The crunch of leaves reminds me of you

He's self aware of his position. He knows who he is. He likes who he is, for the most part. He doesn’t wish to be popular like Sukuna or a ladies’ man like Geto. He understands his role in this academic society, in this world — it’s been the role that has followed him since he entered primary school, since before he truly understood who he was.

Gojo Satoru, the loser, the virgin. The nerd who keeps his nose in books, glasses falling along the bridge of his nose. The guy who is tall, lanky, his limbs falling before him ungracefully, causing him to trip at times. The guy who speaks out of turn, sometimes getting ignored altogether — other times he’s on the receiving end of slow blinks.

The guy that girls, especially girls like you, don't pay attention to. Their eyes are always drifting past him with faux niceness. Their glossed lips pursed at his graphic tees and his bursts of physics equations rambling out his mouth.

He isn’t for everyone, and he knows that. He respects it to a fault. He doesn’t have to squeeze into a box for others to swallow him — they have already made one for him. Placing him there with a set of rules that he follows to a tee.

He watches Ted talks, and listens to NPR when he goes on nightly walks. He reads Charles Bukowski, annotating enough lines that he can make a shrine along his dorm room’s wall with a manuscript of whatever Bukowski thinks.

So, he feels that the world is slowly changing on its rotation. Rotating backwards on its axis to fuck with the status quo. To dangle what he knows isn’t meant for him in front of his face. Something that he knows is going to shred the image of who he is — or possibly grab whatever he has hidden under video essays and random literary quotes, out.

“You’re Gojo, right?”

His head is in a physics textbook, the bustle of students looking for free chairs is blurred by the equations he has already memorized. 

He heard the question. He knows the voice. It’s in a couple of his classes, and it has never been directed towards him — so he knows that this must be a mistake now. 

His eyes don’t leave the book.

“Who is asking?” 

The words slip out before he can stop them, dry and bored — the tone he hears his roommate use on girls who ask to stay the night. He wants to cringe, his fingers gripping on to the book a little tighter — preparing to use it as a shield towards your recoil, laugh, or dismissal. 

Neither of those things come. Just the sounds of students mumbling and the pages of their textbooks flapping to the section that will help them pass the midterm season coming up. 

“I’m asking.” 

He forces himself to look up, his glasses slightly crooked. With a tilted head, and eyes scanning over every crevice of the area around him — you stare down at him. No faux niceness coloring your irises, but a look of curiosity. 

He feels the tips of his ears get hot, praying to whatever higher power that there isn’t a red hue brushing against his cheeks. 

He swallows, hoping the grin he’s trying to etch against his lips seems like a bold touch. A desirable counterpart — like the one he sees Geto throw on. It just seems easier for him. 

“That’s me,” he shrugs, his eyes falling from your face to your chest — the tank top you’re wearing putting your cleavage on full show. He knows for sure his cheeks are now stained red. “Smartest guy on campus here!” The pitch in his voice goes up just a notch higher, and he knows you notice from the way you flinch a bit. He ignores the dumb ass fucking thumb he threw up to point towards himself. 

In another world this would come off as charming, and you will laugh and he’ll relish in the fact that not only did you seek him out — but you enjoyed your time with him. 

But, that isn’t the case. 

You blink at him. Your glossed lips twitching at the ends, as if you’re not sure to laugh at him or be annoyed. He feels his stomach drop, his eyes retreating to the textbook — the safety of it calling him home and away from you. 

“…Right,” you say slowly, that slow blink that he sees from everyone else graces your face. “That’s good. I need your help, mister smartest guy on campus.” 

Help. 

The word sounds weird, especially coming from you. Help? No one ever needs him. 

The word rolls around in chest, vibrating around his ribs as his brain tries to catch up. 

He looks up again, not shielding away from your stare. He doesn’t try to be smooth, or charming. His only objective right now is to keep his voice steady. 

“Help with what?” 

He sits awkwardly at your desk, your knee banging into his. Pictures of you and friends scattered on your desk, laughing at him from the corner of his eye. 

He does not belong here. He wonders if you know that. 

“So, I really do not want to do that module for our class,” you sigh. You run your hand through your hair and he really tries to keep his eyes glued on the questions that he answered three weeks ago. The answers on the tip of his fingers, ready to be inputted in. “I know last year Nanami paid you to do his coursework, I thought it was worth the shot to ask for help.” 

He swallows down all the words that want to fly out of his mouth — he is trying to keep the failed charming persona going. Despite the sweaty palms he’s trying to wipe down his jeans, and the glasses that keep slipping down his nose whenever he stares too long at your lips. 

He can fit in. He can be around you and not embarrass himself. No he won’t ask if you watched Bill Gates Ted talk, or for your thoughts on NASA wanting to put a nuclear reactor on the moon. 

No. 

