ysmmsy @ysmmsy - Tumblr Blog

Feb 3

A Matter of Reputation

Sean Rafferty x Guinness!reader - House of Guinness (2025)

Summary: You’ve spent your life sheltered, protected, untouchable, the perfect Guinness daughter. Then someone decides that’s worth a ransom, and suddenly Mr Rafferty is tasked with “minding” you. Only problem: you’re not inclined to be minded, and he’s not used to being defied.

Warnings: 18+ SMUT, power imbalance, loss of virginity, protective!Sean ;) tenderness with an edge, mutual pining, slow burn, tension that finally breaks, rumours and reputations, emotional vulnerability, post-danger comfort, low lighting and high stakes, general Mr Rafferty warnings, violence, creepy men, a size diff that could knock someone out <3

A/N: This is like VERY long, a complete accident. I was aiming for like 5k words and it's basically double that, sooooo yeah. This fic kinda gives bodyguard x reader vibes. I love this man, he's perfect. In the later bits of the fic he might be a bit ooc, but like its fineeee. hope you like it :)

MASTERLIST - REQUESTS

WC: 9.2k (oops)

The letter arrives on a Thursday.

By Friday morning, the household feels like it’s holding its breath.

You know something’s wrong before anyone tells you. The servants are jumpy, eyes sliding away when you ask questions. Your brother Edward hasn’t left the study since dawn, and Arthur, who's always composed, always maddeningly calm, keeps glancing toward the windows as though expecting someone to appear.

By noon, you’re summoned.

The room smells of smoke and old paper. Edward’s pacing. Arthur sits behind your father’s old desk, shoulders stiff. He gestures for you to sit. You don’t.

“Has someone died?”

Edward stops pacing. “Not yet.”

That yet lands like a coin dropped into water, small and sharp.

Arthur slides a sheet of paper toward you. It’s been folded and refolded, handled by too many worried hands. The handwriting is unfamiliar, the ink uneven.

You only make it through the first few lines before you understand why they look so grave.

…for the sum of twenty thousand pounds sterling we can guarantee her safe return. Miss Guinness's routines are known to us. The Brewery cannot protect its own forever.

Your throat tightens. “This- this is a joke. Some gutter scribbler looking for attention.”

Arthur’s jaw works. “It isn’t.”

Edward mutters, “The constabulary’s useless. They’ll make noise, scare off half of Dublin, and learn absolutely nothing.”

“So what, you’re going to lock me in the house?” you snap. “Hide me away like an heirloom?”

Arthur sighs. “We’ve made arrangements.”

The door opens before you can demand what that means. And there he is.

Mr Rafferty fills the doorway like a shadow made of muscle. Hat in his hands, coat dusted from the yard. You’ve seen him before, of course you have. Walking through the factory offices, at the edge of funerals, the quiet storm that follows your brothers everywhere. But never this close.

He inclines his head slightly. “Miss.”

You blink. “No.”

Arthur’s voice sharpens. “You haven’t heard the proposal.”

“I don’t need to.” You step back from the desk. “He’s your foreman, not my-” you gesture, “not my keeper.”

Rafferty’s mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “Not my choice either, miss.”

The accent hits you first, low Dublin, smoothed at the edges by discipline but still unmistakable. There’s something in the way he looks at you too; detached, assessing, like you’re another task to be managed.

Arthur interjects, diplomatic as ever. “You’ll continue your usual engagements, but Mr. Rafferty will accompany you. Discreetly.”

“Discreetly?” You laugh, incredulous. “He looks like he could break a horse in half.”

That earns you a sidelong look from him, one corner of his mouth lifting just enough to be infuriating. “I’ll take that as praise.”

You turn to your brothers. “This is absurd. You’re treating me like a child.”

Edward answers first. “We’re treating you like someone who might be in danger.”

“You can’t mean to have him follow me about-”

Arthur interrupts, calm, final. “We do.”

The silence after that feels enormous. You can hear the clock ticking, the faint hiss of the fire.

Mr Rafferty slips his hat back on. “Shall I wait outside?”

Arthur nods. “You’ll begin today.”

Your hands curl into fists. “Arthur-”

But he’s already looking back down at his papers, the conversation over. Edward won’t meet your eyes.

When you storm out, he's waiting in the corridor, leaning one shoulder against the wall like he’s been there for hours.

You glare at him. “I don’t need you.”

He straightens, unhurried. “That’s good to hear, miss. Makes my work easier.”

You stride past him. The sound of his boots follows; slow, measured, impossible to ignore.

You spend the rest of the day trying to outwalk him. Through the glasshouse, the gardens, down the narrow servants’ paths. Every turn, every corner, he’s there.

Not intrusive, just… constant.

At one point, when you whirl around, he’s standing a few paces away with his arms folded, expression unreadable. “Do you enjoy this?” you demand. “Trailing behind like some...some ghost?”

He lifts a brow. “Wouldn’t say I’m enjoying it, no.”

“You could at least pretend not to be watching me.”

“Could,” he says. “But then you’d get yourself nicked by someone who’s watching you worse.”

The words hang there, blunt and cold. You look away first. “You sound very sure of that.”

He shrugs. “It’s my job to be.”

You take another step, intending to end the conversation, but your foot catches on a loose cobble. Before you can recover, his hand shoots out, steadying your arm.

It’s nothing, really. A reflex. But the grip is strong, warm through your sleeve, too intimate for the garden path. You freeze.

He releases you at once, expression smoothing back into neutrality. “Best watch your step, miss.”

And then he walks on ahead, leaving you standing there, heart hammering in your throat.

You don’t give him the satisfaction of waiting when the carriage pulls up. You climb in first, skirts rustling, chin high. This is your outing, and he’s the one tagging along.

Mr Rafferty follows a moment later, ducking his head to fit beneath the carriage frame, all broad shoulders and unhurried ease. He sits opposite you, resting one arm along the window frame, the other hand braced against his knee. You can tell, even at rest, he’s not built for stillness.

“Where to, miss?” the driver asks.

Before you can answer, Rafferty says, “Town. We’ll start at the post office, then your aunt’s.”

