s sour. “Gods, you sound like a septa already.”
As the book snaps shut, you stiffen briefly, your wide eyes darting up to meet his. Surprise is etched onto your features, because even your uncle has never before dared to interrupt your studies like this.
Daemon exhales through his nose, his jaw tightening as he looks down at you. It’s always about duties. He’s spent his whole life bound by them, too. The duty to serve Viserys, the duty to be loyal despite their differences, the duty not to cause trouble even when every fiber of him screamed for rebellion.
But seeing it in you—in this sweet girl who he used to take for rides over King’s Landing on Caraxes’ back—makes something rise in his chest. “And there’s not a single thought of your own?”
Daemon reaches out, and plucks Queen Alicent’s precious gift from your lap. The title glints on its cover—The Virtues of Noble Women—and you can’t help but remember when she has presented it to you with a saccharine smile on her lips, and the soft praises about “raising the future lady of a noble house”.
Your fingers twitch instinctively at the sudden loss, and you simply watch as your uncle flips through the pages with deliberate disinterest.
“I think plenty, uncle,” you say.
He doesn’t reply right away. Instead, he turns over another page, and then another, scanning the dense text with thinly veiled disdain. Scoffing under his breath, he tosses the book to the side where it lands with a dull thud against the grass.
“Plenty?” he echoes, turning his attention back to you. “And what do you think about when no one is watching? When you are alone in your chambers or walking through these gardens?”
His voice isn’t mocking—not quite, at least—but there’s an edge beneath it; something between curiosity and protectiveness.
Your lips part slightly, as if the question genuinely surprises you. No one ever truly asks you what you think, and no one ever cares beyond checking if you’ve memorized the correct answers to questions about proper court etiquette or history.
They want to know whether your lessons are being absorbed, not what swirls behind your lilac eyes when no one else is looking.
Daemon waits patiently, enduring the silence between you without pushing. He studies you; the slight part of your lips, the way your lashes lower just a little as if you’re searching for an answer that doesn't exist.
The garden hums softly around you with bees drifting between flowers, leaves rustling in a gentle breeze. The world keeps moving… but you stand still.
“You read all these stories about perfect women who never stepped out of line,” he muses, raising a brow. “Tell me, do you think they were happy, or just… obedient?”
It has never occurred to you. The queens and ladies in these stories—these perfect, noble women—were always praised for their virtues. They were happy, weren’t they? At least, that’s what everyone implies with their approving nods whenever you recite a passage from one of these books out loud during lessons.
You consider it, and for the first time in years, doubt creeps into your mind. And your uncle sees it. It’s a tiny crack in your polished mask, flashing across your face.
That look hits home, because he’s had the same one back when he realized that Viserys would never truly see him as an equal, but just as a younger brother that is tolerated at court and not trusted with real power.
A lifetime of being told who you are supposed to be until you forget who you really are.
“You have been told your whole life what you must be,” he says. “Perfect, pure, worthy. But no one has told you what you do not have to be.”
A breeze lifts strands of his short, silver hair as he steps closer again, and crouches slightly so you’re nearly on eye level.
You stare at him for the first time since he’s stepped into the garden; not as your uncle or a prince, but as Daemon Targaryen, the man who never bows to anyone’s expectations. Your breath hitches, and your hands still remain in your lap, but something inside of your chest tightens with an emotion you can’t name.
“And what is that?”
An almost fond smile tugs at the corners of his lips. “You do not have to be perfect, niece,” he says. “You can frown when you are bored, or sigh if a lesson is dull. You can want things just because you want them, and not because someone says a princess should.”
You inhale a sharp breath before you can stop it. The concept of wanting something just because is foreign to you. They have drilled the idea that a princess’ desires should be controlled at all times into your mind, and a good lady doesn’t indulge herself.
He rises to his feet, and takes a step back. “If you are content being what they have made you, then forget this conversation ever happened.” His lilac eyes drag over your sitting form.
“But if you are not,” he starts, tilting his head slightly, his eyes sharpening with intent. “If even a small part of you wonders what it might feel like to choose for yourself—”
The sentence hangs between you, and he doesn’t finish it immediately.
He turns, and begins to walk away, but stops just before the stone archway, glancing at you from over his shoulder.
“Come find me.”
With these words, he disappears where he came from, leaving you frozen on the bench. Your heart pounds beneath your ribs with a traitorous rhythm that doesn’t match your composed exterior at all.
Is it a command? An invitation? You can’t tell. Daemon never does things by half measures. He’s either direct or cruel or charmingly vague, but never in-between.
—
When the night comes, you don’t find sleep. And if you do, it’s interrupted. You doze off, more than once, but always wake up plagued by thoughts.
You don’t want to admit it, but his words have left you not as unaffected—and uninterested—as you’d like to claim. And so, you rise, in the middle of the night. A simple robe is thrown over your dark nightgown, tied at the waist.
You don’t choose to leave through the door, no, that would be too obvious at this hour. You push a narrow door close to your bed open, and disappear into the cold and dark tunnels that have been once built by Maegor the Cruel. Rhaenyra has brought you along more often than not, and therefore you’re quite confident in finding the path leading towards Daemon’s chambers.
With a soft knock, you just wait, listening carefully to hear any commotion behind the door. It’s not a surprise you startle when the door suddenly opens and you’re standing across from Daemon.
His eyes drag over your frame, and your widened ones do the same. He wears a simple tunic, unbuttoned at the throat with the sleeves rolled up, and some pair of dark trousers.
The intensity of his gaze tears a shiver through your body, before you quickly hush past him into the warmth of his chambers.
He closes the door behind you, and watches as you just stand in his chambers, the flames of the hearth casting long shadows across your clothes. He steps towards you, and catches the hem of your robe between his fingers, adjusting it slightly where it has slipped off one of your shoulders.
“Should you not be somewhere… proper?” he asks idly.
You open your mouth, and close it, swallowing thickly. The word proper sits heavy in the air, because proper would be your chambers with you tucked safely away behind locked doors with a guard posted outside to ensure no one disturbed your rest. Proper was attending the morning prayer or practicing embroidery under the septa’s watchful eyes—not sneaking through secret tunnels built by mad kings at night to find Daemon Targaryen of all people.
A shiver runs down your spine, but not from the cold. “N-No, I–I should not,” you stammer beneath his curious gaze, pressing your lips into a thin line.
His lips curve slightly, just very briefly, and make you terribly aware that he knows all too well that his words have burrowed into your mind like thorns beneath gloves. As he cocks a brow, you start to fidget with the fabric of your nightgown. “I could–I could not sleep,” you admit.
Daemon scoffs and steps closer, slow and deliberate like he’s approaching a skittish animal. A hand rises, brushing a strand of your silver hair behind your ear. “No,” he replies simply. “I suppose not.”
You feel his fingers linger near your temple for a moment longer than necessary, the pad of his calloused thumb grazing your cheekbone. He studies you, the stiffness of your shoulders like you expect a punishment for being there.
But that doesn't come.
Something dark and possessive stirs in him at the sight, because you’re so clearly nervous. It plants a seed in his mind: the ambition to unravel all the training Alicent has forced on you to show you what it means to want, not just to obey.
A smirk tugs at the corners of his lips, not mocking, but close. “Now why did you come, niece?”
Your tongue darts out briefly to wet your lips before you answer: “I–I thought about what you said,” you admit, your eyes flitting down to the floor. “About not being perfect.”
The confession—small but monumental for a princess that has spent her entire life striving for perfection—prompts you to swallow thickly. “And I did not know how to sleep with it.”
A low hum rumbles in his chest as he leans back slightly; not retreating, but giving you space. His gaze sweeps over you again. “And what did you think?”
“That I do not know if I want to be perfect,” you confess, your voice barely above a whisper. “But I–I also do not know what else there is.” Exhaling a shaky breath, you glance up at him, searching his face for something.
His expression darkens at your confession, and he’s suddenly close enough that you have to tilt your head up to keep meeting his gaze. “There are plenty of things,” he replies, and without a warning, he brushes his knuckles along your cheekbone.
Despite the touch being featherlight, it sends a jolt through you. Your breath hitches, and your eyes widen as he moves with deliberate slowness. No one ever touches you like this.
Without breaking eye contact, he leans in. The movement is gradual, giving you every chance to flinch or protest and say this isn’t right.
But you don’t.
He’s close enough for your breaths to mingle, yours coming in tiny, shallow puffs of air against his lips. Your lashes lower slightly, a subconscious tilt that betrays your curiosity—and perhaps even want.
Daemon closes the distance, pressing his lips to yours in a soft kiss as though he’s testing the waters first.
For half a heartbeat, you freeze, before your body responds. It’s just a tiny lean forward, a quiet press back against his mouth and the slightest parting of your lips, and it’s enough to be noticed by him.
A low sound rumbles in his chest, and his hands rise slowly; one cradling the back of your head with his calloused fingers threading into your silver strands, and the other sliding around your waist to pull you closer against him.
His warm lips start to move against yours with hunger, his tongue brushing against your lower lip experimentally. It causes your lips to part, and he is quick to seize the opportunity to slip his tongue past them.
Your hand finds his shoulder at the sudden intrusion, while the other rests at his chest with his tunic clutched tightly between your fingers, torn between pushing him away and pulling him in.
You hardly notice him reaching for the bow at the front of your robe, and eventually tugging on it. Only when it glides off your shoulders, a chill hitting the now exposed skin, do you draw back from him.
It suddenly feels too overwhelming, even more when you let go of him and the robe slides down your arms and to the ground, pooling at your feet. You now stand before him in nothing but the thin silk of your nightgown, a delicate strap slipping slightly from one shoulder where the movement has disturbed it.
His gaze trails over you—slowly and hungry—forcing you to take another step back. As you put some distance between you, your calves are met with a nearby chair, the impact prompting you to sit down on it. With a slight shift, you adjust your position, and press your thighs together.
You look up at him with wide eyes, your chest rising and falling with heavy breaths that betray your hesitancy. “We sh–I should leave,” you mumble.
But Daemon doesn’t argue.
Instead, he simply lowers himself, and kneels before you on the cold stone floor. The flames cast shadows across his sharp features, accentuating the strong line of his jaw, and these piercing eyes that study you carefully. He’s not towering over you anymore, at least not physically. The position shouldn’t be intimidating, no, it should’ve made him smaller, less imposing—but somehow it does the exact opposite.
One of his large hands rises slowly, and rests gently against your knee where it peeks out from beneath your nightgown.
“You were eager enough to come,” he muses. “Strange that courage fails you now.” He looks at you with patience written all over his features, clearly understanding that this scares you. Yet it’s evident he doesn’t let it stop him completely.
“I–I do not know what I am doing,” you admit softly, flattening your lips.
“Of course you don’t,” he murmurs, his lips curving into a mocking smirk. “If you did, this would hardly be interesting.”
You don’t have a chance to truly ponder over his words, not when he suddenly leans forwards and presses his lips gently against the side of your knee. It sends a jolt through you, and you watch silently as he slowly inches his way up. “B–But…” you try to protest, although you don’t really want him to stop, do you?
“Hush now,” Daemon purrs, pressing kisses along the inside of your thighs. He gathers the skirt of your nightgown in one hand, and brings it up to rest at your hip. “You need not think so hard, niece.”
The whimper you release is enough to bring heat to your cheeks, more so when his tongue suddenly makes contact with your cunt and coaxes another one to slip past your lips. A shiver ripples through you when he pulls back to drag his tongue through your slit.
“You’re drenched, little princess,” he remarks, his dark blown eyes gazing up at you from between your legs.
The profanity of it all prompts you to press your lips into a thin line and look to the side, a wave of heat crashing over your whole body. But Daemon isn’t having any of that. He merely tsks, and serves a light slap with the back of his hand to your cunt. “Keep those pretty eyes on me.”
Although it’s not harsh, you still squirm in your seat, meeting his gaze with your head nodding eagerly.
“Good girl,” he praises, and takes that as his cue to continue, his lips finding your little bundle of nerves. One swivel of his tongue already has you arching your back, and the steady rhythm he builts is enough for you to start grinding your hips.
Two of his fingers slowly ease into of you, the thickness foreign for a moment but forgotten when they start to brush your sweet spot in a come hither motion that has you tightly locking your thighs around his head. Your hand finds the short strands of his hair, fingers threading into them to tug on it not-so-gently which has Daemon groaning against your folds.
No matter how badly you try to keep your eyes on him—knowing his own flicker up to meet yours every now and then—your head eventually tilts back slightly, and your eyes fall shut. Soft, quiet moans slip past your lips, slowly but surely growing in their intensity.
The knot in your belly tightens far too quickly with the pace he sets up, lapping and sucking at your little bud in tandem with his fingers scissoring in and out of you. But it doesn’t seem like that’s what your uncle wants. He reads the telltale signs of your impending release as if he has never done anything else, and stops his ministrations without missing a beat.
You can’t help but whine as the pleasure disappears at once. Your eyes open, and when you look down at him, you spot his chin, lips, and cheeks being coated in your arousal, glistening in the dim light of his chamber.
“W–Why did you stop?” you whimper, your lips dropping into a pout as you try to reign his head back between your thighs. But Daemon is stronger, making it clear that that’s not sufficient enough for him.
“I have scarcely begun, and you are already trembling, niece. Do you truly think that this will be all?” he asks, and rises to his feet.
Not only do his words make your breath hitch in your throat, but also the visible, straining bulge in the front of his trousers. He’s achingly hard for you already, wanting to be buried inside of you.
“You are always trying to be perfect,” he continues, leaning in to brush his thumb across your bottom lip. “Now let me see how lovely you are when you stop trying.”
Staring at the strained fabric of his trousers, you bite your bottom lip and nod sheepishly. He grabs your wrist, and pulls you to your feet. Noticing how shakily you stand on them, Daemon wastes no time and throws you over his shoulder.
It catches you off guard, and you squeal right before your back already hits the silk sheets of his bed. You prop yourself up on your elbows, watching as he rids himself of his tunic, the trousers, and the boots.
One hand curls around his hard shaft, stroking himself slowly, and clearly making a show out of it for you. A shaky exhale is all that makes its way past your lips, not knowing if you should keep your gaze on his cock, his face or trail the countless scars littered all over his torso.
You settle on the first, and watch with hooded eyes as he comes closer, climbing onto the large bed. The mattress dips beneath his weight, and soon enough he’s towering above you. Your pulse thunders in your ears, much more when he roughly yanks the skirts of your nightgown up to your waist, before he aligns himself with your entrance.
Your arousal makes it easy for his cock to slip inside, greedily sucked in by your cunt with little resistance. Despite the burning stretch of his girth, the feeling of him being buried inside of you brings you a sense of pure bliss, prompting you to clench tightly around him.
Daemon sucks in a sharp breath, and when your hands fly to his shoulders for leverage, he starts to grind his hips against yours. His girth splits you open over and over again, reducing you to a submissive mess.