You bristle. “I can choose my own itinerary, thank you.”

He doesn’t look up from adjusting his gloves. “You’ve already been told not to send letters yourself.”

“That doesn’t mean-”

“Means enough,” he cuts in, voice mild but final.

You sit back hard against the seat, glaring out the window. He doesn’t rise to it. Just settles in, watching the street roll by with that stillness that makes you want to provoke him, if only to see whether he’ll crack.

The city swells around you. The narrow lanes, gas lamps, the smell of hops and horses. Vendors call out, children dart between carts. It’s the usual Dublin chaos, but there’s something off today. You feel it in the air before you can name it.

At first, it’s only small things; there are more policemen than usual near the docks, groups of men gathered on corners, their talk sharp and fast. His gaze flicks toward them, then away.

“You’re staring,” you say, half to needle him.

He doesn’t answer. His attention is everywhere, the side streets, the rooftops, the crowd pressing close to the carriage as it slows near College Green. When you reach for the window curtain, he says quietly, “Leave it down.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m not a prisoner.”

“No,” he says. “But there’s no need to advertise who you are.” Something in his tone makes you hesitate. Not sharp, not condescending, just very sure.

You leave the curtain where it is.

The carriage stops. Outside a wall of shouting hits you, the scrape of metal, a chant you can’t quite make out. The driver twists in his seat, looking uneasy.

“Rafferty?” he calls. “They’re blocking Dame Street.”

Sean leans out the window, assessing. You can see the movement reflected in the glass, the way he squints against the light, jaw tightening.

“What’s happening?” you demand.

“Labourers. Dock hands, maybe brewers’ men too. Looks like a march that’s gone sour.”

“Then go around.”

He doesn’t move. “No easy way around, miss. Not without going straight through the crowd.”

You catch the faintest flicker of unease in the driver’s posture. Outside, the noise grows, angry and rhythmic.

Rafferty sits back, tapping the carriage wall twice. “Turn down to Fishamble. We’ll cut through to the river.”

The driver hesitates. “That’s the long way.”

“Safer,” Rafferty says simply. The carriage jolts into motion again. You grip the seat edge, trying not to let the sudden tension show.

“This is ridiculous,” you mutter. “They’re not going to-”

“Not going to what?” His voice is calm, but there’s steel beneath it. “You think they wouldn’t touch a Guinness?”

“That’s not what I-”

He leans forward slightly, eyes meeting yours in the dim carriage light. “You’re the name on every payslip, miss. They see that name, they don’t see you. They see their wages, their debts, their children hungry. You understand?”

Your mouth goes dry. You nod before you realize it.

He sits back again, gaze returning to the window.

The noise follows you down the side street, echoing off stone walls. The air’s thick with smoke now, maybe torches, maybe worse. The driver mutters something and snaps the reins faster.

Then, around the next turn, everything stops.

A barricade of barrels and crates blocks the street ahead. A few men are gathered there, faces flushed, eyes bright with drink and anger. When they spot the carriage, they move like a single creature, closing ranks.

The driver curses under his breath.

Mr Rafferty's already moving. He opens the carriage door and steps out before you can stop him.

“Stay inside,” he says, voice low but absolute.

You lean forward, clutching the window frame. “Rafferty-”

“Stay inside.”

He doesn’t raise his voice, but something about the way he says it stills you. He walks toward the men with the steady gait of someone who’s done this before, utterly unafraid.

You can hear fragments of conversation, his voice even, theirs harsh and overlapping. You catch a few words here and there, “just passing through,” “don’t want trouble,” “Guinness wagon.”

Then one of the men spits on the ground. Another laughs, says something crude you can’t quite make out, but you see the way Rafferty’s shoulders square, the stillness before motion.

It happens too fast to process. A shove, a flash of movement, and then Rafferty’s got the loud one pinned against a crate, one hand gripping his collar, voice like a growl through his teeth. Whatever he says, the others back off.

He releases the man, steps away without looking back, and the crowd parts just enough for the carriage to squeeze through.

He climbs back in, breath steady, coat askew. His knuckles are scraped.

You stare. “You could’ve been killed.”

He glances at his hand like he’s only now noticed the blood. “Wouldn’t be the first time, miss.”

The driver flicks the reins. The carriage lurches forward, bumping over the cobbles. You can still hear shouting behind you, fading into distance.

You look at him again, at the quiet way he’s rebuttoning his coat, the faint tremor in his fingers betraying what he won’t admit.

“Do you always handle things like that?” you ask.

He smirks faintly. “Usually they listen faster.”

The streets are still thick with noise when he raps twice on the roof and tells the driver to stop.

“Here,” he says.

You peer out through the curtain. The street looks unremarkable, and in front of the carriage seems to be an old tavern of sorts. The brick walls have gone dark with soot, and a faded sign swings in the wind.

“Here?” you echo.

“It’s safe.”

“You call this safe?”

He’s already stepping out. The air hits you, sharp with smoke and damp. He turns, offering a hand without a word. You hesitate, staring at it, the scrape of dried blood still on his knuckles. Then you take it.

His palm is warm, rougher than you expect. He steadies you down the carriage step, guiding you toward the door with the same quiet certainty he used on the street.

Inside, the tavern smells of beer and roasted meat, low ceilings trapping the heat. A few patrons glance up when you enter, but Rafferty’s presence kills their curiosity. He nods to the barkeep, and that’s enough.

“This way,” he murmurs, leading you to a corner booth half hidden behind a pillar. He takes the seat facing the door. Of course he does. You sit opposite, trying to smooth your gloves as if the tremor in your fingers comes from the chill outside.

He signals for food, just two plates, two mugs, a gesture that speaks of long habit.

When he catches your raised brow, he says, “You’ll want something warm. You’re shaking.”

“I am not-” You stop, glance down at your hands, traitorously unsteady. “It was just… loud out there.”

“Aye,” he says simply.

The mugs arrive first, dark beer with a frothy edge. You frown at yours. “It’s barely noon.”

“Doctor’s orders,” he deadpans. “Good for the nerves.”

Despite yourself, you almost laugh.

Then the food comes. Fresh bread, stew, thick and steaming. You watch him eat, the economy of his movements, the way he checks the door every few minutes without seeming to. He’s not tense, exactly; it’s just how he is.

You try to imagine what kind of life builds a man like that, all calm edges and hidden steel, but you can’t quite picture it.

“You come here often?” you ask finally.

He glances up. “Often enough.”

“Seems a strange place for someone employed by Guinness.”

He shrugs, tearing off a piece of bread. “I’m not much for the gentlemen’s clubs.”

The corner of your mouth tilts. “No? I’d think you’d fit right in. You give orders like one of them.”

His gaze flicks to you, steady and amused. “Difference is they expect to be obeyed.”

You meet his look, the air between you lighter now, a kind of curiosity replacing the irritation. “I didn’t thank you,” you say quietly.

“For what?”

“For before. On the street.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t thank me for doing my job.”

“Still. You kept me safe.”

“That’s the idea.”

There’s a silence that feels heavier than the words deserve. You study him, tracing the small details you missed before, the faint scar cutting through the stubble at his jaw, the rough patch where his collar chafes his neck, the way his hair curls when the damp gets to it.

He feels your gaze and looks up. “You’re staring.”

You don’t look away. “You’re very sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

He leans back a little, one arm draped over the seat. “You’d rather I wasn’t?”

You open your mouth, then close it. He smiles, just barely, enough that it changes his face, softens it.

“You should eat,” he says. “We’ll wait here till the streets clear.”

“And then?”

“Then I take you home.”

You nod, but you don’t touch your spoon right away. The tavern hums around you. Quiet laughter, the scrape of chairs, the low murmur of the barkeep talking to a deliveryman. For the first time all day, you feel safe. How strange that safety is coming from him.

You look up again, catching him watching you this time.

“What?” you ask, a little too quickly.

He tilts his head. “Just making sure you’re all right.”

“I am.”

His eyes narrow slightly, as if he doesn’t believe you but won’t say so. Then he nods once, slow. “Good.”

You pick up your spoon, mostly to have something to do. The stew’s gone lukewarm, but you eat anyway. When you glance up again, he’s still watching the door, but every now and then, his gaze flicks back to you.

For all your protests, you don’t entirely mind being watched.

By the time you step out of the tavern the air smells like rain and smoke. The worst of the chaos has drained away, leaving only scraps. A couple overturned crates, a cart wheel split in the gutter, the distant sound of someone shouting.

Rafferty glances both ways before speaking. “Carriage will stand out too much,” he says. “We’ll walk.”

You hesitate. “Walk? Through this?”

“Don’t fancy getting boxed in again.” He looks at you. “Keep close. I’ll see you home.”

He doesn’t wait for argument. His hand finds the small of your back, steady, guiding you forward. Every time you have to step around broken cobblestones or sidestep a puddle, he adjusts, steering you without words.

“You always this bossy?” you mutter.

“Only when someone’s trying to get themselves kidnapped.”

You shoot him a glare, but there’s no real heat in it. After a few quiet minutes, you say, “You knew exactly where to go back there. The tavern.”

He hums in assent. “Old friend runs it. Keeps his head down, doesn’t ask questions.”

“That’s useful.”

“It is when you work for people who draw the wrong sort of attention.” You look up at him. “You mean my family.”

He glances down at you, something unreadable flickering through his eyes. “I mean power. Always comes with a price.”

“Do you sound this cryptic on purpose?”

He almost smiles. “Sometimes.”

For a moment, you walk in silence. The street narrows ahead, lined with shuttered shops and flickering gas lamps. The light catches the strong lines of his profile.

You ask quietly, “What were you before this?”

He doesn’t answer right away. “Does it matter?”

“Maybe not. I just wonder how a man learns to see danger coming before anyone else does.”

He gives a low, rough chuckle. “By getting caught in it too many times.”

You’re about to ask more, but a sound cuts through. The scrape of boots on cobblestone, too close. His hand tightens slightly at your back. “Stay behind me,” he says, already scanning the shadows.

From the mouth of an alley, a man steps out. Tall, broad, face ruddy from drink. His grin wobbles as he takes you both in.

“Well now,” he drawls, “look what the wind’s blown out. Little lady shouldn’t be out so late. Not without her brothers, eh?”

Rafferty moves half a step forward, blocking you from view. His tone is calm. “Walk away, lad.”

But the man doesn’t move. His eyes glint, mean and eager. “I know that face. Guinness, isn’t she? The brothers’ pretty pet sister.” He spits to the side. “Family’s got debts all over this city. Maybe it’s time someone started collecting.”

You freeze. The words slither down your spine, oily and cold.

“Go home,” Rafferty says, voice low now.

The man laughs, stepping closer. “Oh, I think I’ll stay. You look like the type who could be convinced to share.” His gaze slides past Rafferty’s shoulder, landing on you, and your stomach twists. "What do you say, pretty thing like that should be put to good use, yeah?"

Rafferty moves before the man can blink. One hand snaps up, catching him by the collar, slamming him into the nearest wall so hard the breath leaves the man in a grunt.

“Don’t,” Rafferty says, quiet as death. “Look at her again.”

The drunk tries to shove back, but Rafferty doesn’t budge. His forearm presses into the man’s throat, cutting off air with merciless precision. The man’s hands claw at him, feet scraping against brick.

You can barely breathe yourself. The alley feels smaller, tighter, your heart is racing.

“Apologise,” Rafferty says.

The man chokes out a half word.

“Louder.”

“S-sorry-”

Rafferty’s arm tightens another inch. “Not to me.”

The man wheezes, eyes bulging, finally rasping, “S-sorry, miss-!”

Rafferty holds him there for one more breath, long enough for the message to sink in, before letting go. The man crumples to the ground, coughing, clutching his throat.

Rafferty doesn’t look back at him. “Walk,” he tells you.

But you can’t seem to move. Your knees have gone weak, the edges of the world blurring.

He steps to your side, his voice softer now. “Come on. He’s not worth your fear.”