“S-Seven save me,” you whimper, arching your back beneath him. You have crawled willingly into sin, and now you pray for someone to rescue you from your own desire. It’s not like you actually want to be saved, it’s that you’re scared of the possible consequences.
As your head lulls back into the pillows, your hands seem to have a mind on their own and land below his navel, weakly pushing him away. But Daemon tsks, swatting them away. “None of this,” he growls. “The gods have never saved anyone from me, sweetling.”
An impatient tug at the neckline of your nightgown is enough to free your tits, all but bouncing freely as he fucks you harder, slamming his hips into you. No words or sounds other than hiccuped moans and whimpers leave your lips, and you can’t focus on anything but him.
The tremors that the snaps of his hips force through you have you gasping and whining, a tightness building in the pit of your belly. You have spent so much time being untouched that even the drag of the coarse hair at the base of his cock against your little bud brings you a pleasure beyond imagination. But not only does your need to peak become more apparent; Daemon doesn’t seem to know how much longer he will last, too.
He towers over you, your small frame completely hidden by his. It’s such an easy game for him to keep you where he wants, to use you however he pleases, and at this point you’d let him do whatever he desires with you for as long as you get to relive the sensations you feel over and over again.
Therefore it’s no surprise that your relief washes over you in an ambush, the pleasure all but soaring through your veins. Yet his assault on your cunt doesn’t stop, and when the urge overcomes you to squeeze your thighs together, it doesn’t seize either.
Your mind goes blank, and you hardly notice Daemon toppling over, mercilessly grinding into your quivering cunt and filling you to the brim. You squeeze his throbbing cock ever so tightly in response, all but milking him for every drop.
Daemon rocks into you with reckless abandon, your sweet whimpers and squirming body spurring him on. Squeezing your flesh, he trails both his hands over your body, mapping out the parts that are still hidden by your nightgown.
But at last, the frenzy seems to leave him all at once.
He exhales sharply through his nose and collapses onto his side beside you, remaining like this for a brief moment. You adjust the neckline of your nightgown and stare up at the carved canopy above you as though it might offer you absolution, while he proceeds to sit up, lazily draping one arm around his bent knee.
“You regret it already,” he states.
You can feel your throat tighten at his words, much more when you finally notice his seed seeping idly from your cunt. “I did not say that.”
“No,” Daemon replies, huffing a breath. As you meet his gaze, you spot his lips curving slightly. “You merely look as though the gods themselves witnessed this.”
Heat crawls up your neck, and you press your lips together.
“Poor little princess,” your uncle continues, a mocking edge to his voice. “No one warned you that wanting something could feel so ugly afterwards, mh?”
The words make you flinch slightly, but still enough for him to notice and reach for you. His hand comes to rest at your wrist, his thumb pressing lazily against the frantic beat of your pulse.
“You think this has ruined you now. That one night in my bed has turned you wicked,” he murmurs, his pale gaze drifting slowly over your face. “But sweetling, you were wicked the moment you thought about coming to me.”
Daemon shifts closer to you on the bed. There is no softness in his gaze, just the same consuming fascination he’s worn since you stepped into his chambers.
“You wish to know the amusing part?”
“What?”
A low hum rumbles in his chest, and he leans in to press his lips to your shoulder. Once. “You are ashamed,” he says. “And yet, if I touched you again, you would still let me.”
The truth of his words settles over you like a heavy blanket. You are ashamed, yes, but not because you regret it. It’s the sheer intensity of it—the way your body has responded so eagerly to him despite you being raised to be proper. It’s that desire has overshadowed every moral teaching Queen Alicent and your septa have drilled into you.
And despite that you would crawl straight back into his bed if he asked you too. Without hesitation.
As always: comments and reblogs are very much appreciated! Thank you and thank you for reading! 🥰
AN: Yes. Aerion and Valarr united to keep a girl hostage. Whatever it takes to strenghten the familiar bond, right?
Okay, now yes, this is the last work for a while, this time for real. This is the last work I had on my drafts, so yeah - I'm done for now. I'll post again when I'm finally getting somewhere with my dissertation and God knows that's gonna take forever.
Comments and reblogs are very much appreciated, but a reblog with a comment is even better. Thanks 💗 Let me know if you like this. Enjoy!
--
Tears silently roll down your cheeks, falling like incessant rain.
Your vision is all but a blur, clouded with the salty wetness. Some tears land on your lap, others slip down your neck but you make no effort to clean them. There’s no point to it, you’re already a mess. You sniff, making a small whistling noise as you struggle to breathe with a nose that becomes more stuffed by the minute.
A sharp thump has you flinching, the wooden table rattling when a glass cup gets slammed down with unnecessary force.
“How pathetic.”
Seated to your right on the small circular table, Aerion scrutinizes you with irritation etched to his face. His nose twists when looking at you, as if the sight of your tears is physically repulsive to him. As if he isn’t half the reason why you’re crying.
“Planning on weeping like a puppy all night?” he cruelly asks. “Stupid question. Of course you are. That’s all you ever do.”
Aerion leans closer, lowering his voice like he’s about to let you in on some secret.
“Is this part of your plan?” he asks. You can only look at him, confused. “To shed all these pretty tears and then look at us with those big sad eyes. Do you think us stupid enough to be fooled by you?”
His words are purposely cruel and you look away, a new batch of tears being revived from the mockery. When you don’t answer him, his eyes narrow down. A telltale that his patience is slowly draining.
You can’t stop the pitiful whimper that escapes from your lips when he suddenly snatches your wrist. His fingers painfully dig into the bone, squeezing hard in a warning.
“That’s enough with the fucking tears.”
“Aerion.”
His cousin intervenes, calm and composed even though there is a warning edge in his voice as he directs at Aerion. He nods towards Aerion’s grip.
“Let go of her.” he calmly requests, even though his tone indicates that such is not for discussion. “You’re hurting her.”
Aerion glares at his dark-haired cousin and for a moment there, it almost feels as though his impulsive anger will get the best of him. Watching the two men fiercely argue is common, especially as the smallest of inconveniences seems to trigger their completely opposite personalities and make them clash against each other.
For a moment, it looks like one of their fierce arguments is about to break. But then the moment passes and so does Aerion’s irritation. It doesn’t entirely go away but it subsides just enough to give you space to breathe.
Aerion rolls his eyes, lifting finger by finger until your hand is entirely released. He slumps on the chair, tongue poking into the inside of his cheek as he stares at you.
“Do not pity her too much, cousin. She has a thing for dramatics. I barely touched her and that already got her panties in a twist.” he says, considering you with a dangerous glint in his violet eyes. “Makes me wonder how pathetic she’s gonna act when I finally fuck her.”
Your heart drops.
It’s gonna happen eventually, you know that. You’re not stupid or naive enough to believe that Aerion or Valarr would take a chastity vow for the rest of their lives just because you don’t want them. You not wanting them didn’t stop them from quite literally kidnapping you and keeping you hostage in their basement.
But still, just the thought is disheartening in more ways than one.
The rest of your life…
You don’t want to spend your entire life trapped by a couple of mad cousins who seem to believe that keeping a girl locked tight in their basement is the solution for their obsession. You don’t want to be anywhere near them or to look at their faces or to listen to their voices or to pretend to be a good girl.
You don’t want to spend the rest of life at their mercy… and yet the possibility of such happening is frighteningly real.
“Shut up. Do you always have to ruin dinner with your nonsense?” Valarr shakes his head with a sigh.
“She’s the one ruining it with her tears and snot, not me.”
Humiliation burns in your face as you hastily swipe your palms across your cheeks, wiping down your cheeks. Your nose embarrassingly whistles again as you try to breathe in.
Valarr gently calls out your name.
“Don’t listen to him. Aerion is an idiot who doesn’t own a shred of decency.”
Aerion grunts something that awfully sounds like a curse, but Valarr pays him no mind.
He glances at you, swiftly cutting down the chicken tender in his plate into smaller pieces before lifting them over to your plate. An attentive thought, given how the plastic cutlery you are given barely works.
Valarr eyes your plate. “Eat your food, sweetheart. It’s getting cold.”
Aerion snorts from his seat, rolling his eyes condescendingly.
“Yes, sweetheart, eat your food. And clean that damn nose. All that whistling and sniffling is making me lose appetite.”
To say that you’re mortified is an understatement, you want nothing more than to disappear from the face of the Earth at that comment. You blow your nose with a napkin as quietly as you can, not needing more of Aerion’s insults.
Valarr snorts. “I’d say your lost appetite has more to do with uncle Maekar calling than anything else. What did he want, anyways?”
“Same as usual, that old man says that…”
Their conversation gets lost on you as you focus on the food, a small sharp pain in your gut reminding you of the lunch you skipped.
The plate placed in front of you has long gone cold, but it still looks good. The chicken Valarr cut for you is neatly organized to the side, near the small stack of oven-cooked potatoes, greens and vegetables. Healthy. Fresh.
Picking up the plastic fork, you shove some food into your mouth. It tastes good, like it always does. Seasoned but not overly so. Cooked just perfectly. The type of food that is served in upscale restaurants.
Your mind drifts towards the rectangular service elevator located in the wall of the kitchenette, where the food arrives everyday without fail. Spacious enough to fit a maximum of a couple of food trays, but small enough to prevent a human body from crawling inside.
Aerion once complained about their private chef’s attitude in the mornings and so it’s not hard to put the pieces together into the puzzle and figure out that there’s a person working on a daily basis upstairs. More than one, most likely.
The Targaryen family is wealthy enough to cause envy to most billionaires in the world and surely their sons have a full, large team of staff and employees to take care of their shared house. Private chefs, housekeepers, maids, managers, security.
You’ve lost count of the days, but your captivity time couldn’t be over two weeks.
Two weeks of sending food to the basement.
Two weeks of the boys visiting the basement.
And while their visits are irregular and at odd hours, there’s not a single day they haven’t showed up. You always have dinner together, but they also show up throughout the day to visit you. Sometimes together. Sometimes taking turns.
Aerion and his arrogant attitude, always ready to taunt you about how miserable he can make your life if you don’t start acting right with them. Valarr and his gentle voice, always whispering soft comforting words that hide away his true intentions.
Do their staff not notice their prolonged visits to the downstairs floor or are they paid enough to keep their minds and their eyes strictly to their work? Perhaps they simply don’t care. No one cares. And that means that you’ll rot in this stupidly comfortable basement for the rest of your life.
A lone tear escapes from your eye and you quickly swipe at it, not wanting the barely contained dam to break loose.
Again.
–
Sunday morning you wake up to find Aerion in the living room.
You’re still half dazed from a night of poor sleep and ruthless insomnia, rubbing the exhaustion from your eyes when you realize with a startle that silver-haired boy is on the couch. You stop by the doorway, legs locking up the moment you catch sight of him.
It’s not the first time Aerion has randomly made himself comfortable in the basement apartment, showing unnanounced. Valarr often does the same. It’s almost as if they take turns in checking up on you in person, despite their state-of-the-art vigilance system.
Or maybe their visits are just a strategic step in their plan, a way to force you to become accustomed to their presence around you. If that’s the purpose, you refuse to let it happen.
Much to your dismay though, Aerion only ever drops in the most random occasions. Forcing you to quietly endure his presence while he drops to the mattress and scrolls down on his phone while laying in your bed as if you’re not even there. Sometimes he shows up for something as random as using the en-suite bathroom, only to leave right after.
And sometimes, he comes with the sole purpose of terrorizing you.
The memory is still fresh of when he forced you to accept a shoulder massage, some lousy excuse on how tightly wound up you were and that you needed to relax. Only for the said massage to involve his hands wandering far too low and his fingers painfully digging into your muscles.
And when he caught sight of the tears silently tracking down your face, he snapped. Pushed you away from him with a force that sent you to the floor. Yelled at you for being an ungrateful bitch, that he was only being nice. As if he was the victim, which couldn’t be further from the truth.
While Valarr is always somewhat predictable, Aerion is the complete opposite. He’s fire. Dangerous and uncontrollable, always burning himself and others. He’s volatile. There’s never knowing of his moods, never knowing if ignoring him is gonna make him furiously snap at you or if he’ll just roll his eyes and leave you be.
He’s unpredictable and that’s perhaps what frightens you the most about him. One wrong word can either earn you a sharp slap to the cheek or a just a roll of the eyes - and there’s never telling which one will happen.
So that’s why your heart skips a beat at the sight of Aerion slumped on the couch, feet propped up on the small coffee table.
You try not to stare too hard because of his clothes. Or the lack of them, given how he’s only sporting grey sweatpants. His toned torso is on full display, the black ink of a three-headed dragon on his forearm making a formidable contrast against his pale skin. A monster Aerion seems to be particularly fascinated about, some obsessive connection to the roots of his family history.
Aerion doesn’t look at you. His violet eyes are fixed on the television, though the sound is completely off. A great way to watch television indeed.
He doesn’t acknowledge you, although it’s impossible not to have heard you coming and so you stand at the doorway for a few moments, resisting the temptation to just go back to your room and slip back under the covers until he goes away to do whatever he does on the weekends. But the smell of the delicious waft of fresh donuts coming from the kitchenette has your stomach aching.
In the end your hunger wins and you make an effort to push back the discomfort that gathers in your bones, an instinctive reaction to Aerion’s presence in your vicinity, as you walk across the living room till you reach the corner where the kitchenette is located.
You set the coffee machine working and eye the tray on the counter.
Every morning the kitchen sends down a variety of breakfast pastries. Freshly baked, soft dough and still warm from the oven. Smelling so heavenly that your mouth waters just by looking at the elegant display of donuts, croissants and pancakes.
And it tastes even better than its enticing appearance, you have to hold back from moaning as your teeth sink into a fluffy donut, the sugar glaze melting in your tongue.
You’re halfway through a sugar-sprinkled croissant when Aerion speaks.
“Come here.”
You glance at him and find his violet eyes already settled upon you. He takes his feet off the table and sits straighter on the couch. When you remain posted by the counter a moment too long, his eyebrows rise.
“Come here or I’ll get you here myself.”
His words are said with a plain tone and yet they are enough to get you moving. You make your way to the couch without wasting time. Once you are within his reach, Aerion snatches your hand and rudely tugs you towards him.
You land in his lap with a motion that is as painful as it is graceless and Aerion grunts. Tension surges through your body when his arm snakes around your waist like a reinforced chain, keeping you grounded to him.
With his other hand, he brings your hand to his mouth and takes a bite of your half-eaten croissant.
He stares lecherously with provocation in his eyes as his tongue slithers to his lower lip, licking away the sugar powder. It takes nearly every ounce of self-control not to make your repulsion too obvious and even so the corners of your lips twist downwards.
“Tastes sweet.” he comments, the tip of his tongue still languidly darting at his lips. “Do you like sweet things?”
You writhe before looking away, setting your eyes on the big screen.
Aerion chuckles lightly but lets you ignore him, thankfully. He seems to be in a good mood, those days quite rare.
You were already half-imagining him angrily pushing you to the floor but instead he drags you closer with his arm, settling your back against his bare chest, tucking his chin over your shoulder.