But when you try to take a step your legs give way, the ground tilts. Before you can hit it, his arm is around you, holding you upright.

“Easy,” he murmurs, steadying you.

“I- I can walk,” you manage, though your voice sounds distant.

He studies you, then sighs. Without warning, he stoops and lifts you, one arm under your knees, the other around your back.

“Sean-!”

“Quiet now.”

Your protest dies when you see his face, all the humour gone, only that hard focus left. He carries you down the narrow street as if you weigh nothing, boots echoing on the cobblestones, the night air cold against your cheeks.

You can feel the steady rhythm of his breathing, the warmth of him seeping through your dress, and the faint tremor still running through your own hands.

When he finally speaks, it’s low, almost to himself. “People like him forget who they’re dealing with.”

You tilt your head against his shoulder. “And who’s that?”

He looks down at you, eyes catching the lamplight, gold and sharp.

“Me.”

You don’t answer. You just watch him, this man you thought you despised, this man who can be calm and kind one moment, and terrifying the next. You think of his hand at your back, the weight of it. You think of how quickly he moved, how sure he was.

The night grows quieter as you move away from the river. Your head rests against his shoulder now, too tired to protest, too wrung out to care how it must look. His coat smells faintly of smoke and iron and something warm beneath it, like cedar. Each step jostles you gently, a rhythm that starts to lull your body into surrender.

“You still with me?” he asks, voice rough from disuse.

“Mhm,” you manage, the sound small, almost swallowed by the dark.

“Not much farther.”

You don’t remember most of the walk after that. Only fragments; the wet cobblestones glinting under lamplight, the low creak of carriage wheels somewhere in the distance, the thump of his heart beneath your cheek.

When you blink next, there’s a gate, tall and iron, familiar. Rafferty doesn’t slow. The guards at the gate look startled, but one sharp glance from him and they step aside without a word.

He shifts you slightly in his arms as he shoulders his way past the front door. Inside, everything is too bright. The warmth of the house feels unreal after the night’s cold, your eyes sting.

“-what in God’s name-”

Arthur’s voice booms first, followed by the thud of hurried footsteps. Edward’s not far behind, coat half-buttoned, worry carving lines into his face.

Mr Rafferty stops in the centre of the hall, his hold on you stable.

“She’s fine,” he says.

Arthur’s gaze flicks from your pale face to the smear of dirt on your hem, the faint streak of blood on Rafferty’s sleeve. “You call this fine?”

“Better than it could’ve been.”

Edward steps closer, jaw tight. “What happened?”

Rafferty’s eyes flick briefly to you, still slumped against him, eyelids heavy. “Nothing you need to worry her with now.”

Arthur opens his mouth again, but Rafferty’s tone drops, quiet and deliberate. “She’s exhausted. Let her rest. I’ll explain once she’s settled.”

“Arthur,” Edward murmurs, “look at her. She can’t even stand.”

Arthur exhales, dragging a hand down his face. “Take her upstairs, then. The blue room.”

Rafferty nods once.

He starts up the staircase without waiting. The hush of the hallway wraps around you, the click of his boots on the steps steady and sure. Your head lolls, and you fight to lift it.

“Mr Rafferty?”

He glances down. “Yes, love?”

You pause.

“You’re not supposed to call me that,” the words slur together, half lost to sleep.

He huffs a quiet laugh through his nose. “Good thing you’re too tired to report me, then.”

You mean to answer something clever, something biting, but it dissolves before it reaches your lips.

When he pushes open the door to your room, the lamps are already lit. He sets you down with a care that makes your throat ache, easing you onto the bed, one arm still braced behind your shoulders until you’re lying against the pillows.

The sudden absence of his warmth makes the air feel cold again.

You blink, half awake, trying to focus on him. “You didn’t- you didn’t have to carry me.”

He crouches beside the bed, eyes flicking over you like he’s checking for damage. “Wouldn’t have made it otherwise.”

“I could’ve,” you whisper.

He raises a brow. “Aye. And tripped over your own skirt again?”

A tired laugh escapes you before you can stop it. It’s quiet, breathless, and it catches something in his expression, the corner of his mouth softening, the tightness around his eyes easing.

Arthur’s voice calls faintly from the hall, impatient. “Rafferty!”

He glances toward the door, then back at you. “Rest. I’ll take the blame.”

You nod, or think you do. The room’s going hazy at the edges now. You can feel the weight of sleep pulling you under.

As he straightens, you catch his sleeve, just enough to stop him.

“Sean,” you murmur, barely more than a breath. “Thank you.”

He looks down at your hand on his arm, the delicate contrast of it, and for a heartbeat he doesn’t move. Then his fingers brush yours before he gently sets your hand back on the coverlet.

“Sleep, miss,” he says.

And you do, the sound of his voice is the last thing you hear before the door clicks shut.

You wake to sunlight. It slices through the curtains in thin, golden bars, painting the room in quiet warmth. For a moment, you don’t remember.

Then it hits you in pieces. The alley, the man’s voice, Mr Rafferty’s hands on him. You sit up slowly. Someone’s left a tray on the bedside table, tea gone lukewarm, a slice of bread, a note in Edward’s neat handwriting.

Rest. No need to come down early. – E.

Which of course means you do the opposite.

You pull on a fresh dress, pin your hair, and slip into the corridor. The house is awake now, the thud of servants’ footsteps, the rattle of dishes from the kitchen, but quieter than usual.

Halfway down the staircase, you hear voices from the study door left slightly ajar.

Arthur first, sharp with anger he’s trying to hold in check. “You should’ve told me sooner, Rafferty.”

“I told you the minute we were clear,” Rafferty answers, calm but edged.

“You think that’s soon enough?” Edward cuts in. “There were two men waiting beyond the quay. Two. Armed.”

You freeze. Two?

“They didn’t follow us,” Rafferty says. “One tried. He won’t again.”

There’s a silence thick enough to taste.

Arthur exhales hard. “Christ, Sean. I don’t need another corpse in the river.”

“He’s breathing,” Rafferty replies. “Barely, but he’s breathing.”

Edward mutters, “You call that mercy?”