You remain like that for a while, the silence settling between you.
It’s far from comfortable, with you trying not to move on his lap while pretending to watch the screen when in reality you couldn’t be any less interested in seeing a blood-filled scene of what appears to be a criminal investigation show.
You are as though a statue, mentally struggling and shallow breathing, while Aerion is seemingly more than comfortable. The minutes drag by with the pace of a snail, excruciatingly slow.
One episode of the show ends and another begins and yet Aerion seems perfectly content in keeping you captive in his suffocating embrace.
At one point, Aerion begins to caress your arm.
Long fingers moving up and down the length of your arm in smooth movements, fingertips drawing light patterns on the exposed skin. Goosebumps erupt in your skin. His touch feels too intimate, body against body, skin against skin. You don’t even know if he’s doing this on purpose or if it’s genuinely an unconscious gesture.
Either way it messes with your head, a bad feeling in your stomach as you dread the moment he gets bored of innocent touches and his hands graduate into wandering to more intimate regions.
Valarr shows up halfway through the third episode.
By then, your legs have gone stiff from the awkwardness of sitting in someone else’s lap, your mind coming up with all sorts of excuses only to reject them out of fear of triggering Aerion back into his cruel persona.
Aerion’s arm tightens around your waist at the sound of the door opening but remains quiet otherwise. Valarr repeats your steps, freezing by the doorway.
Only the rise of his eyebrows indicates some sort of surprise at finding you and Aerion in such a close position. Heat floods your cheeks, the awkwardness of the situation making you squirm.
“Good morning.”
You greet him back while Aerion only grunts. That has Valarr's attention shifting towards his cousin.
“As much as I hate to interrupt, there’s an emergency.” he declares, “It’s about your brother.”
“Which one?”
“Daeron.”
Aerion sneers. “Shocking.”
“Apparently he pulled Aegon out of boarding school with an excuse and now they’re both missing. Uncle Maekar wants us to help the security team in finding them.”
That doesn’t seem to please Aerion, opposite to you.
“Daeron has pulled this shit before. He’ll return in a few days when his money and booze run out. That’s what he always does anyway.” he spits, “I’m not wasting my time over a drunk brother who doesn’t wanna be found.”
Valarr looks at him, dark brows pinching.
“You have to tag along, Aerion.” he affirms. His eyes dart towards you for a second. “Or do you want your dad to show up here by surprise?”
Sharp pain blooms in your arm, where Aerion’s gentle touch has now turned into cruelty with his blunt nails digging into your skin. His irritation feels palpable as he exhales sharply, upset.
“Daeron, that fucking idiot.”
A yelp escapes you when Aerion abruptly pushes your body to the side with the roughness that is so typical to him. You wince when your arm gets trapped between the couch and your body as you fall down, part of you minimally grateful that at least he didn’t throw you onto the floor.
Aerion curses his pathetic brothers, shoulder colliding against Valarr as he angrily storms off without so much as giving you a last word. You prefer it that way, anyways.
When you finally manage to pull yourself back together, giving into the relief of at last having back your personal space and relishing into the comfort of the solid couch underneath you instead of Aerion’s lap, it’s when you realize that Valarr hasn’t moved away.
He’s staring at you with an expression on his face that you can’t decipher. Brows pushed together, eyes firmly set in you. As if he's trying to figure out something.
“... it might take a while for us to get back. Don’t wait up.”
Valarr speaks at last, giving you a last strange look before leaving.
–
Not a day goes by without you making a round on the apartment. It’s a habit that grew out of boredom as much as of necessity. You can’t stay in the basement forever. You simply… cannot.
It becomes part of your routine, a habit that engraved itself into your nearly empty schedule. You examine the entire apartment at least once a day. Twice if you’re feeling desperate enough.
There’s not a specific time to it though.
Sometimes it’s the first thing you do in the morning, sometimes you have to delay it because of Aerion or Valarr. But your mind quickly becomes restless when the hours go by and you haven’t yet searched for every nook and creek in the apartment in hopes of finding a miraculous way out.
By now the apartment’s floor plan must’ve been etched into your mind, not a single corner that yet remains unknown. Sometimes you consider writing all your findings into a notebook, note down all the details no matter how important or how insignificant they are.
You’ve always been fond of writing things down on paper, finding the physical support much more useful for when needing to clear your head and find a solution. Maybe you could even use the notes to conjure up a few plans, a path to finding back your freedom. But then you’re reminded of Aerion’s awful tendency to go through the few personal belongings you have and how his intruding hands would inevitably find your diary and you instantly give up on that idea.
You don't need to make things worse for you.
The apartment is spacious, with overhead lights that brightly illuminate the divisions during the day in a poor mimick of sunlight and then dim into a weak, gentle lightening as the hours pass till nighttime. It’s all white and beige. Clean and simple, minimalistic and yet not completely desolated.
The main door is an impossible challenge.
Not only does it have a 10 digit passcode that changes everyday but also has a retinal and fingerprint scanner as well as a voice confirmation step. All those security steps severely limit down your chances but it did cross your mind that you could simply wait for the boys to open the door, push them aside and then make a run for it. But the same thought must’ve crossed their minds as well as they never unlock the door if you’re around.
The spacious, larg living room is divided in two areas, wide enough to have a long beige couch and a home theater television hanged to the wall as well as to host the kitchenette in a corner, a small round table next to it where you eat your meals.
The reasoning behind having a kitchenette is beyond your comprehension as there is no oven, no stove, no microwave. Only the service elevator that acts as food delivery and a bunch of locked drawers where the metal knives and glass plates are kept.
Other than that, there’s only a small fridge with cold water and ice and then a small pantry stacked full with snacks and drinks to keep you satisfied until meal time.
And then there’s your room, the king sized bed occupying the biggest part of it. There’s a very minimalistic touch to the whole division, with only the bare essentials - a small wooden wardrobe, a simple vanity, a clock on the wall. The en-suite bathroom is a small sanctuary within this nightmare, the only door with a functional lock. While there are cameras hanging on the top corner of each room - even the bedroom, the bathroom escapes from that fate. Most likely they didn’t want the gross vision of you using the toilet although you’re very certain Aerion would enjoy watch you take a shower.
As of lately the tall door that controls your freedom persists in your mind.
Your thoughts are inevitably drawn to it, like a moth attracted to flame. Your heart skips a beat whenever that metallic beep travels through the air, the sound of the door being pushed open or even closed.
You pay closer attention to when the door is opened from the inside.
The boys’ back covers the majority of the process and they’re awfully quiet when doing whatever is it that they do. But you’ve come to catch a few stray details about it. It’s not always the code that opens the door, nor is it the retinal scanner, or the fingerprint option or even the audio mechanism.
It alternates.
The door-opening mechanisms change everyday in an irregular pattern, too confusing for you to even try and figure it out. Not just that, but the codes are updated every day as well. The punching of the keypad sounds different each time you try to listen, the words they whisper into the microphone resonating inconsistently on each occasion.
It’s too confusing, too complex and your memory doesn’t cooperate when you need it to. It’s a complete disgrace. It frustrates you so much that your eyes can’t stop being constantly drawn to it.
Much like right.
You realize with a startle that Valarr has stopped talking, his eyes following your fixed gaze before returning to your face. He stares at you, not exactly surprised but perhaps a bit... amused?
“... it was my idea.”
That grabs your attention. “Hm?”
“It was my idea.” he nods towards the door, “The door. Had it custom made, very specific design. State of the art technology gadgets. It cost us a fortune."
He smiles.
"Aerion doesn’t like it any better than you do, thinks it’s too much trouble.”
Your lips twist.
“He’s not wrong.” you whisper.
“He’s not wrong.” Valarr repeats slowly, nodding his head. “That’s true. It’s a lot of trouble. More for us than you, really. But I thought you’d prefer it this way.”
You look at him, not sure whether to be confused or angry.
“Why would I?”
Valarr gives you a pointed look, tilting his head.
“Well, maybe because instead of the door, Aerion suggested we keep you chained to the bed.”
A cold feeling spreads in your body, twisting your guts. You look at Valarr, horrified. What?
He only shrugs his shoulders.
“He wondered why should we go through the effort of tiptoeing around the door all the time when we could have it the easy way. A chain on your feet or your neck and problem solved. You’d be bed bound the entire time, unable to leave or to roam around. Easy fix, right?”
His hand lands on top of yours, warm and comforting, as your brain attempts to process the harsh scenario of what could’ve been. An image pops up in your mind, uncalled for.
Of you laying on the bed, writhing and twisting but never getting far away, held down by a steel chain that digs into your skin, Aerion’s hands travelling up and down your body, touching it without pudor or fear, taking what he wants…
“I rejected that option." he assures you, softly. "Because you deserve better. Because you don’t deserve to be that miserable, like a bird whose wings were stripped away.”
Valarr steps closer. His palm cups your cheek, thumb slowly rubbing the skin. He gently steers your face up, making you meet his eyes. Demanding for your attention, despite the bucket of cold, freezing water he just threw at you.
“... it’s not always gonna be like this.”
When you only blink at him, he continues.
“I know you don’t exactly enjoy being locked up here. I understand that. I’m sorry about that too. But this is just a temporary arrangement. Only until you give me and Aerion enough reasons to trust you.”
Your stomach flips.
“I’ll… be able to go upstairs?”
Valarr nods, a small smile gracing his pretty lips.
“Eventually.” he confirms. “We have a pretty big garden, I think you’re gonna love it. The gardener is working on planting flowers, your favorites. Maybe one day you can tend to them yourself.”
“Then there’s the infinity pool, heated of course cause you hate cold water. Ah, and Aerion wants to show you the game room, he can’t wait to beat you in a bowling match but between you and me, my money is on you.”
Valarr chuckles and for a moment, you let your imagination run wild. Just for a moment. Just for a very small, short moment.
Not with them, never them. But the outside world.
There’s a flicker of hope reigniting inside you, at the possibility of feeling the sun’s warmth kiss your skin or to be able to fill your lungs with fresh, pure air. You don't even remember what fresh air feels like anymore.
“The perimeter of the property is well-guarded, we made sure of it. No one gets past our security team. You’d be safe to wander around the entire grounds and no one would stop you.”
Valarr speaks as though that's a compromise. As though it's your safety they'd be concerned about when the truth is clear for all who can see.
And then reality dawns on you. You’d be able to go outside - a promise that has no grounds to be trusted in the first place - but at what cost?
By playing along in their delusional game and losing your sanity and self-respect in the process. By losing yourself in the middle of achieving whatever illusion of freedom they want to trick you with. By being their willing puppet.
Valarr seems to catch onto your distress and his tone loses some of the enthusiasm. He pulls his hand away from you and crosses his arms.
“Like I said, the security team is pretty solid. No one gets inside without our permission.”
He looks at you, brown eyes fleeting to your lips before returning to back to your eyes.
“And no one gets out either.”
-
Yes. I am planning a part 2.
No. I don't know when it's getting posted. One day.
Pairing: Titus Danforth x f!reader and Ursula x f!reader
Words: 3k
CW: explicit sexual content, nsfw, 18+, mdni
Tags/warnings: the Danforth's being weird af, power imbalance, escort!reader, Ursula being controlling, Titus being a perv, smoking, sex work, voyeurism (both Titus and Ursula watch the other with you), oral (m and f receiving), lowkey D/s dynamics, dom!mommy!Ursula, sub!reader and a little inkling of sub!Titus (you'll get it when you read it), impulse control, dry humping, teasing, reader is a little mean, unprotected piv sex, breeding kink (duh)
Summary: In which Ursula hires you for the week to...satisfy her and Titus becomes obsessed with having you too.
a/n: fair warning, this one's...not for everyone.
Disclaimer: YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO REPOST MY WRITING ANYWHERE ELSE WITHOUT MY CONSENT. REBLOGS ARE ENCOURAGED THOUGH. YOU MAY NOT FEED MY WORK TO ANY AI DATABASES OF ANY KIND OR TO USE MY WORKS TO TRAIN AI. FUCK AI.
Titus has never considered himself a patient man.
In fact, he's the complete opposite of it. Proudly so.
He's never had to want for anything, for anyone. He wants something? He buys it. He wants someone? He gets them.
He's used to taking.
It's easy, straightforward, especially when he has the funds for it.
But as he stares across the room at you, engaged in conversation with his father, body hidden away in a very conservative cocktail dress, he's certain if he holds himself back any longer he's going to burst.
Unfortunately for him, Ursula made sure to stake her claim the second you arrived at the Lodge and graced him with your dazzling smile for the first time.
Titus was certain he'd seen all the beauty the world has to over. It belongs to him, actually.
But there's something about you that he can't quite figure out, something that grabbed a hold of him and refused to let go, to let him breathe.
You're here for her.
You are...off limits.
This time, he can't just take.
If he wants you, he's going to have to beg.
The first time he accidentally runs into you after you've arrived, you're in the guest room unpacking. You have a habit of leaving doors ajar, just open enough for him to be able to peek through.
And he does. He's not about to miss any opportunity to ogle.
With your suitcase open on the bed, you pull out countless pieces of lingerie, all varying shades of red, Ursula (and his) favorite color.
His sister calls you from the ensuite bathroom and you quickly follow her voice, leaving the lacy, see through pieces on the bed.
He doesn't even think, he just does, feet moving before he can even think to stop.
Not that he would anyway.
He begins to inspect your panties, one by one. He barely tries to fight the urge to bring them up to his nose, ultimately inhaling the scent of your detergent and the lingering smell of you.
He can hear your giggles filling the room with a lightness he's never felt in his life, his chest fluttering at the sound.
He understands why his sister likes to keep you around now.
It's only when your laughter turns into a throaty moan that he snaps out of it.
He shouldn't...he should leave—
"Master Titus?" Saved by the bell. "Lunch is served."
He adjusts his pants enough to be presentable and tucks your panties into his back pocket expertly as he turns to face Pernilla.
"Best give them a minute."
And with that he leaves.
The second time he has the misfortune of accidentally running into you, he's been tasked by his father to grab his sister for a quick meeting before dinner.
Thinking you'd be in your own room getting ready, he doesn't think to check before he swings open his sister's door.
His heart does a leap in his chest at the sight.
There you are, dotingly, in between his sister's thighs, putting those gorgeous lips to good use as you eat her out.
You're completely naked while Ursula remains in her silk nightgown. Titus cannot stop his wandering eyes, hungry gaze raking across your entire body.
You look so soft, so plump — he wants nothing more than to mark you up, leave bruises he knows will take their sweet time healing so he can marvel at the painting he has created.
Ursula's hands are tightly coiled around your hair, fingers massaging your scalp, encouragingly, as press closer into her.
The two of you are so into it that neither notice he's standing at the threshold.
You do something with your tongue he can't see since Ursula's leg is in the way but the woman wails in response and you shiver, giddy at the praise.
He quickly steps outside, closing the door again before he knocks, loudly.
"Yes?" Ursula yells in response, seemingly calm and composed.
"Father would like a word."
"Now?"
He thinks for a second, jealousy bubbling in his chest. "Yes, now."
Ursula huffs and Titus beams.
A long second later, Ursula slams open the door, heavy robe around her frame, clearly pissed off at her father's terrible timing.
Titus smirks to himself, trying to play it cool as he watches his sister round the corner before his hungry gaze snaps to you.
You're sitting on the bed, trying to cover yourself with your hands as you struggle to steady your breathing.
His sister truly is cruel, leaving you alone in this heightened headspace.
His hands close into tight fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms as he has to practically restrain himself from taking you over his shoulder and kidnapping you to his room.
Instead, he stalks towards you, trying his best to exude a dominant yet protective aura so you won't run away.
Big doe eyes follow his every move as he grabs a hold of the throw blanket at the foot of the king sized bed and gently drapes it over your shoulders.
Up close he can see the wetness glistening over your lips and chin, the way your entire body is flushed crimson in desire and not embarrassment.
His eyes keep yours hostage as he grunts towards your hands to grab a hold of the fabric.
Your fingers brush his, perfectly soft and warm against his rough and cold ones.
Fuck, you are definitely trying to kill him.
The second you're covered, he steps back, dropping to his knees in front of the bed.
Your brow scrunches quizzically and he swallows a moan in response.
You're so beautiful, so innocent, so perfect.
He begins to mimic your breathing, slow and steady, grounding, and you finally understand.
You hum contently and shift on the bed to get more comfortable.
He stays with you for a long time, until your eyes are no longer glazed, until your hands are finally steady, until you smile shyly at him and turn to lie down on the comforter beneath you.
"You should rest, little dove," he coos and you beam. "She'll be gone a while."
You manage a nod, eyelids becoming heavy. The last thing you remember is Titus staring at you, his watchful gaze a comfort as you fall asleep in such a strange house.
The third time he sees you he's accepted his fate.
Their father has just retired to bed and you excused yourself oh so respectfully to go change for a night cap, finally leaving him and Ursula alone.
Titus pulls out his mother's cigar box and preps two Cubans for him and Ursula, expert hands making quick work of the process.
It's Ursula who lights up first, a peace offering so he can sweeten her up before the words practically spill from his lips.
"I want her."
Ursula exhales smoke directly into Titus's face.
"No."
Titus's face contorts into a pout, pathetic and spoiled.
"But—"
"She's mine," she cuts.
Titus is about to whine some more when the door opens again and you step inside.
Both their gazes snap up to yours. The conservativeness is completely gone as you don a pretty babydoll dress that leaves nothing to the imagination.
"Hi," you smile shyly, bare feet shifting as you watch them take you in like two ravenous wolves that want nothing more than to devour you whole.
"C'mere bunny."
The second that Ursula beckons you over, you move, eager and confident.
Titus watches you intensely as he takes another drag of his cigar, slow and obscenely sensual.
It's when he exhales that you audibly whimper, loud enough for Ursula to feel the air shift as you settle on her lap.
The woman laughs under you and you instantly bring your attention back to her.
"Oh you are spoiled, bunny," she mocks. "I gave you clear instructions, do I have to show you just how disappointed I am in you?"
"N-no, no I'm sorry," you whimper. "I didn't mean it—"
"Did he touch you while I was gone earlier?"
"No!"
Titus's heart constricts at your sharpness.
"Good," Ursula kisses just below your ear. "'Cause he wants you."
Your pussy clenches at her words and the older woman can feel it over her pants.
"Ursula—"
"What, little brother?" she snaps. "Because if you don't want her anymore—"
Titus lets out a sharp breath.
He hates this, hates how easy it is for Ursula to rile him up.
"I do." It's barely a whisper but loud enough to make you go still in Ursula's embrace.
You catch his gaze then, pained and sorrowful — pathetic.
You giggle, just enough to be cruel and Titus's mouth hangs open in response.
"He's so needy, mommy," you murmur, pitiful.
Titus Chester Danforth has never been pitied in his life.
A fire ignites in him, sharp and cold, he needs to wipe that stupid smirk off your face.
He's about to leap out of his seat, the air in the room shifting like an omen to an oncoming storm.
Ursula senses it, reacts before he even can.
"Would you like to do something about it?"
You bite your lip, mischievous, and nod.
"Well, what would I get in return?"
Your cheeks blush crimson at whatever thought comes into your head. You hide your face in your hands and she immediately pulls them off, cigar left on the glass ashtray before it burns your skin.
"Tell mommy what you'll give her, bunny."
Titus has been rendered paralyzed as he watches you lean in and whisper something in his sister's ear.
He can barely breathe, can barely think as the possibility of having you is actually becoming a reality.
All he can do is feel the thundering against his chest, the pain against his crotch from the absurd amounts of layers of clothing he's wearing, and the sudden, sweet realization that you want him too.
Whatever you say to Ursula seems to do the trick as she gives your ass a little slap, pushing you off her towards Titus.
You step up to him, shyly, as if you're trying to convince yourself that you're this perfect little angel and not the conniving devil he knows you are.
Titus puts down his cigar, his eyes searing into yours. He's about to pounce when his sister picks up her own cigar and lights it back up.
"You can have her, little brother," she consents. "But you can't touch her."
He audibly groans, a child throwing a tantrum, and you giggle freely now.
You settle between his open thighs, assessing him like you're mentally mapping your plan of attack.
He does the same, but he instead does recon, taking in every single inch of your body.
The babydoll is deep crimson, made of flimsy tulle and lace. There's a matching bra perfectly holding up your beautifully round breasts. But when his eyes wander lower—
"No panties?"
You shrug. "Someone took them."
He blushes at the comment. You knew. You little vixen.
You finally move, gently grabbing his left hand and placing it over the chair's arm rest. You repeat the motion with his right hand as Ursula hums her approval beside you.
Titus wastes no time closing his fists around the velvet lined maple wood until his knuckles turn white.
You smile, satisfied at his reaction, and only then do you bend down, settling on your knees in front of him.
Looking down at you from this angle is definitely messing with his head. You look so beautiful, so perfect, all he wants to do is push you against his raging erection.
But he can't.
He needs to behave.
When he doesn't lose it, you reward him by nuzzling your nose against his crotch, inhaling deeply as you place a soft kiss to the tent that has formed in his pants.
He lets out the most pathetic whimper, causing Ursula to laugh meanly.
"Mommy no!" you sound so small, so fragile as you chide her, effectively putting her in her place.
"'m sorry bunny," she settles back into silence. "I'll behave, promise."
"Thank you."
You look back up at Titus through your lashes and find him looking down at you with what you can only describe as genuine gratitude.
You reward him with a comforting smile, hands softly grazing up his thigh towards his belt.
You take your time undoing it, pulling it out from the loops and throwing it aside, enjoying how he flinches as the metal skids against the cold marble under your knees.
His zipper is much quicker work. You're no longer patient in your teasing. You're hungry now.
It's when you pull down his boxers, just enough for his cock to finally breathe.
He's painfully stiff, tip bouncing off his stomach causing him to wince. You hum at his discomfort, eyes glued to his purpling tip like a psychopath.
Titus's chest flutters. He's never felt this way about someone before, has never had his own darkness reflected back at him, mostly because darkness doesn't have any light, if anything it sucks—
"Jesus fucking Christ," Titus hisses as your lips wrap around him.
"Careful, brother," Ursula teases. "Mr. Le Bail might get jealous."
You hum around him, his abdomen contracting as your tongue swipes over the opening in his tip, eagerly lapping up every drop that has leaked from him.
You start to move down, the back of your throat relaxing around him, taking further down your throat.
He can’t help but stare at you, eyes searing through your skull in what he can only think to be encouragement and devotion.
It’s only when Ursula snaps her tongue that you pull all the way back, finally breathing in, spit dripping from the corners of your mouth down your chin and onto the tops of your breasts.
“He might not last long, bunny.”
You nod, quickly getting to your feet and straddling his thick thighs.
Titus pants desperately beneath you as you bring your hand between your bodies and line him up with your entrance, perfectly wet and lubricated from your spit and his own fluids.
You slowly sink down enough to run his tip through your folds, adding even more slick into the mix.
He groans, eyes glued to the space between your thighs.
You watch him, practically salivating, as you give him exactly what he wants.
You sink down, his thickness splitting you open in a way that perfectly fills you up.
Once you finally settle all the way down, Titus lets out a guttural moan, his fists somehow tightening their grip so much the pain causes a tear to slip past his carefully maintained tough exterior.
You hum again, pitying, only this time he doesn’t feel the blow to his ego.
No, this time he understands you’re doing it because you care.
His theory is further solidified as you lean forward, your tongue gently licking up his cheek to lap up the salty streak.
Your lips press to his cheekbone in a fleeting kiss and he shudders beneath you.
This is what you want. For him to lose control, how him to take what’s his because you belong to him too.
His hips buck upwards, jolting you out of your perceived power over him.
Sure, he may not be able to touch you, but he’d rather be damned than to be rendered nothing more than a whiny toy.
Your hands cling to his shoulders instantly, nails digging into the thickness of his wool coat.
Your moans and whines fill the room as he pistons in and out of you, making good use of just how wet you’ve made the two of you.
Your cheeks are flushed crimson, your body already shivering and quivering, but it’s not enough.
"Mommy—" you whine, desperate. "Need him...to...touch me...please."
Titus turns to Ursula, brows scrunched in agony, pleading.
Her eyes sparkle at the pathetic display before her.
She sighs, anything for you.
"Go ahead."
The second the words process through Titus's mind he becomes ravenous. His hands shoot from the armrests, pressing you even tighter against his clothed chest, as one digs itself into your hip and the other snakes around your neck.
He takes the command as opportunity and wastes no time slamming his lips against yours. You shriek at the intensity but your sounds of protest get swallowed up by his eager mouth, his tongue breaking through your lips to enter as if it's his right.
You become nothing more than a breathing dolly as he continues his relentless thrusting.
"If you don't make her cum first, I won't let you have her again."
Titus growls into your mouth, slowing down his pace but making sure to sheathe himself as far as he can with each thrust.
You’re no longer sharp enough to think, let alone torture him. You’re putty in his hands. His perfect little dove. His, his, his—
"What will you give her?" he grunts in your ear, just for you to hear.
You smirk against his, biting down on his earlobe before you press your mouth over it.
"A baby."
That does him in.
He impales you on his cock, one hand snaking between your bodies to pinch your clit, to force you to come around him as he fills you up with his seed.
You shriek, sparks bursting through you as your core erupts in a tidal wave of pleasure.
You slump down against him, burrowing your nose in his neck. He holds you tightly, possessive and demanding.
"You're gonna look so beautiful all round and swollen, baby" Ursula coos and you clench around Titus, forcing the man to let out a deep groan.
Ursula chuckles at her brother's reaction. You're truly going to milk him for all he's worth.
Because that's all he is to you in that moment.
And to get to do that as much as he needs for it to take?
Titus Danforth notices everything, even if no one realises it. He takes it all in, knowing just when to use certain knowledge to move things his way. Ursula thinks him stupid, but really? He’s been moving her like a pawn for years. And well, his discovery of your oral fixation is just another wonderful pawn to use you.
Titus Danforth who notices how his little assistant often has a pen or sucker in your mouth. More than once having to harshly rub away ink at the corner of your lip. Yet, the more he noticed it, noticed the little string of drool as you dragged the pen out, the more he realised. You loved to have something in that mouth of yours, shutting you up.
Titus Danforth who knows he’s fucked up, knows he moved the wrong pawn too early. You’re lecturing him in the privacy of his office, sat in the chair across from him, sighing as you write notes. Commenting on how he had ruined the plans. You’d gotten too comfortable around him, your tongue looser. So he beckons you over with one finger. Commanding you to open. And well, as loose as your tongue may be, you still listen. About to question him when he shoves two of his digits into your hot mouth. “Suck,” he commands, leaning back into his chair as he sighs, enjoying the silence shutting you up brings him.
Titus Danforth who has started to enjoy your little oral fixation. When he’s stressed, which was often. He’d just beckon you over on your knees and finger fuck your throat. There’s many different forms of therapy, this just happened to be his. Having his little assistant drooling around his fingers, gagging, eyes rolling back in pure pleasure as he pumped them in and out.
Titus Danforth who laces those damn suckers with just a hint of some rare aphrodisiac. Enough to make you beg him to take you. Of course, he doesn’t. No, he just offers you his fingers and a promise - that one day he’ll ruin you.
Titus Danforth who’s started to get a little more creative. Preparing for stressful meetings by having you sat between his knees, slobbering on his cock before anyone’s even sat down. One hand in your hair, tugging if you ever got too loud. He wouldn’t be embarrassed, no, were you caught he’s revel in the power. Rather, he did it for you. For the silly idea that you had. That one day maybe you’d leave here, get a new job. Even if thy never would happen. Titus had you now.
Titus Danforth who enjoys spending his evenings with you between his legs. The desk long gone. His eyes roaming your body, massaging your shoulders. You were stupid enough to think maybe he cares. As he shoves you down further onto his aching cock. You’re speechless, reaching a sub-space like no other. You shouldn’t feel safe around, but you do. In some twisted way. Eyes going glossy as all you manage to do is swallow the salty cum that he loads into your mouth again and again.
Titus Danforth who’s watching his cock’s outline in your pretty throat. How you try to take him all just to fail and gag. Whining each time. There’s salvia running down your chin, your knees red from kneeling for so long. Coming off to a small breath, Titus hands you a piece of paper. Commending you to sign it. Which, still stuck in that beautiful sub-space, you did so obediently. Before returning to his cock, loving it like no other. Oblivious to the wedding documents you had just signed.
after sitting out of a post-wedding hunt due to a headache, you're not expecting the game to come to you. even though you're able to take down the threat, titus finds you and is distraught at the fact that it could've ended very differently.
Word Count: 7.4k
Warnings: LIGHT MOVIE SPOILERS (references to some events but no scenes are outright used)! Violence and gore (Duh), including violence towards reader, established relationship, SMUT (18+), p in v, crying during sex, really intense missionary, sex next to a dead body, sorry man, soft(ish) titus, therefore a little ooc titus, stylistic punctuation, way more plot than porn sorry gang, i highkey did more world building than the movie LMAOO, "mrs" use but no pronouns and no use of y/n
A/N: God guys idk if this is good but i needed to get this out of my brain and onto some paper. It's so self-indulgent it’s actually not even funny. Lowkey there's a lot more internal dialogue and exposition than actual relationship stuff but idc. I’ll probably write more of these two eventually. Please be kind xoxo. Also GO SEE THE MOVIE!!!! It’s one of the best ‘survive the night' horror movies I’ve seen in a long time (and not just bcs the people’s princess is in it)!
The wedding was nice. The tall windows in the Danforth estate ballroom illuminated a room decorated with white dahlias and yellow alstroemerias. Silk ribbons and twinkling fairylights wound around the columns and rows of oak chairs faced a glorious altar, with the Danforth ram’s head sculpted into the marble arch. An air of sophistication permeated the room, as it tended to do when the world’s most influential people were gathered together. You were seated in the third row, behind the immediate families and friends. Titus sat to your left, thigh pressing against yours. He held your hand in his, rubbing small circles with his thumb and playing with your wedding ring. The act made you smile.