Rafferty’s tone shifts. “I call it a message. Anyone thinking of touching your sister will know better now.”

Your pulse hammers. You shouldn’t be listening. But the steadiness in his voice roots you to the spot.

Arthur again, quieter this time. “She doesn’t know how close it was, does she?”

“No,” Rafferty says. “And she doesn’t need to.”

The scrape of a chair. You picture him standing, towering, that same presence that silenced the tavern and the alley alike.

“I’ll keep an eye on her till you sort the rest,” he adds.

Arthur’s sigh follows him toward the door. “You always do.”

You dart back up a step as the handle turns. The door opens, and Rafferty steps out, adjusting his cuffs. He looks up, catching you mid-retreat.

His mouth twitches, half amusement, half reproach. “Eavesdropping now?”

You grip the bannister. “I wasn’t-” He arches a brow.

You sigh. “Fine. Maybe a little.” He doesn’t scold, just studies you for a moment. “How’s the head?”

“Still attached.”

“That’s an improvement.”

The corner of your mouth lifts despite yourself. Arthur appears in the doorway behind him, looking suddenly older. “You gave us a fright last night.”

“I gathered,” you murmur.

“You’ll stay close to the house for now. No wandering off, no visits into town.”

You nod, though the thought of confinement makes your skin itch.

Arthur continues, “We’ve a dinner in two nights. Some of Father’s associates from London, important ones. You’ll attend, of course.”

A dinner. Guests, music, and laughter, normalcy as armour.

Rafferty’s expression doesn’t change, but you can feel the shift in the air. A dinner means appearances to keep, masks to polish.

Arthur adds, “I expect everyone to be on their best behaviour.”

You glance at Rafferty. “Does that include your fixer?”

For the first time, he smiles. A small, knowing thing. “I clean up well enough.”

Arthur groans. “God help us.”

Edward mutters something about checking the guest list and slips away. Rafferty moves aside so you can pass, but when you step by, his voice lowers just for you. “You shouldn’t have been out of bed.”

“I wasn’t tired anymore.”

He looks at you like he doesn’t believe it, but lets it pass. “Eat something before you faint in front of your brothers. That’d undo all my hard work.”

You roll your eyes, but the warmth that creeps into your chest betrays you.

As he walks away, you catch yourself watching the way the light catches his hair, the measured grace even in exhaustion.

You tell yourself it’s gratitude. You almost believe it.

The dining room has never looked more alive. Candles burn low in silver sconces, throwing gold across polished wood and the gleam of cut crystal. Laughter ripples down the table like music, buoyed by too much wine and too many toasts to the family name.

You’ve done this a hundred times before; smiled, nodded, spoken when required. But tonight your reflection in the window feels like someone else entirely. The blue silk clings perfectly, the neckline modest but flattering, the pearls at your throat gleaming.

The Golden Guinness, someone called you once. The dutiful sister. The one who never puts a toe wrong.

And yet, every time you glance to your left, you feel the act falter.

Sean Rafferty, seated beside you, looks nothing like the man who carried you through the dark streets of Dublin two nights ago. Clean-shaven now, hair tamed, black coat pressed within an inch of its life. But the polish only sharpens what was already there, the lines of his face, the breadth of his shoulders, the quiet power in every movement.

He’s still Rafferty underneath it all, still the man who can silence a room with a look, but here the candlelight makes him almost elegant.

Dangerous in a different way.

Arthur’s voice cuts through your thoughts. “You’ll find our foreman keeps a tighter hand on things than most,” he says to one of the guests, a portly man from Liverpool whose name you’ve already forgotten. “Guinness runs smoother for it.”

The man laughs, waving his glass. “Then you’ve got yourself a treasure. Looks like you’ve even convinced him to behave at table.”

Laughter follows, polite and good-natured. Even Rafferty's mouth tilts slightly.

You add lightly, “He’s very adaptable when the occasion demands it.”

Arthur groans. “Don’t encourage him.”

You turn toward Rafferty, voice low enough for only him to hear. "You were right."

His fork pauses in midair, "How do you mean?"

“You do clean up well.”

He glances at you sideways. “And here I thought I’d gone unnoticed.”

“Hardly.”

His eyes catch yours for half a breath too long, the air between you flickering. You look away first, pulse unsteady.

A few courses later, the wine has turned everyone’s edges soft. Jokes grow louder, laughter freer. Someone further down the table, one of Edward’s more talkative friends, lifts his glass and says, “You two look well together, don’t they?”

You blink. “I beg your pardon?”

He gestures loosely between you and Rafferty. “You and Mr Rafferty there. Didn’t expect it, but look at that. You've been sitting side by side for hours and he hasn’t scowled once. A miracle.”

A ripple of amusement passes through the table. Even Arthur smirks.

Rafferty leans back slightly, unbothered. “Maybe she brings out my better manners.”

That earns another round of laughter, yours included, though the warmth in your cheeks is too real.

But then, before the laughter dies, another voice cuts in, this time cool and female, sharp. “Oh, I’m sure she brings out quite a lot in him.”

The table stills just enough for it to register.

You turn toward the speaker, Mrs Kearney, wife of one of the Dublin investors. Beautiful, brittle, and far too fond of her own insinuations.

Her smile is all sugar. “Forgive me. Only that the way you two were whispering, one might think there’s a story we’ve not been told.”

Arthur’s expression ices over. Edward’s chair creaks.

Rafferty doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

He says, very evenly, “If there were, ma’am, it wouldn’t be for your amusement.”

The silence that follows is perfect, clean and cutting.

Mrs Kearney’s smile falters. “I only meant-”

“I know what you meant.”

His tone isn’t raised, but it lands like a strike. The air shifts, guests glancing at one another, unsure whether to breathe or laugh.

Arthur clears his throat, forcing cheer back into his voice. “Let’s not frighten away our guests with business gossip and nonsense, shall we? Edward, more wine.”

The spell breaks, conversation stumbling forward again, everyone pretending nothing happened. But you can still feel the pulse of it under your skin.

You glance sideways. Rafferty hasn’t touched his glass. His jaw is tight, eyes fixed on some point far away.

You want to say something. Thank you, maybe, or you didn’t deserve that, but words feel too small.

So you look back at your plate, smile when you’re supposed to, and let the night carry on, pretending your heart isn’t still hammering every time his sleeve brushes yours.

The house has gone still by the time you slip away. Laughter and piano music fade down the hall, replaced by the hush of empty corridors and the soft echo of your own footsteps.

You make it to your room before the tremor in your hands gives you away. The door closes behind you with a gentle click, shutting out the last of the night’s noise. You lean against it, breathing slow, steady, trying to will away the thrum under your skin.

It was only a remark. A careless, cruel remark. But it’s been replaying in your mind ever since.

'One might think there’s a story we’ve not been told.'

You stare at your reflection in the mirror. Flushed cheeks, loosened curls, the necklace still clasped tight at your throat. You look every inch the part you’ve always played.

Composed.

So why does it feel like everyone in that room saw right through you?

A soft knock breaks through your thoughts. Once, then again.

You open the door before you can talk yourself out of it.

Mr Rafferty stands there, jacket undone, waistcoat unbuttoned at the throat. He looks less like the man from dinner and more like the one you know.

“I wanted to make sure you were all right,” he says.

You step back automatically. “I’m fine.”

He doesn’t move. Just watches you with that unflinching stillness that makes you feel seen in ways you’re not sure you want to be.

You cross the room, fussing with the clasp of your necklace. “It was a stupid thing to say. I shouldn’t let it bother me.”

“It wasn’t stupid,” he says. “She meant to wound.”

You huff out a laugh. “And succeeded.”

He comes a little closer. “It’ll pass. People talk.”

“Not about me, they don’t,” you say before you can stop yourself. “Not like that.”

He tilts his head. “Like what?”

You turn to face him fully. “Like I’m- like there’s something between us.”

The words hang there, suspended in the dim light.

He doesn’t answer. His jaw flexes once, a muscle ticking.

You swallow. “It isn’t true.”

“No,” he agrees softly. “It isn’t.”

But the way he says it, the roughness under the words, it makes your heart skip. You look down, fingers twisting together. “It’ll ruin my reputation if it gets around. Arthur will be furious, Edward will-”

“They can be dealt with.”

“That’s not the point.” You lift your chin, meeting his gaze. “It shouldn’t matter, but it does. I don't understand why it does.”

He steps closer, slow enough you can feel it before you see it, the faint scent of tobacco and rain still clinging to him. “You’ve nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Maybe not,” you say quietly. “But if they’re going to talk anyway…”

His brows draw together. “Careful.”

You take a breath you shouldn’t. “If there are to be rumours, Mr. Rafferty, perhaps it’s best they have a reason.”

For a moment, there’s only silence.

He looks at you like he’s trying to find the sense in what you’ve just said, or maybe he's fighting the same thing you are. Then he exhales, slow, deliberate. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Don’t I?”

“You’re upset.”

“Of course I am,” you snap, but the edge dies halfway out of your mouth. “I’m tired of being told what I should and shouldn’t feel. Of being watched. Guarded. Told who’s safe and who isn’t.”

His voice stays low, steady. “You think I don’t want-” He stops himself, jaw tightening. “You don’t know what it would mean.”

You take a step closer, heart pounding. “Then tell me.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

And then, like something breaking loose inside him, he reaches for you. One hand at the side of your neck, thumb brushing beneath your jaw.

The touch is light, but there’s nothing careful in his eyes.

You freeze, not from fear, but from the certainty of it, that if he kisses you now, it won’t be something either of you can take back.

For a long moment, he just looks at you. And then he bends, slow enough that you can stop him, and you don’t.

The kiss isn’t soft. It’s quiet, restrained only by everything that shouldn’t be happening; heat pressed into the smallest space, his breath catching against yours, the faint scrape of his stubble on your skin.

You’re the one who breaks it, just barely, your hand still fisted in his shirt.

He doesn’t step back. “You shouldn’t have said that,” he murmurs.

You manage a whisper. “Would it have changed anything if I hadn’t?”

His thumb grazes your cheek. “No.”

He’s still close, breathing unevenly, eyes searching yours for some trace of regret. “If I stay, there’s no going back,” it isn’t a warning so much as a promise.

You shake your head. “I don’t want to go back.”

The second kiss is slower, deeper, less a question. His hands are careful, and when he draws you nearer, the world seems to narrow to the sound of breath and heartbeat and fabric shifting between you.

At some point, you realise you’re near the edge of the bed. He hesitates, gaze flicking to you again, silently asking. You can’t quite find words, only the smallest nod, and something in his face softens.

You whisper, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

He smiles at that, quiet, fond, a hint of that familiar confidence. “I do.” Then his lips find yours again; they feel rougher this time, more insistent.

For a long moment after that kiss, neither of you move. The air feels fragile, as if even breathing too deeply might shatter it.

Sean’s thumb traces a slow line along your jaw, his voice low. “You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

You shake your head. “I’m not. I just…” The words catch. “I want to know what it’s like. With you, Sean.”

The name slips from your lips, and something in his expression cracks. His gaze darkens, jaw tightening.

“That’s dangerous,” he murmurs. “You saying my name like that.” His eyes flick shut. Whatever restraint he’d been holding onto frays a little; his next breath lands closer, warmer.

His mouth crashes back to yours before you can catch your breath, hand locking firm under your jaw, holding you exactly where he wants you. You clutch at his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping you upright, nails biting through the fabric, but he doesn’t waver.

Instead, he moves you onto the bed, laying you down just like he did that night, except this time he follows you down onto the soft mattress. His body is huge above yours, braced on his forearms while his eyes meet yours.

“You’re sure?”

“...Yes.”

His hands move with a sudden urgency, dragging over your sides, finding the laces of your dress, pulling at them slowly. The fabric starts to loosen, just enough that his palms can skate hot over the skin of your back. You shiver, the cold air against the contrasting heat of his touch.

“You’re trembling,” he murmurs against your throat, lips brushing the frantic pulse there. “Breathe love, I've got you.”