To the world, Titus Danforth was a brute- and that wasn’t untrue. He had a complex, you knew that, but he had never once done anything to purposefully hurt or scare you. One time after a hunt, he had that wild look in his eyes. And you’d be lying if it didn’t scare you a little. But the moment that his fingers touched your skin, he relaxed. Titus was like your guard dog, a position he wore like a badge of fucking honor. Sometimes he bit, but never the hand that fed him. You loved him. And maybe it wasn’t in a completely healthy way, but who gave a shit? Titus loved you in his own way. You fought occasionally, but damn if he didn’t bring you a bouquet of your favorite flowers the next day and spend the night on his knees making it up to you. He was your Titus. And he knew it, which is why he could be himself around you. He didn’t need to put on the mask around you like he did with his family. Titus was a complex man. Blood-thirsty during the games, and yet so very gentle to you in everyday life. In the early phases of your relationship, you had spent hours in the soft light of early morning talking, curled up in the luxury bamboo sheets of his bedroom with the fireplace coals still smoldering. He had spilled his heart to you, eyes wet and breathing uneven. How he had been trained as a killer since he was a kid, how he never felt like he was his own man, how his sister was the real ‘heir’ of the family name, how he was scared to have children (especially a son) because he might fuck them up like his father did to him. You had listened with open ears and kind eyes. You had pressed his head to his chest and covered him in kisses saying that you weren’t going anywhere, and thanking him for being so vulnerable. And when you survived your wedding night, he had proposed to you again, promising to never let any harm come to you as long as you both shall live. And you had accepted, the pendant he had gotten you resting gently against your blood-splattered skin. You soothed him, brought him down from edges that would result in casualties. Some might have said you made him soft. And to those people, Titus would nod and beat the shit out of them.
You had a distant look in your eye and Titus noticed. He stopped fiddling with your ring, the ring that made you cry tears of joy when you first saw it, and intertwined his fingers with yours. Titus leaned over slightly in your direction.
“She can do so much better,” he murmured, only loud enough for you to hear. You gave a small huff of amusement.
“Be nice.” You scolded softly, eyes still locked on the couple exchanging vows. But he was right. The wedding was for a Danforth cousin, one you hadn’t been introduced to until that morning. Even though you and Titus had been married for the better part of five years. The acting heads of the Danforth family tried to keep the outer edges of the family away. Something about keeping secrets closely guarded. You supposed it was a wise idea, given the nature of the family’s pastimes. But every Danforth, no matter how far removed, was required to be married at the estate. The ancestral home. And, of course, required to participate in the matrimonial hunt. You knew every family did their hunts a little differently- some prioritizing certain aspects over others. But the Danforths were focused on their bloodline. Hunting down a new member of the family wasn’t done out of necessity or the fact that the entire family would combust if they didn’t (because that wasn’t part of the Danforth contract). No. Instead, the purpose of the hunt was to prove that the new member belonged. That they were cunning and a survivalist, willing to do whatever it took to live as a Danforth. If they survived, great! If they didn’t…well, then they didn’t deserve to be a part of such a prestigious family in the first place. And, if you were being honest, the man standing at the altar likely would not survive the night. But hey, he could surprise everyone. It wouldn’t be the first time that happened.
“I just want them out of our fucking house.” You heard Titus sigh heavily beside you. His knee began to bounce. He was getting bored and impatient. You were sitting in the third row behind the friends and family of this unknown cousin. They had been exchanging vows for what seemed like forever. You moved your hand from where it was intertwined with Titus, an action that made him furrow his brow and pout slightly. But the look disappeared when you placed your palm on his knee, giving a reassuring squeeze. You shifted in your seat and fully tilted your head so that your lips were brushing against his ear.
“You’re doing so well, baby,” You whispered breathily. A sinister grin formed on your lips as you felt him go still beneath you. “Just think of all the excitement waiting for you tonight.” Titus’ gaze flicked to the groom and his breath started to grow uneven. He gave a nod and squeezed your hand with his. “Just a little longer, ‘kay sweetie?” You pulled back and captured Titus’ gaze. His eyes were growing dark, the way they always did before a hunt. The muscle in his jaw ticked and he nodded before returning his attention to the ceremony.
ˋ°•*⁀➷
Finally, the new couple was married. The room erupted into cheers and congratulations, though certain members of the family were notably more reserved, no doubt thinking about what was next on the agenda. The congregation rose from their seats as the bride and groom walked down the aisle together and through the large dark oak double doors into the reception area. You stretched as the people began to follow, rolling your shoulders and rubbing your neck. Titus noticed immediately, as he tended to do, even though you were facing away from him.
“Is it bothering you again?” He said softly. His hand came to your neck and began massaging the muscle there with his thumb. You gave a small nod. During your hunt, you had been pushed down the stairs. The tumble had resulted in a herniated disc and a compressed nerve in your neck. Treatable, but pain still haunted you when you were forced to be in a single position for too long, like sitting at a wedding that felt like it would never end. Titus hummed behind you. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Anything I can do to help?” You turned to face him. He looked heavenly with the light from the window illuminating his silhouette. It caught on his grey curls and perfectly punctuated his broad shoulders. Titus’ hands rose to your hips, pressing you against him. Your hand rested on his chest, smoothing out the coat of his suit and readjusting the tie. He felt so warm and sturdy under your palms. It made you smile. You leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek. But before you pulled away, you murmured in his ear:
“You can win the hunt. And come back safely. For me.” The hands on your hips tightened. A promise.
“Anything for you, sweetheart.”
ˋ°•*⁀➷
Ursula had been disappointed to learn that you wouldn’t be participating in the festivities. Your relationship at first had been rocky. She was unsure if it was wise for Titus to take a wife, given his track record with violence. But after you had won your hunt by bashing someone’s head in with a bat and hiding in the woods until dawn, you had proved yourself capable of holding your own against Titus in her eyes. As the years passed and Titus began to mellow a bit, Ursula had started to act truly as a sister to you. You went shopping together, she taught you the unspoken rules of living as a Danforth in high society, you gave her book and movie recommendations, and most of your afternoons were spent lounging by the pool or playing tennis together. You didn’t have much family, and you would forever be grateful that Ursula filled in as a sister. She had been disappointed at your absence for the evening, but mainly because she had to spend a night dealing with Titus without you. Ursula had urged you to watch from the monitoring room, but you had a hot date with a bubble bath and a mug of herbal tea to ease the pain in your neck and the migraine it was bringing on.
You sighed in contentment as you sunk into the tub, warm water and scented bubbles immediately putting your mind at ease. You got nervous during hunts. Most of the family believed that they were invincible simply because they were Danforths, the prime stock of the world. That they would succeed in their hunts and kill their target in time to catch the evening news. But you were a testament that they thought too highly of themselves. When someone is fighting for their life and weapons are involved, things can get very ugly very fast. Usually, these anxieties were calmed (at least slightly) by the fact that Titus was by your side every step of the way. You were basically just along for the ride. A tether to the real world so he didn’t get so lost in himself that he put himself in danger. But that wasn’t the case tonight. He would go without you and that made you nervous. If there was one thing that would never be quelled by you, it was Titus’ desire to prove himself. Prove himself as a man and as a Danforth and sometimes he pushed himself too far. You chewed on the inside of your cheek as you looked out the window of your bathroom. The sun was dipping low in the sky. The horn would sound soon. The door to the bathroom creaked open, drawing your attention from the horizon. You smiled at Titus as he came into the door holding a steaming mug of your tea. He was already dressed for the hunt, the black fabric of his pants and vest contouring his body in a way that made your mouth water. In the dying light of the day, his eyes took on a more golden hue. A color that you memorized as he looked at you and held out the mug.
“Here you go, honey,” Titus said, sighing as he lowered himself to sit on the edge of the tub. You shimmied to sit up in the tub and took the mug graciously, careful not to get any bubbles in the tea. “Did you get a new shampoo?” Titus asked, pressing his lips to the crown of your head and inhaling deeply. You nodded as you took a sip of the tea.
“They came out with a new one. It’s called ‘Field of Dreams’ but I think that’s just a pretentious way of saying it has chamomile in it.” You swirled one of your hands through the water. Titus furrowed his brow and grabbed your wrist, pulling it out of the water. You knew what he was about to ask before the question could leave his mouth. You had taken off your bracelet. A thin leather strap that crossed over your wrist and clasped in a way that resembled a tiny horse’s bridle. Titus had given it to you during your six month anniversary when you were dating. You had been walking down the street window shopping when it caught your eye. You had immediately gushed over it, saying how sleek it looked. You preferred leather jewelry to metal, especially when it came to bracelets. Metal pinched at your skin and leather felt much nicer. You had only mentioned it once. And yet, three months later, Titus had pushed a small box across the table during dinner. He had remembered. You had thrown your arms around him, kissing him on the cheek as he put it on you, promising to never take it off. And you hadn’t. You had worn it every day. But you weren’t wearing it now, and Titus noticed. “It’s on the counter. I don’t want it to get wet, it’ll rust the clasp.” Another thought crossed his eyes. “I don’t care if you’d buy me another one. I’m sentimental.”
With a small chuckle, he pressed a kiss to your wrist before placing your arm gently back into the water. He took a deep breath and stood from the tub, walking to the mirror and fiddling with his curls. You took the chance to sip your tea and rake your eyes over your husband’s form. A crisp black vest wrapped around his torso, silver fleur-de-lis checkering the silky fabric on his back. Beneath the vest was one of his favorite shirts, a deep navy blue that hugged his biceps but were easily unbuttoned at the wrists when he needed to roll up his sleeves and get dirty. The shirt was tucked into plain black slacks that were held up with a dark leather belt. God how you loved him in this outfit. He wore it for every hunt, his own ceremonial robes.
“Are you done ogling me?” Titus asked, catching your gaze in the mirror. Heat rose to your cheeks, embarrassed for being caught. But there was a playfulness in Titus’ eyes, a shit-eating grin on his lips. Damn him. He knew what he did to you.
“Never. It's not my fault you look so good.” You hummed, taking another sip of your tea. He chuckled and smoothed out his vest before turning. He paused for a moment, and you knew that he saw it. Your night dress hanging on the back of the door.
“What’s this for?” He said slyly, running the silk between his fingers.
“Hm?” You hummed, feigning innocence. “Oh, that’s for later.” He held up the fabric to his arm, comparing the shades of blue. Titus looked to you for confirmation and you nodded, taking another sip of tea. The color was deep blue, exactly matching the color of his shirt. You had ordered it specially for tonight, somehow eluding Titus and pulling his tailor aside and asking for a sample of the fabric during his last visit. You’d taken the color swatch to your favorite lingerie store and they had created the slip perfectly. The top edge was laced, a floral pattern perfectly accenting the curve of your breasts. Titus let out a low groan. Approval.
“For later,” You emphasized, holding out your hand. Titus crossed the room and held it gently. The sun was almost below the treeline now and it wouldn’t be long before he had to leave. You took a deep breath and looked into your husband’s eyes. He seemed to pick up on your uneasiness and lowered himself to kneel beside the tub. You interlaced your fingers with his and took a steadying breath. “Please be safe,” you begged, voice barely above a whisper “And come back to me.” Titus lost the edge in his gaze and lifted your hand to his mouth. His lips pressed a kiss to your knuckles and brought your palm to his cheek. You caressed him, swiping your thumb over his cheekbones and the stubble that had grown in the past week of him not shaving. Titus pressed his own hand over yours, keeping it against his face until the very last moment.
“Nothing could keep me away from you,” Your husband’s voice was soft but also held a bit of a threat in it. A threat against the universe, perhaps, a promise that he would do whatever it takes to get back home to you.
“That’s what worries me,” You were only half joking. “Titus. I’m serious. Please.” Titus lowered your hand from his face and held it tightly.
“I promise.” A beat passed and you could tell an idea popped into his mind. “If he…You remember how to use the crossbow above the dresser, right?” You tilted your head in curiosity.
“Yea,” you confirmed, brows knit in confusion “Why?” Titus shook his head and got to his feet, placing another kiss on your forehead. He lingers a bit longer than he would normally. Not weirdly abnormal, just enough for you to take note of it.
“Just in case. Just…maybe keep it near you, alright? I’ll be back in a few hours.” He captured your lips in a chaste kiss, like he was about to leave for a business meeting. Titus opened the door partially. You shared another look before he exited.
By the time you were slipping into your laced night gown, the sun was down. You were applying your lotion to your legs when the horn sounded. A deep, whining noise that permeated the entire estate. Every time you heard it, you were transported back to your wedding night. An instinctual shudder ran through you and you paused. For a few moments, the world stood still. When you didn’t hear an immediate gunshot, you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. You sighed and went back to your lotioning. Guess tonight would be a party after all.
ˋ°•*⁀➷
Three hours had passed. You had heard a few screams and shattering of glass, but it had been pretty quiet. You were laying in bed, plush comforter pulled up around your waist as you rested against pillows and the headboard. Your headache was subsiding now, the faint wisps of discomfort the only sign that it was there to begin with. The night was well underway, but the fact that you hadn’t heard anything definitive yet made you nervous. You had tried reading, but your fingers mindlessly flicked the edge of the page you were staring at for the past twenty minutes. You spared a glance over to the dresser where the crossbow sat. You had taken it down from its mount and loaded an arrow, but didn’t bother holding it with you. You began to second guess yourself. Maybe you should’ve suffered through the pain and gone on the hunt. You shook your head at the thought. Titus never would’ve allowed it. Your heart ached for him. Your Titus. You prayed to all that was unholy that he was alright. A small flicker in the back of your brain taunted you. Of course he was alright. You had seen what he was capable of, and heard stories of him doing even worse. He told you stories of his birthday hunt when he turned eighteen. His coming of age ritual. Titus had chosen the challenge of being completely unarmed and instead giving his Prey a knife. His whole family had thought he was crazy. But when Titus dragged the dead man back to the manor, face beaten so badly that pieces of skull had been left behind in the mud, they had stopped laughing. And he had only become more experienced since then. Titus had it down to a science, really, and you thoroughly enjoyed watching the master at work. But there had been a few times where he had almost gone too far. In fact, during the last hunt, he had tried jumping off the roof to capture the Prey. Only when you physically tackled him to the ground did he give up pursuit. It wasn’t really the groom you were worried about, but rather Titus himself.
You threw down the book in exasperation. You swung your legs over the bed and walked over to the opposite wall, pulling back the drapes to look at the shadowed forest. To your surprise, you didn’t see any flashlights or golf carts out on the grounds. Perhaps the groom didn’t escape as well as you thought. Maybe he-
Creak.