You can’t answer. The words lodge in your chest, tangled with want and fear. So you just press closer, tilting your neck back, offering more.

His teeth catch the curve of your jaw, gentle. You bite down on a moan, your fingers fisting tighter in his shirt.

Suddenly, you feel the fabric across your chest fall away, he tosses it somewhere beside the bed. He presses his forehead to yours, a tether. "I've got to get your skirt off, alright?"

You nod against him, but that doesn't seem to be enough, "I need words, sweetheart."

"Ok", you breathe, and his fingers start working the button at your waist, dragging cloth down until you're nearly completely bare beneath him, the only barriers small shreds of sheer lace.

You’ve never been seen this closely before. It’s terrifying, and yet somehow safe. His eyes dart down your body, drinking you in, and he lets out a heavy sigh. Every part of you is screaming to cover up, to hide.

He must notice, because when your fingers twitch against your thigh, he moves to meet them, slow, deliberate. His hand is larger, calloused in places, and when he laces his fingers through yours and presses them to the sheets, the world seems to pause long enough for you to feel the heat of his skin.

His other hand slides lower, over your hip, fingers squeezing and pulling you flush against him. The hard line of his body against yours makes you whimper into the dark, a sound you try to swallow but can’t.

“You’ll think I’m foolish.” You whisper, the reality of what's about to happen dawning on you.

He laughs softly, almost against your skin. “Not tonight.” His mouth finds yours again, slower now but no less consuming.

In the middle of it all, you tug at his shirt, tearing your lips from his.

He jerks back, meeting your eyes. "You alright? What's wrong?" You could almost laugh, how quickly he switched up the moment he sensed something was amiss.

"It's just...unfair," you pout.

"Unfair?" He looks down at you, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes, unfair. You're sitting here, older than me, triple my size, and fully dressed, while I'm all bare and fragile. Don't you see the issue?" He huffs a laugh, your own lips quirking, before sitting back on his heels.

"You want me to take my clothes off?"

You sputter, "What? No that is not what I said. I'm simply illustrating to you that- yes, fine. Please, at least your shirt."

His eyes lock with yours. He shrugs the waistcoat off with a roll of his shoulders. Then lifts his hands to the first button of his shirt and works it loose. Then another. The sound of it, a quiet snap, a breath, a drag of fabric, much louder than it should be.

Next, his hands drop to his belt, the faint clink breaking the silence. The buckle comes loose with a soft snap, the slide of leather slow and sure. He works the clasp, then the button, each sound small but sharp in the quiet. The zipper follows, low and steady, and the fabric loosens under his hands. He pushes the slacks down his hips, the motion unhurried, measured, as if he wants you to see every inch of it.

By the time the last of his clothes hits the floor, you’ve forgotten to breathe. His body is ridiculous. He looks like he’s been cut from stone; lean, built from real work rather than vanity. The muscles along his stomach and chest catch the light, not carved too deep but just enough that you feel the tension underneath.

There’s a kind of ease in the way he stands, as if he’s strong without trying to prove it.

"Better?"

You can only gape.

Because he's...proportional. Everything about him is impressive, and as your eyes flick down his abs, trailing his V-line, you see him. He's huge, thick and glistening, already straining against his stomach, and your thighs press together involuntarily.

You thought you understood the anatomy of men, but you seem to have been wrong.

When you don't answer, he lowers himself back down, his body dwarfing yours. "We'll go slow," his mouth finds the place just beside your ear, his voice rough enough that you feel it slide down your spine. "If you want to stop, we stop. If it hurts, which it probably will, tell me. Just let me take care of you, darling."

Instead of trusting your voice, because you don't, you cut him off with another kiss, bruising, swallowing the sound of his voice whole. "I trust you Sean."

At that his hand dips lower, fingers brushing the edge of lace, teasing. You jolt, hips jerking into his touch, and he chuckles against your mouth.

"Relax love, it's just me." Your body betrays you, pressing into his hand, begging without words.

And he gives it, slow at first, a drag of his fingers over damp fabric, just enough to make you whine. His other hand pins your hip, keeping you still. “Look at you,” he murmurs, eyes burning in the dim light. “Who'd have thought aye? A week ago you wanted nothing to do with me, now you're clutching me like a lifeline.”

You shudder, the denial caught in your throat, strangled by the way his fingers press harder, slipping under thin fabric, finally touching where you’re wet and aching for him.

The feeling that shoots through your body is unlike anything you've ever felt before, and the sound you make is helpless. He swallows it with another kiss, his free hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck, anchoring you in the dark.

Your thoughts come in fragments. The smell of him, smoke and linen and rain. The roughness of his palm, the warmth that seems to find every inch of you until thought itself is a blur. You learn his rhythm by instinct, guided by the rise and fall of his breath, the steady pulse at his throat.

His hand moves with brutal precision, two fingers stroking you slow enough to drive you crazy, deliberate enough that you feel yourself unravelling in his grip.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Good girl.”

Heat floods your chest, your stomach, your thighs, and the words sink deep and coil tight around your spine.

“You feel it, darling? You gonna come for me?” he asks, voice low, pressing kisses to your neck and jaw and cheek between words.

You clench around him, body betraying you again. His smirk is audible. “Yeah. You are.”

His thumb circles your clit, rough and relentless. The pleasure rips through you, sudden and overwhelming, and you bite into his shoulder to keep from crying out. He holds you through it, hand braced at your neck, whispering praise in your ear as you shudder apart in his grip.

“Good. That’s good. That’s it.”

You’re still shaking when he withdraws, fingers slick as he drags them over your thigh. You collapse back against the bed, gasping.

His eyes catch yours, wild and dark and certain. “You want to keep going?”

You already know, you don’t want him to stop.

"Yes, please Sean. Don't stop."

He studies you for a second before crawling further up the bed. He grabs your thigh, spreading you open, hitching it over his hip. His fingers dip lower. One presses into you, testing.

“Fuck,” he groans, teeth gritted. “Tight little thing, like you were made for it.” His hand moves more deliberately, two fingers inside, coaxing you open.

Then you feel the blunt heat of him pressing against you.