You froze immediately. There was someone in the hallway. You could hear heavy breathing on the other side of the oak door. The door to your bedroom was shut, but not locked. Because there were no locks in this god forsaken house, they considered it cheating. You were afraid to move, to give your position away. Thankfully, you were wearing socks and you shuffled slightly backwards toward the dresser. But you didn’t get far. Because of course, out of all the doors in the hallway, the door to your bedroom opened and the bloodied groom crashed into the room, falling to the floor. You stood still, looking down at him. You tried to keep your breathing under control. Titus had taught you to never give another person the upper hand by appearing flustered. It was at that moment when you realized you didn’t even remember the groom's name. And here he was, panting on your floor, trying to get up but slipping on his own blood. He rose to his knees and seemed to notice you for the first time.
“Oh my god,” he gasped, throwing himself forward and grabbing the windowsill to pull himself up “Thank God you’re here! You’ve gotta help me! My in-laws are trying to kill me!” You did a quick inventory of the situation before responding. His leg was bleeding (all over your rug, by the way. Quite rude), but he seemed otherwise okay. Physically, anyway. He clutched a crowbar in his one hand, like it was his only way of survival, and his eyes were wild. Blood was splattered across his cheek, signaling that someone had been on the receiving end of a crowbar blow. He swallowed hard, not realizing that you weren’t reacting like a normal person in this situation. “What time is it?”
“About midnight.” You stated calmly, hands bunched at your sides and shoulders tensed. His body was blocking the door. And he was in a position where, if you made a bolt for the crossbow, he would be able to stop you. A dull sense of fear began to settle at the base of your spine. You were trapped. Then he looked at you. Really looked at you and seemed to remember who you were. “Did they do this to you too?” You shrugged and nodded.
“It wasn’t really that bad,” you said honestly. “I made it out of the house and hid in the woods until dawn.”
“Fuck, that’s smart.” It was. And he was quite honestly an idiot for not trying to escape the house. The house that belonged to the family who was trying to kill him. The house that the Danforths were raised in and knew like the back of their hand. The groom was still trying to catch his breath and you took the chance to take a few steps toward the dresser. He dropped the crowbar on the floor and reached into his waistband. He had a gun. Shit. You failed to hide your grimace at the new piece of information. That complicated things. It didn’t matter if you made it to the crossbow first, he could just shoot you. You didn’t recognize the gun, but it had the Danforth ram’s head engraved in the handle. Ah. It likely belonged to the same person whose blood was smeared on his cheek.
“Listen,” you said, wetting your lips and taking another hesitant step toward the crossbow. “I get you’re trying to hide, but you can’t stay here. This room’s off limits.” The groom scoffed and pushed himself off the bedpost.
“Oh yea?” He scoffed, “Says who?” Irritation prickled in your chest. You opened your mouth to say that you were, in fact, the lady of the house, and he needed to leave you the fuck alone before your husband got back, but you caught yourself. Labelling yourself as important is a great way to get taken as a hostage. When you didn’t answer, the groom laughed. “Yea, I think I’m gonna stay here for a while.” He took your phone off the nightstand and tucked it into his pocket. “Just so you don’t go snitching on me.” He explained. He lifted the gun and pointed it at you. “I don’t want to hurt you, for the record, but if being in here gets me to survive until the morning, you’re fucking insane if you think I’m leaving.” You pursed your lips. Running some quick calculations in your head, you figured that if you could kick his bad leg out from under him, you could probably get to the crossbow before he had time to line up a shot. You took a deep breath, chest rising, and you caught the groom’s eyes flick to your chest. You remembered what you were wearing, a slip that was only meant for Titus’ eyes, and heat flooded your face. Self consciousness settled in your chest and you crossed your arms across your breast, earning a scoff from the groom.
“Y’know,” he mused, shaking his head “this is more what I thought my wedding night would be like. A pretty lady and I sharing a bedroom together.” Your brows furrowed.
“Ew.” your lip curled in disgust. “I wonder if your new wife would enjoy you speaking to another woman like that.”
“Yea, I’m probably gonna ask for a divorce tomorrow.” He shrugged, “I’m not a big fan of marrying into a family who tries to kill me-” You took the chance to lunge at him, sliding across the wooden floor and kicking his ankle out from under him. As he fell, a shot rang out from his gun. The bullet was lodged in the crown molding, but he still had the gun in his hand. You used the chance to climb on top of him and slam his hand against the floor. His hand relaxed and you shoved the gun away. It skittered across the floor before being swallowed by the fabric of the floor-length drapes. The groom, while disarmed, wasn’t caught off guard for long. He brought the palm of his hand up and jammed it into your nose. Stars erupted into your vision and you instinctively brought your hands to your face, feeling the blood start to seep between your fingers. The groom used his hip to flip you over, pinning your arms against the side of your head. You snarled in his face, spitting blood in his eyes and jerking your knee into his crotch. He fell to the side and you scrambled to your feet, reaching the dresser and grabbing the crossbow. You heard the groom get to his feet as you set the arrow. You whirled around and before the groom could plead his case, you pulled the trigger, releasing the arrow from the bow and straight through his eye socket. Blood bubbled from the wound and he fell to his knees, falling face first onto the gorgeous persian rug underneath your bed. Gently, you lowered the crossbow to your side, finger still on the trigger. Stepping over the groom’s legs, you examined the scene before you. You stood for a moment, gulping large and frightened breaths into your lungs. It had been years since you killed someone by yourself. Tears clouded your vision and rolled onto your cheeks, mixing with the blood coming from your nose. You let a sob tear from your chest and all you wanted in that moment was Titus.
As if the universe heard you, your door flew open again, crashing against the wall with a bang. And standing there, rumpled and panting and eyes blown wide with urgency, was Titus. Your dear husband. He was wielding a bolt-action rifle, pointed into the room. Without thinking, your hands flew up, telling him not to shoot. The only sound for several moments was his ragged breath. Titus’ eyes flicked from you, wearing the navy blue lingerie that was now covered in your blood, to the crossbow, to the man slumped on the ground with an arrow through the head. You were slightly unnerved at the way that Titus stared at you. You locked eyes with your husband and you could see the fear there. The fear that he was too late, that he had expected a very different scene in your bedroom. Perhaps he expected the roles to be reversed. For you to be on the floor, blood pooling around your head. His hazel eyes were shining with an emotion you couldn’t quite figure out. And without tearing his gaze from you, Titus cocked the rifle and unloaded round into the head of the already dead groom, splattering his brains across your floor. You let out a disappointed noise.
“You stained the carpet.” You murmured. Titus let out an incredulous laugh, tossing the rifle to the ground and crossing the room in large strides to get to you.
“I don’t give a fuck,” Titus growled, pushing you with his hips until your back thudded against the wall. He pressed himself into you and you could feel the hard bulge beneath his trousers. You were about to ask if he was okay, but his lips plunged into yours before you could speak. The kiss was rough and messy. His teeth nipped at your lips, and his mouth wandered all over the lower half of your face. You could feel your lips begin to swell from the force and your hand flew to his hair, tugging lightly on his curls. You felt a strange wetness on your cheeks and lips, but it wasn’t blood, it was tears. You opened your eyes and saw tears streaming from Titus’ eyes. He was gasping for breath in frequent sobs, bordering on hyperventilating. He continued to kiss between his pulls of breath, and you had to tug his head away from you.
“Titus,” You said softly, putting your hands on both his cheeks. Titus’ short inhales were high pitched and unfulfilling and you could tell that he was holding back true wailing. “Hey,” You led him to the bed and sat on the edge, bringing him down and wiping the tears from his cheeks. “What’s wrong, honey? I’m alright.”
“I thought…I thought I lost you,” He choked out, sobs ripping from his chest as he threw himself at you, pulling you close and resting his head on your shoulder. Snot and tears smeared his face but you didn’t care, you held him just as tightly. “W-When I heard the gunshot…when I realized what part of the house it came from…” he trailed off. You pressed a kiss to his forehead and petted his head as he sobbed into your chest. You shifted so that you were facing him, taking both his hands in yours and making him hold eye contact.
“Titus, breathe with me,” You placed one of his hands on your chest and took a deep breath. He mimicked the action, drawing in a deep breath, only hiccuping a few times, and holding the air in his lungs before breathing shakily out. You repeated the action several times, only stopping when Titus was breathing normally again. His shoulders relaxed and he closed his eyes, dropping his head slightly. You brought your hand to his cheek and lifted his face.
“I love you so much,” Titus whispered, “I couldn’t imagine living in a world without you.”
“I’m not going anywhere, my love,” You assured him, pressing a small kiss to his lips. “You are, unfortunately, stuck with me.” Titus let out a breath of laughter and you gave him a small smile. He returned it with a nod, lip quivering slightly and eyes still wet and raw from crying. Titus took a deep breath and looked around the room. His Adam's apple bobbed in his throat as he assessed the damage. “I’m sorry I took your kill,” you said, gesturing to the body “How was the hunt otherwise?” That earned a genuine smile from him, and you felt your heart soar in your chest.
“It’s alright, sweetheart, you deserved it after your hard day.” Titus kissed your knuckles. “It was fine. I’m not hurt.” His brow furrowed and he brought his hands to your thighs, pinching the edge of your slip between his fingers. “I’m sorry your relaxing night was ruined. I can beat him up a little more if it would make you feel better.” You laughed and slung your arms around his shoulders.
“I don’t think it would make him any more dead than he already is.”
“That’s not the point.”
“I know,” you assented. “I appreciate it, but I’d rather just keep you here.”
“You want to keep me in bed, Mrs. Danforth?” Titus raised his eyebrow, putting his hands on your hips. You hummed and twirled a piece of his hair with a finger. He knew that using your honorific always sparked arousal.
“Guilty.” His face was closer to yours now and you captured his lips in a gentle kiss, a juxtaposition of the kiss from only a few minutes ago and a true testament to Titus’ complexity. One of his hands slid up from your waist and gently squeezed the sides of your neck. You broke the kiss and Titus let out a little whine of disappointment. “We don’t have to.” You didn’t want to push him after he had just been extremely vulnerable with you. After you had talked him down from an edge. But Titus just shook his head.
“I need you,” He whispered, nipping at your lower lip and using his weight to push you onto your back, caging in your head with his elbows “need to prove how much you mean to me. Wanna worship you.” Titus’ kisses moved down your neck and onto your chest. He paused at the edge of the lace. “When I saw you standing over him, covered in blood, I’ve never been so fucking hard in my life.” His pupils were blown with lust, chest rising and falling with strangled breaths. Titus usually had no problem ripping your lingerie off you, but as he kissed down your stomach and settled between your legs, he left the slip on. He even paused for a moment to suckle the splotch of blood on your ribs, moaning slightly when it caused you to squirm beneath him. “Think I wanna see you wearing this every hunt. Remind me how fucking killer my wife can be.” You moaned his name softly and watched as his head disappeared under the edge of the dress. You yelped when he yanked your thighs over the edge of the bed, resting upon his shoulders. Titus laughed against your core and it sent a pleasant vibration that turned you into liquid.
When he licked the first stripe between your folds, your hands bunched the bedding between your fists. The first swipe of his tongue was always criminal and your favorite part of sex with Titus. It was always his top priority, preparing you for him in the best, most pleasurable way possible. Once you had told him that he didn’t have to eat you out, that you wanted him to enjoy it too. He had been genuinely offended and made you cum six times on his tongue as punishment. And then he went to bed with a straining cock, stating that your release was what gave him the most pleasure and that it was enough for him just to taste you.
Titus’ tongue plunged into your core, swishing from side to side to stretch you out before you took him fully. He removed his tongue and licked up to your clit, the pointed edge of his tongue catching on the small nub as he licked circles around you. He gave a slap to the outside of your thigh, a chastation that you weren’t being loud enough for him. So you let the next moan rip from your throat, a degenerate sound that made Titus whine against you.
“Fuck, Titus, you eat me out so good,” you babbled, pleasure making the edge of your brain fuzzy and clouded the edges of your vision “You’re doing so well for me. Making me feel so good.” You noticed that his hips bucked up into the air at your words, trying to find friction where there wasn’t any. A smirk formed on your lips, but it was quickly replaced by a slackened jaw when Titus inserted two of his fingers into your heat.
“Don’t play games with me,” Titus growled, flexing his digits against your velvety walls. You nodded, even though he couldn’t quite see it over the navy fabric bunched at your hips. The combination of his tongue and his fingers was overwhelming.
It wasn’t long before you felt the familiar tingling at the apex of your thighs and the base of your spine. Your fingers pried one of his hands off your thigh and entwined your fingers with his. Titus squeezed your hand to remind you that he was there with you. You clenched your thighs together, squeezing Titus’ head. He knew that it meant you were close and he locked in on his administrations, continuing the lapping and fingerfucking that had gotten you to the peak. You came with a shuttered moan, drawing a deep breath and squeezing your thighs tighter as you bucked against his face, drawing out the pleasure of your orgasm for as long as you could. Titus continued to lick you until your thighs fell wide, your belly heaving with stabilizing breaths.
Titus sat back on his heels and wiped a hand across his mouth before climbing over you. His belt was already undone to give himself some relief and he tugged on his zipper and shimmied his pants off until his cock was freed. Titus swiped his head through your folds until he collected enough of your juices where he could push in without resistance. He lined himself up and locked eyes with you before pushing his length into you. This was his favorite part of sex with you- watching your expression change as he slowly split you open on his dick. You threw your head back in pleasure, but Titus wouldn’t have that. He gripped your chin with the hand not holding himself up and jerked your face back to him. Your eyelids fluttered as he bottomed out completely. Titus pressed his lips to yours, tongue swiping at the seam. You allowed him access and he stuck his tongue in your mouth, messily making out with you as he bucked his hips up into you for the first time. You whined needily. You could taste yourself on him and it made your walls clench harder on him. Titus set a harsh but not merciless pace, fucking you hard into the mattress while making the thrusts smooth. He never fully left your cunt, sliding in and out with ease as each thrust of his hips bumped against your clit in the most delicious way. You brought your hands to his cheeks and pressed your foreheads together.
“I’m here, Titus, fuck, I’m here.” You moaned, kissing his cheekbones. Titus responded with a ragged whimper, breaths coming out in short pants and making all the noises he knew you loved.
“I. Fucking. Love you. So much.” He moaned, punctuating each word with a thrust. You maintained eye contact with him as you pressed your heels into his ass, urging him to go harder, faster, deeper. He obliged. How could he not? You were everything to him and he would give everything to you. His hazel eyes were a rim around blown pupils, but his eyes were filled with so much care and love it made your chest hurt.
“I love you too, Titus. I’m yours.” Your voice was small and breathy, all the air being fucked from your lungs by the force of Titus’ thrusts “I’m always yours. I’ll never leave you.” This earned a high-pitched moan from your husband and he tucked his face into your neck, kissing along the sensitive spot beneath your ear. You grabbed fists of his hair as he faltered slightly, knowing he was close. “Cum in me, please. Mark me.” Titus growled at your words, sucking a hickey onto your neck and readjusting his position so he could get a better angle for his cock. He lifted his head and you saw his face contort into an expression of pure pleasure, puffs of air leaving his lips as he chased his orgasm. He came with another whine, bucking and stilling deep into you as thick ropes of cum painted your insides. Titus gave one final thrust, to make sure his cum stayed inside of you. He gasped and huffed and fell to his elbows, brushing the hair from your forehead and peppering your face in gentle kisses. His dick pulsed and twitched as you squeezed him. The two of you stayed there for a while, neither one of you wanting to pull away.