"Ready?" You nod, finding his hand again, when you reach for him, he’s already there.

Finally, he presses in slow, with the restraint of a man holding back a scream. Your breath punches out. Pain sears hot and sudden. You grip his arm, he stops.

“Too much?” he breathes.

“No,” you say, though your voice is tight. “Keep going.”

He groans quietly as he sinks deeper. Inch by inch. You feel every damn part of it. He fills you in a way that stretches, that burns. But he’s slow, unbearably so, giving you time. Letting you adjust.

Your breath breaks into a moan against his mouth, and you see the vein in his neck bulge as he draws back and thrusts in again, still controlled and measured.

His weight over you is grounding. His body, solid and warm, blankets yours without crushing it. Your nails rake down his back, every nerve alight. The stretch, the press of him inside you, it’s too much, it’s not enough, it’s everything.

Sean moves deep, steady.

Each thrust draws a sound from you. He’s careful, but not gentle enough to be accused of softness.

He leans down, nose brushing yours. His mouth brushes your cheekbone, then your jaw, then the corner of your lips. Soft.

After a while he adjusts his grip, building his rhythm. You gasp again, but this time it’s laced with heat. Your hips shift to meet him.

He catches it, the slight change. "There you go, now you understand."

His thrusts deepen, hips grinding, hitting something that makes your breath stutter.

“Tell me if it’s too much.”

“It’s not,” you gasp. “Just… don’t stop.”

He takes that as a cue, snapping his hips harder now, drawing sharper moans from your throat, heat curling inside you like fire.

You grip his face, dragging his mouth to yours. He kisses back with a groan that sounds almost broken.

It’s messy. Raw.

Through it all, you feel your second climax of the evening building like a storm.

Sean watches your face as it crests, as your walls tighten around him, as your mouth parts. You break against him, muffling your scream in his neck, clenching around him so tight he curses against your mouth. You come with a full-body shudder, and he holds you through it, whispering, “That’s it. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

He doesn’t slow. He pounds through it, chasing his own release, his hand cradling the back of your head.

“Gonna come inside you,” he groans, forehead pressed to yours. "You want that?”

You can’t speak. You can only cling harder, nodding helplessly as he slams into you, every word driving you higher again.

When he finally spills, it’s with a guttural sound, hips jerking deep as he buries himself inside you. His grip bruises, his body trembling with the force of it, and you feel the heat of him filling you, hot and dizzying.

After a few moments of silence, you hear him murmur.

"You alright?"

"Mhm." You hum back, not being able to muster words. He smiles against your hairline before he rolls off you, bringing you with him into his chest, wrapped in his arms.

"Thank you, Sean."

The night settles fully around you, and words have stopped altogether. There’s only the sound of heavy breathing, the realisation that nothing outside this room matters for now. Not names, not rumours, not the walls of the house beyond.

He brushes a strand of hair from your cheek and murmurs something you can’t quite catch, maybe your name, maybe a promise.

His arm stays around you.

The first thing you notice is the light, pale and gold, spilling across the floorboards like it’s got no idea what it’s walked in on. The second thing is warmth. Not from the fire, which has burned itself down to ash, but from something steadier pressed along your back.

For half a second, you don’t move. Last night feels like a dream, too close, too impossible, until the smallest shift of breath beside your ear drags everything back in perfect, mortifying clarity.

The room looks the same and nothing like it did before. The chair tipped at an angle, a shoe half-hidden under the bed. The scent of smoke and linen still hangs in the air.

And Sean Rafferty, very much real, sitting against the headboard, one arm braced on his knee, watching you come back to yourself. His shirt is somewhere on the floor. The scar along his jaw catches the morning light like a secret you were never supposed to see this closely.

“Morning,” he says quietly.

Your voice barely works. “Morning.”

He nods toward the water jug on the table. “I brought that in. Thought you might need it.”

You look down at yourself and realise you are still very naked. Your dress is folded neatly across the chair, and the blanket is pulled higher over your chest. Somewhere in the middle of the night he must have thought about modesty for both your sakes.

The realisation makes your throat tighten for some reason you can’t name.

You manage a small, strangled sound. “Oh God.”

“Nothing to panic over,” he says gently. “You’re safe. No one’s been near this hall since they went to bed.”

“That’s not-” You cut yourself off, cheeks burning. “I just… I can’t believe I- we-”

His mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile. “It happened,” he says simply. “That’s all.”

You bury your face in your hands. “I’ve lost my mind.”

“Maybe,” he says. “But I haven't.”

That makes you look at him again. He’s calm, calmer than you expected. There’s no arrogance in his posture, no trace of the sharpness he wears around everyone else. Just that quiet steadiness, as if this version of him exists only here, in this room.

He reaches for your wrist, slow enough for you to pull away. You don’t. His thumb grazes the inside of it once, like he’s checking your pulse.

“You all right?”

You nod, though your voice comes out thin. “Are you?”

He lets out a breath, half a laugh. “Better than I deserve to be.”

Silence stretches. The warmth in your chest is equal parts embarrassment and something else, a dawning, tender panic that this could never stay hidden. Whatever last night was, it’s changed the shape of everything that comes after.

He seems to read that thought straight off your face. “We’ll keep this between us,” he says softly. “If that’s what you want.”

You nod again, unable to look away. “And if it’s not?”

Then he does smile, a quiet, knowing thing that almost undoes you.

“Then we’ll talk about that when you’ve had breakfast.”

He stands, finally tugging his shirt back on, movements unhurried. Before he opens the door, he glances back over his shoulder. “Try not to look so guilty, lass. You’ll have the whole house asking questions.”

When the door closes behind him, you’re left in the quiet again, sunlight pooling across the sheets, your heartbeat loud in your ears. I

The strangest part is that you don’t regret it, not one bit.

I think I'm obsessed with this show and I haven't even finished it yet lmao. I think because this fandom is still so new I'll be prioritising rafferty x reader fics for now, but I'll still write any reqs I had from other fandoms (just might take a lil longer )

ysmmsy

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#sean rafferty x reader #sean rafferty #house of guinness #james norton

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