“I love you,” you said softly, wiping some sweat from his brow. “I got so lucky.” Titus shook his head fervently.
“I don’t know what I did to deserve you.” The two of you shared another, gentler kiss, as his dick softened inside you. One that was filled with devotion and appreciation. Titus cupped your breast and ran a finger along the lace line of your lingerie.
“I was serious, you know,” he mused, kissing the skin of your chest. “I want you to keep this. I don’t care that it has some asshole’s blood on it.” You exhaled through your nose.
“If that’s what you want,” You give “but I want another one. A clean one.” Titus nodded. “And you’re gonna pay for it. For letting him get even close to me. One that he’s never touched.” A flash of possessiveness crossed his eyes.
“Of course,” he gritted, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He gave you one more kiss to the forehead and pulled out. You whined at the sensation, feeling the mixture of your juices and his cum run down your leg. Titus stepped into and pulled his boxers over his hips. He disappeared into the bathroom and returned with a washcloth soaked in warm water. Your husband cleaned you reverently, using a single finger to wash away the stickiness between every fold of your skin. He gave you a kiss on your thigh before walking over to the body still laying on your floor. He ran a hand over his face.
“I should probably deal with this.” Titus sighed. He put on his pants and kicked the body over onto his back. Titus’ brow furrowed in a frustratingly attractive way as he calculated the best mode of transport of his now dead cousin in-law. He glanced over to you, searching your face for something. You realized he was waiting for your permission. You waved your hand.
“Please,” you agreed, “get him out of here.” Titus nodded. You had given him a task. A priority. He grabbed the man and hoisted him over his shoulder. It helped that the groom was a twig of a man, but the show of strength reignited the flame in your lower belly. You licked your lips and gave your husband the best bedroom eyes you could muster. “Hurry back.” Titus snickered and shook his head.
“Insatiable.” He murmured. But he would be back. He just had to carry the body down the stairs and into the monitoring room, where the help would take care of him. Then, Titus would be back in the place where he felt the safest- in between your thighs.
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
Tempting the Dragon - Baelor Targaryen x niece!reader
Summary: Baelor Targaryen is a man of order, propriety, and measured words. You, unfortunately, are not.
Baelor prides himself on discipline. On honor. On never giving the realm cause to whisper.
But you are young, alive with mischief, forever coaxing your husband toward dangers far sweeter than any battlefield.
But in his own study, beneath the fading light, he discovers that temptation wears your smile — and that what he calls impropriety is something he secretly aches to surrender to.
So, Dragons may face war and temptation without flinching — but they are far less equipped for impeccable brotherly timing.
Pairing: Baelor Targaryen x niece!reader
Warnings: NSFW, Fingering, Sex (p in v)
Author’s note: As requested, this is pure smut fic – I hope you enjoy it!
English is my second language, please forgive me if I made any mistakes (:
Word count: 2.6 k
Other stories of mine
The parchment beneath you crumples, sliding under his hand as he steadies you, one arm braced beside you, the other at your waist. The candles tremble in their holders from the hard movements, their light flickering across his face.
Your fingers curl into the fabric at his shoulders, holding him as much as he holds you. The hand badge presses lightly into your palm, but you ignore it as you try to slide closer to him. He grabs your hips, his palm flat against your lower back, not even needing to guide you as you move, because you know exactly what to do — you know how to roll your hips against him in agonising circles to please you both.
The study smells of wax, ink, old paper, and sex, almost familiar and almost orderly — everything he is. Books lie open beside you, a half-written letter abandoned where his quill rests across it. He must have been working only moments ago, but you don’t care.
Your moans echo through his study as he thrusts particularly deeply, punching the air from your lungs. You feel your walls flutter and a whimper follows. He growls, his hands slide up your thighs, digging into your flesh and leaving small crescent shaped marks, as firm as his grip on you. You take him deep, over and over again, and he moans with pleasure — taking him out, only to swallow him up and get his cock sucked right back in.
With every roll of your hips, you meet his thrusts and elicit broken sounds from him now — not a moan, it sounds more like a growl. Rough and unrestrained. His cock twitches violently inside you every time you roll your hips.
His hands tightens low at your back, grabbing you and suddenly you can’t move. A squeal escapes you as he holds you tight and just pounds into you.
His name leaves you, but whatever words were meant to follow vanish when he kisses you. You just cling to him for dear life.
It is not the gentle affection he offers in quiet corridors or behind watchful eyes. A battle for dominance breaks out — a battle you're happy to lose as your tongues dance wildly. His grip firms at your bottom, pulling you flush against him.
The ink bottles clink together due to the roughness of his violent thrusts, causing the desk to rattle. Somewhere behind you a book slips and falls shut with a dull sound. He does not seem to hear it.
For once, Baelor Targaryen is not thinking. He is fucking.
Your legs tremble uselessly around his waist, but your feet still dig into the flesh of his arse every time he's balls deep inside you.
Baelor growls, his hips won't stop, he only moves more violently to feel you fluttering around him. His thick cockhead kisses your cervix every time he slams into you — the slight sting it causes makes you whimper, but you want more.
"Look at you... taking every inch like the good wife you are," he growls in your ear and you moan. Your arms around his neck tighten, pulling him closer to you. Your fingers slide into his short dark hair and you grab hold of it. Your body trembles, your cunt so wet around his shaft that slick noises fill the room, along with the sound of skin slapping against skin. You feel the desk move beneath you with every powerful thrust.
"Baelor... Baelor... I... I am..." you begin, but it ends in a scream as he pounds deeper inside you. And that’s it. You feel that pressure in your lower abdomen and suddenly it snaps. Your walls clench hard around his length, milking him as you drench his cock with your wetness. You press your face into the crook of his neck to stifle your moans. Baelor groans as he feels your walls massage his already throbbing cock.
"Gods," he groans, following you right after. He spills his seed deep inside you, painting your walls white. Flooding you with his seed, so much that it leaks out around his base, even while he’s still pulsing inside you. His slow grinding movements push every drop of his seed deeper, ensuring it stays where it belongs.
“You should visit my study more often,” he murmurs against your hair, his voice still unsteady. The admission draws a quiet laugh from you.
For a moment he simply keeps his arms around you, reluctant to move, as though breaking the stillness might also break whatever fragile peace has settled over him. Your breath is warm at his throat, slower now but not yet calm while your walls still fluttering around him. He presses a gentle kiss to the crown of your head before, with visible reluctance, letting you go. Slowly, he pulls his cock out of you, causing you to whimper softly as he grunts slightly at the sudden loss.
Baelor sits back down into his chair and leans back, exhaling deeply, one hand lingering at his temple as he tries to collect himself.
You watch him with an unabashed smile, bracing yourself on your hands as you catch your own breath. There is something endearingly human in the sight as he slowly tucks his cock back into his trousers — the composed prince momentarily gone, replaced by a man flushed and disarmed. His dark beard… a few strands of silver catching the light, and for once he looks entirely unsure what to do next.
But you already have an idea.
Baelor remains where he is for a moment, elbows on his knees now, trying to gather something resembling composure. The chamber feels warmer than it has any right to, and somehow he likes that very much.
He hears soft footsteps across the rushes. When he looks up, you have already crossed the room, fingers trailing lightly along the edge of his writing table as though you are inspecting it for flaws. There is a certain brightness in your expression that immediately reignites his desires.
“My lady,” Baelor says gently, rising at once, “I believe we have tested impropriety sufficiently for one evening.” But a smile twitches at his lips.
You turn toward the window rather than him, pushing the shutters open just enough to let in the evening air. Moonlight slips into the room, catching the silver in your hair, and you glance back over your shoulder with unmistakable mischief.
“It is only air, husband,” you say lightly.
Baelor stops a few steps behind you. “It is a window,” he corrects, already lowering his voice despite the corridor beyond being empty. The dark growl in his voice makes your cunt clench around nothing. “Windows imply visibility. Visibility invites witnesses.”
Your smile widens.
Before he can decide whether dignity requires retreat or intervention, you settle casually against the sill, entirely too at ease with a risk he can already feel unfolding.
“So you believe this is wise?” he asks, his voice low, almost too calm for the question.
You do not answer at once. He comes closer, step by step, and you feel your resolve falter long before he actually reaches you. Your thighs press together slightly, almost involuntarily... You manage a small nod, unable to look anywhere but at him.
"The heir to the throne, fucking his wife at the window?" he growls, and the vulgarity of his words only makes the throbbing between your thighs worse.
When he stands before you, he lifts your chin lightly with one finger, not enough to force, only enough that you cannot lower your gaze.
“Yes?” he asks again, softer now.
You start to rise, wanting to kiss him, but he gives the faintest shake of his head — a quiet refusal rather than a command.
“No,” he murmurs. “You wished to be bold a moment ago.”
His hands settle carefully at your waist, steady and certain. With unhurried patience he turns you toward the window, guiding rather than pushing.
You brace yourself against the windowsill as you feel him press up against you from behind. His hands are still on your hips, pulling your skirt up slightly. You can't help it, but a soft moan escapes you as you press yourself against him and feel his already hard arousal again, followed by an almost immediate growl from him as his fingers slide along the inside of your thighs.
This sign is understood immediately by him, without any need for further words, as soon as you press the soft curves of you bottom against his fingers. Your folds are explored by his fingers, who hesitate not. You moan — the sight in front of you is suddenly completely forgotten.
Baelor moves his fingers up and down, spreading your wetness and the remains of his seed along your folds. Your legs spread further as he teases your sensitive pearl, coaxing out even more of your sweet juice.
"Baelor," you whimper, and he just chuckles in your ear before nibbling lightly on your earlobe. The faint rasp of his beard against your neck sends a shiver down your spine, leaving a warmth low between your thighs that makes you long for the feeling of his beard there.
His fingers slide upwards until they tease your opening. Your walls literally suck him in as he slowly presses his fingers against your entrance, and the resulting squelching sound is obscene… so obscene… but you can't help but moan again.
His fingers slide deeper, slowly sliding in and out, while he teases, "Sssh, sweet wife… someone might hear you”.
You whimper as his fingers move faster while his palm slaps against your folds.
You want to say something back, something cheeky. But every word feels like it's stuck in your throat as he adds another finger. The following stretch feels incredible, making you forget everything else. At this moment, nothing could surpass the feeling you are experiencing… except for the feeling you would get if his cock were deep inside you. Then, you sense movement behind you. Other movements, unrelated to his fingers deep inside you.
With his free hand, he pulls his trousers back down, almost with the same urgency as before when you sat down on his desk.
His cock is already semi erect again, but as soon as he slides the tip of his cock through your folds, that quickly changes. He pulls his fingers out, causing you to whimper in protest. Your wetness soaks his shaft as he slides it up and down, and he growls repeatedly. His hand grabs your hips, draws you back until your soft curves are pressed firmly against him, his already hard and throbbing cock slides once, twice between your cheecks, smearing precum before it nudges your entrance.
As he looks down and sees your folds spreading around his cockhead, he briefly holds his breath. Slowly, he pushes his hips forward, and you moan as he spreads you further, inch by inch. This pleasurable stretching that you can't get enough of.
Initially, he progresses at a leisurely pace, relishing the way your walls tighten around him before gradually easing back. Moans and growls are uttered by him — during your intimate moments, not much is said by him, but his grunts and growls are never ambiguous.
His fingers dig into your hips as he begins to thrust harder and faster, moving you with his hands. You cry out, not caring who might hear you. Baelor looks up, his labored breathing brushing your neck as his hand suddenly slides up and gently grips your throat. Your throat bobs against his palm and you gasp slightly, but you can't deny that your walls are now clenching even more tightly around his length.
He pants into your neck as he feeds you more and more, his body trembling with exertion. Each time his hips thrust forward, your cunt makes sticky sounds, and you can feel the drag of every vein against your inner walls. Your walls flutter as if you're trying to spit him out, but at the same time it pulls him deeper inside you. A slight cry follows as his hips thrust faster and his voice rumbles.
"You wanted to enjoy the view, didn't you? Well, how do you like it, my sweet wife?", he taunts breathlessly in your ear. Your hand reaches up and clings to his forearm — not because you want him to let go of your throat, but because you're seeking something to hold on to.
"Baelor," you whimper, unable to form coherent sentences as he thrusts deep inside you — your cunt pulses around him as you drip onto the hairy base of his cock. He utters a soft curse as your walls milk him, and he buries his face in your neck, his teeth sinking into the soft skin there — without breaking it, just to mark his wife — as he grinds deeply, circling his hips so that his balls grind against your clit as you press back against him.
You feel the pressure in your abdomen again — only more intense than before. You're close. So close. Your vision blurs at the edges, and each breath becomes shallow, as if his hand on your throat is controlling it. Slick gushes out with every pull back, coating his balls, dripping down your thighs in sticky rivulets. The squelching grows louder; your cunt begins to twitch as if it wants to suck him in for good.
Another growl sounds behind you as Baelor feels your walls begin to flutter uncontrollably. He doesn't let up, his hips thrusting forward and thrusting deeper into you as you desperately try to keep your balance. His free hand slides around your body to support you and tease your sensitive pearl with maddening circles while his cock punishes your walls.
You cry out again, the pressure becoming unbearable — until it becomes too much to bear and your head simply falls back against his shoulder. Your walls flutter and your juices soak his cock again as he growls into your neck.
But then the door to his study suddenly opens.
Before you can react, you hear your father's voice and a gasp escapes you, while you freeze. You glance over Baelor's shoulder and see your father standing there, your eyes wide in shock.
"Baelor, I've been thinking about it and..." he mutters but pauses when he takes in the ‘situation’.
You and Baelor... at the window? Until he sees his brother's arse.
"Oh, seven fucking hells, will I never be spared anything?!" he suddenly exclaims.
Baelor pulls you close at once, covering you with protective instinct rather than thought. Only then does he look back himself.
"Father..." you begin in a breathless and fragile voice, but Baelor's voice is louder.
"Maekar, I’ll talk to you later," says Baelor, also breathless. But Maekar has already turned away and is making his escape.
After your father leaves Baelor’s study, there is silence... until you let out a breathless laugh. Baelor can’t quite suppress a grin but shakes his head.
"The things you always tempt me to do," he whispers, kissing your neck. Slowly, he pulls his still hard cock out of you and you gasp for air.
"What are you doing? You didn't come?" you whisper breathlessly. Baelor stands there, gently stroking his cock up and down, with precum dripping slowly from its tip, as he pants lightly.
"Yes, I don't think that's going to happen now," he murmurs. Before he has finished speaking, you turn to him and pull your skirt down. Looking up at him, you see his dark eyes meet yours. You just smile, which makes him raise his eyebrows slightly.
"Well, as a good wife, I can't let that happen," you say in your teasing tone before kneeling down. He looks down at you and the half smile you love so much graces his lips. You don't hesitate and wrap your fingers around his entire length before your lips follow and envelop his cockhead, while his hand slides into your silver hair. The precum tastes salty on your tongue as you take him deeper into your mouth, moaning as you try to take him all the way in.
Likes, comments, and reblogs are very welcome and support your fanfic writers 🖤
BUT, I'M STILL PRETTY WHEN I CRY. ( Remmick x Reader )
AUTHOR NOTE! I need more suggestions, plz send some or vote on the poll at the end.. Dedicated the b-day girlie @spikedfearn <3
pairing: Remmick x Reader
prompt : You abuse the limitations of being a vampire after Remmick angers you.
word count: 1,000+ words
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯NEW ORLEANS, 1932.
Salt. Garlic. Fire. Silver. Sunlight. Holy Ground. Needing an invitation. Those were the limitations of being a vampire that you knew for a fact. You’d yet to test any others from folklore⎯the compulsive need to count every grain of rice spilled on the floor, holy water, being unable to leave a coffin if roses are placed on top of it, crosses, and whatever others there were. You were not cruel enough to torture Remmick to find out. He was kind of pathetic already.
Awkwardly trying to charm in ways that didn’t feel natural⎯smile too wide and voice too friendly. Not to mention, the whole ‘tortured soul’ aura that oozed out of him when his mask slipped, something inside of him heavily motivated to connect with fragments of his humanity that had been stripped away by immortality. But, that was before he attempted to rip your throat out. Now, being kind was thrown out the window and left to die in the yard like it was an abusive ex-husband.
You’d make him regret leaving his homeland. You’d make him regret stumbling his way into New Orleans. You’d make him regret showing up on your doorstep. You’d make him regret feeding you a sob story for weeks. You’d make him regret trying to bite at you. Because you were far more petty, and far more motivated than he could understand. You’re Mama didn’t raise no bitch, and she sure as hell didn’t raise no daughter who took any kind of bullshit on the cheek.
Three hours until sunrise. Three more hours until he had to be gone. Narrowing your eyes hard from the safety of your living room, you could see the way that Remmick sat on your front porch swing in the window, casually rocking back and forth. As if he hadn’t just tried to rip your throat out with his teeth. Then again, you didn’t really know what other reaction you were expecting from him. You didn’t have people trying to rip your throat out ever. Crossing your arms over your chest, you huff as he casually waves, flashing a big fanged smile at you. Stupid tampon-sucking freak. He could smile all he wanted right now, you’d get your revenge on him soon enough. Soon enough.
“Why don’tcha come on out here, hm? Weathers real nice out tonight and I just wanna talk to ya’ is all.” He calls out, patting his knee invitingly.
“We can talk like this.” You argue, voice slightly muffled from the locked windows.
“Can’t hear ya’, sweetheart. Why don’tcha come on out, hm?” He argues, trying to lure you out.
“Should’ve thought of that before you tried to rip my throat out, boy.” You shake your head, not giving him an inch.
“Well, there’s no need for name callin’.” He clicked his tongue in mock disapproval, “Didn’t your Mama tell ya’ that’s mighty rude?”
“Don’t bring my Mama into this.” You snap back, eyes narrowing hard at his provoking.
“Why don’tcha let me in then?” He suggests, fingers drumming on his thigh.
Rolling your eyes hard at his ready-to-use suggestions and witty quips, you step back from the window, mind reeling with what you knew of him. He was a vampire, told you himself. Of course, you’d not taken him serious at the time⎯thinking it was a stupid joke that had fallen flat. But, now, you knew that it wasn’t a shitty joke. What else had he mentioned in passing? Something about salt and garlic. Something else about pure silver. Then, there was fire and sunlight. Not being able to cross holy ground or entering without an invitation in. Picking at your bottom lip in thought, you slowly slip away from the window, making a beeline for the kitchen.
You’d have salt in there, maybe a jar of garlic as well. But, you weren’t sure if the utensils that you had were pure silver, you had been gifted them by your Mama years ago. Rummaging through the spice cabinet, you grab the large shake of salt, checking the label; 100% pure kosher salt, no added additives included! That should work, right? Walking back to the front door in silence, you unscrew the shaker’s lid, sprinkling a line of salt at the seam of the door. You weren’t sure what it would do, but it was something for now. Which was better than just sitting by the window and letting his words get to you.
“What ya’ got there?” He questions raising a brow, “Little gift for me?”
“Salt.”
“Salt? What ya’ doing with salt, little lady, hm? What ya’⎯ya’ gonna season me to death?” He chuckles, though it sounds a little tense.
“If it gets rid of you for good, then yes.”
“Salt ain’t gonna do nothin’ to me.” He argues, but you catch the glimmer in his eyes.
“No? Then why are you looking at it like that?” You question, catching the way his shoulders rolled back tensely.
Slowly opening up the window, you pour a line of salt along the frame, watching the way he stared it down like he was afraid that it would bite him. So the salt was working. Pouring a handful of salt into the palm of your hand, you pretend like you were going to add it to the pile on your window frame, half-heartedly nudging the line until there were no weak points. Throwing the handful at him, he lets out a pained screech like a spoked cat, jumping off the porch swing. The sizzling of flesh fills the air, the stench rotten and makes your nose curl up in disgust. Watching him pat the sizzling flesh of his arm, his jaw was tightly clenched, eyes blazing with pure anger.
“You fuckin’ bitch.” He snarls, accent slipping into something older.
“What happened to it being rude to call people names?” You taunt back, throwing a few more specs of salt out the window.
“Doesn’t matter now, not after what you’ve just done.” He argues, shaking his head.
“I’m just pouring a little salt around my house.” You shrug in mock innocence, “Keeps evil away, did ya’ know that?”
“Yeah, yeah.” He paces like a caged animal, the porch creaking with each step.
“Now, there’s three hours til sunrise, and it got me thinking..” You trail off dramatically, “What else can I do to ensure that no evil comes lurking? Suppose I should say a little prayer to bless my land, or I could plant some garlic.”
Lunging at the open window like he wants to strike you, he pauses at the line of salt sprinkled on the porch, not daring to get any closer. It was cruel what you had just done, you knew that. But, so was he for lying to you for weeks. So was he for trying to lure you out. So was he for trying to rip your throat out with his teeth. Kicking at a potted plant down the steps in anger, the cheap terracotta shatters from the impact, shards scattering around and making a mess. He’s tense, like you had just personally insulted him with the suggestions. It’s what you want. You wanted him uncomfortable. You wanted him to squirm. You wanted him to feel like some kind of caged animal.
“You wouldn’t.” He huffs, the tips of his ears flushing a bright red from anger.
“I would.” You argue, “My land, my home. Nothing’s stopping me.”
“It’s cruel.” He argues, shaking his head.
“So’s life.” You scoff, “Like I said, you got three hours til sunrise. Best start walking and hope you find some barn to shack up in until it’s night.”
“Let me in.” He demands, hands curling into fists at his side.
“No.”
“Please, let me in, ( Y/n ).” He tries again, forcing his voice to sound kinder than before.
You pause, letting the silence linger for a beat too long. Like you were actually going to ponder over what he was asking. Like you might just stop being so cruel and let him get his way. Narrowing your eyes at him, you watch as he shifts in place on the porch, his face curling down into a pathetic sullen puppy-eyed one.
His hands fiddling with each other, as he hunches his shoulders forward to try to appear smaller than he actually was. It was a convincing act, you wouldn’t lie. But, you knew, you knew what he was. You knew that the moment you opened that door and invited him in, you were as good as dead.
“Fuck. No. Asshole.” You sneer, watching his whole demeanor change in an instant.
“Open the fucking door, ( Y/n ).” He smashes his fist against the window to try to intimidate you, “This ain’t no damn joke.”
“I got a shaker full of salt and I am sure I can scrounge up some fresh garlic from the fridge, you think flashing some fangs at me is gonna scare me?” You roll your eyes, “Not a chance.”
“I swear, I’ll rip out your fucking throat! I’ll fucking take my time and let it hurt. You gotta leave this house eventually!” He snarls, hot breath fogging up the windows.
“I can wait till sunrise, question is.” You raise a brow, “Can you?”
----
You pick one, I write it!
Eric Love - Eric forgets that it is Valentine's Day until it's too late.
Remmick - He thinks the most romantic thing is a corpse with his name on it.
Sir Jimmy Crystal - You gift him an old VHS tape for Valentine's Day.
Roy Goode - Roy was never good at crafts, but he tries for Valentines's Day.
I'd DIE on the grumpy x sunshine trope, absolute masterpiece. Grumpy Aerion x sunshine!wife!reader, everyone thinks Aerion is cruel even to his wife and kids when infact he literally worships her. Always yearning for her whenever she has to travel or when they're separated more than a minute.
I love your writing by the way! Makes me joyous whenever you drop another fanfic.
THE DRAGON & HIS SUN.
Aerion Targaryen x reader
Authors note: ONE OF MY FAVVV TROPES OMG. This was so cute to write, thank you for your lovely recommendation! And 🥹🥹 i appreciate that so much! ♡ plenty more is on its way hehehe thank youuuuu : )
.𖥔 ݁ ˖༘⋆𐦍⊹₊ ⋆｡˚
They say Aerion Targaryen does not love.
They say his wife learned early to keep her eyes down, her voice soft, her joy dimmed to survive him. That his children flinch when his boots echo through the hall. That the dragon’s blood runs too hot in him for tenderness.
You hear it all with a smile.
Because the truth lives in the spaces no one sees.
It lives in the way Aerion’s hand finds the small of your back the moment you enter a room, grounding himself as much as guiding you. In how his voice, sharp as Valyrian steel with the court, lowers when he speaks to you—careful, deliberate, as though every word is something sacred he might break if mishandled.
It lives in the fact that when you are gone, even for an hour, the world tilts wrong.
Aerion stands at the window of the Red Keep like a man awaiting sentence, jaw clenched, fingers tight around the stone sill. You are riding with your ladies through the city, laughing too loudly, sunlight caught in your hair—and he is here, restless as a caged dragon.
“Your Grace,” a guard says carefully, “the council awaits.”
Aerion does not turn.
“They can and will wait,” he answers, cold enough to frost glass.
Because the council is nothing. Politics is nothing. Power is nothing when you are not within reach.
He remembers the way you kissed his knuckles this morning, bright-eyed and unafraid. I’ll be back before you miss me, you’d teased.
You were wrong.
He misses you the instant you’re gone.
The court sees only the mask: Aerion the Cruel, Aerion the Mad, Aerion with his sharp tongue and sharper temper. They notice how you sit beside him, radiant and warm, and mistake his stillness for indifference.
They do not see his knee angled toward yours, the way his cloak is always draped so it shields you first. They do not hear the quiet “Are you well?” murmured only for you, or feel how his thumb traces slow circles against your skin during long, dull feasts—anchoring himself to your presence like a man clinging to shore.
They whisper that he ignores you.
They do not know that he watches you more than anyone else in the room.
You return near dusk, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with stories. The moment you step into his chambers, Aerion is there—too fast, too close, hands already framing your face as if to reassure himself you are real.
“You’re back,” he says, breath rough.
“I told you I would be,” you laugh, reaching for him without fear. “It was only the afternoon.”
His forehead drops to yours.
“You should not be gone so long.”
Anyone else might hear a threat.
You hear the truth.
“I’ll take you with me next time,” you promise softly.
His grip loosens, reverent now. As though he’s ashamed of how tightly he held you.
That night, when you sleep curled against his chest, Aerion lies awake long after. One arm wrapped around you, the other fisted in the sheets like he might lose you if he relaxes too much.
He thinks of all the cruel things they say about him.
How easily the world believes he is a monster.
Let them.
Monsters do not worship.
Monsters do not memorize the sound of your laughter, or ache when you’re beyond arm’s reach. Monsters do not kiss their children’s brows with a gentleness so careful it borders on prayer, all because you once asked him to be soft with them, like you are with me.
As dawn seeps through the sky, duty calls. Another council meeting, but as always you’re there. Ever dutiful by his side.
No one speaks too loudly then.
Because Aerion’s hand rests on your knee, and one of the children has his finger hooked through Aerion’s, small and trusting.
They think the children are brave.
They do not know the truth: the children do not fear him at all.
Your youngest tugs insistently at Aerion’s sleeve, utterly unconcerned with the cold looks he’s giving the council.
“Papa,” they whisper loudly, “Mama said you’d tell us the dragon story.”
Aerion exhales through his nose—something dangerously close to a smile.
“Later,” he murmurs, voice low, thumb brushing over the child’s knuckles. “You should listen to your mother.”
Your eldest leans against him, cheek pressed to his arm, half-asleep already. Aerion adjusts without looking, shifting so the child is more comfortable, cloak folding around them both like a shield.
You watch him with fond amusement.
The man they call cruel counts his breaths so he doesn’t wake his child.
When night falls, the four of you are tangled together in his chambers—children sprawled across the massive bed, limbs everywhere. Aerion sits propped against the headboard, one child asleep on his chest, the other curled between you.
You brush your fingers through his hair, soft and familiar.
“They adore you,” you murmur.
“They are yours,” he answers immediately, like it’s obvious. “How could I not love them?”
Later, when thunder cracks and one of the children wakes crying, it is Aerion who rises first. The door barely has time to open before he’s already pacing the chamber, murmuring Valyrian endearments, pressing kisses into sleep-tangled hair.
“You are safe,” he whispers fiercely. “I am here. Nothing will touch you.”
You watch from the bed, heart aching in the best way.
The court sees a dragon.
You see a man who memorized lullabies because you once said the children liked them. Who sharpens his temper into something frightening so the world never dares aim its cruelty at you or your babies.
When you must travel, even briefly, Aerion becomes unbearable.
He walks the halls with a child on each side, hands locked tight, eyes scanning every shadow. Your absence weighs heavier when the children ask for you, small voices asking when is Mama back?
“She will return,” he tells them, certainty like iron. “She always does.”
And when you finally step through the doors, dusty from the road, Aerion breaks.
He drops to one knee so the children can reach you first, watching with naked longing as they crash into your arms. Only when you look up at him—smiling, alive, home—does he stand, hands trembling as they frame your face.
“You’re back,” he says again, like the world has righted itself.
“I promised,” you whisper.
That night, when the children sleep between you again, Aerion presses his lips to your temple, voice barely there.
“The common folk think me a monster,” he says.
You smile into the dark, reaching for his hand.
“Let them,” you reply. “Monsters don’t love like this.”
Aerion tightens his grip around you and your children, fierce and unyielding.
Let the world fear him.
He has everything he’s ever wanted, right here in his arms.
Aerion Targaryen would burn kingdoms without blinking.
But you?
You are the one thing he kneels to.
And if loving you like this is another sin the world wants to pin on him—