He is here to help. Well, get paid to help.

“How much are you willing to pay?” His voice comes out steady and he wants to give himself a high five. “I can do this module tonight. Are you looking for an exact grade to receive?” 

You shift a little closer, your knees pressing into his thigh. Your elbow on the desk, your chin on your palm as you look back at him. Your lashes falling against your cheeks with every small blink you make — he almost wants to time the blinks to know the amount of seconds your eyes were on him. 

You have this level of casualness that almost seems mocking. Every movement you make battles the awkwardness of his own. Your leg mushes against his, he becomes stiff — your movements flow a little easier. He stutters and you grin, your words coming out paced and smooth. He wipes sweaty palms down his jean clad thighs and you scoot a little closer. 

“I can get you any grade you’ll like,” his voice comes out rushed and he is aware that a rambling session is about to roll out. “Actually I’m lying. I will not give you a F if that is what you wanted. Which I know you don’t want, because you asked me, the smartest -“

“The smartest guy on campus,” you finish for him. You send him a small smile and feels the rest of words that we’re going to rush past his lips, quiet down. His eyes rush back to your computer, the screen on sleep mode. His own reflection watching just how out of place he is. “Yeah, I asked you. A B is fine.” 

There’s a beat of silence between you two. Everything freezing, allowing him to think for a minute. He hears the flip flops of students walking down the hall to the communal bathrooms. He smells marijuana slithering through your vents from the smoking corners in the basement. He thinks he could make out a bed creaking against the wall next to yours. 

He knows something is about to change. He feels it in his shoeless feet and by the way his snowy white hair seems to be standing at the ends. 

“Yeah, totally,” he breathes out. The clock on your desk ticks a little louder. Your leg searing into his. 

“I just have a little dilemma,” you free hand waves in the air, like you’re dusting away the final remnants of normalcy for him. “I was wondering if I can pay you with something other than money.”

Another beat of silence, music blasting from the quad below flows into the room. 

“Like cookies or something?” He looks down at your lips. “I really like sweets.”

Your eyebrows furrow and you stare at him. And for the first time ever, he finds this look to be pretty instead of judging. “…No,” you huff out. “But good to know… I guess?” 

“Oh.”

“Are you a virgin, Gojo?” 

He doesn’t answer, just blinks. The first time in a long time where he does not know how to answer a question. 

A shit eating grin grows on your lips and Satoru feels his stomach drop. “Of course you are,” you say it more to yourself than to him. 

“What does that mean?” The steadiness in his voice is gone. 

“That I can repay you by being the first girl that makes you cum.” 

You lean closer, your knee pressing harder against his. He freezes, the only moving and living thing is his heart — the organ beating against his chest so roughly, he’s sure you can make out each beat.

“You won’t be the first girl to make me cum,” his voice comes out in a croaked whisper, his eyes squeezing shut — all the porn videos of big tit women fucking even bigger dick men flashing before his eyes, like a film reel.

You bite down on your bottom lip, stifling a laugh. “Porn doesn’t count,” you shake your head. He feels your eyes trailing along the slope of his body, he is sure you're picking up on every nervous jitter that's shaking his bones and coursing through his bloodstream.

Cock tenting in his boxers, his thighs start to shiver from how much he's trying to hold back. “I take it back,” he forces out a breathless laugh, his eyes finally opening back up. Before looking at you, he looks back at the pictures on your desk — your friends are laughing, he's sure he hears it.

“Think of it as an exchange of goods,” you murmur, smirking. Your hand grips his thigh, the simple touch making his dick twitch. He almost doubles over, as if you punched him in the gut — but he knows he's just about to cum and make a mess in his jeans. "Not all of us attend school for free,” you let out a chuckle, a finger of yours trailing along the imprint of his hard on. He lets out a sigh that sounds more like a whimper. "So, this little business interaction is great practice for what happens in the real world."

His sweaty palms lay flat on your desk now, his fingers tapping lightly — like he’s counting something. He wants to say something, but he doesn’t trust his voice. The words are stuck in his throat, like it’s lined with the thickest honey the world could create. 

He stares straight head, the sleeping screen of your computer playing the scene with impeccable timing back to him. Your eyes trained in between his legs, your tongue tucked in your cheek, the shitty dorm room lamp coating you in this glean of light that seems almost … angelic.

Sweat beads at his hairline, pupils blown out as his glasses start to dip along the slope of his nose. The screen can make out every rattled breath he's taking, as if the pumping of his chest is almost unnatural … like the action that's happening right in front of his eyes.

In a blink of an eye — really, Satoru is sure that time is moving faster than he can ever scientifically explain — his cock springs free from the restraints from his jeans. And, it's your hand that's wrapped around him, not his, with a shitty porn video from twitter playing on loop in front of his textbook.

He sits straight up, fingers curled into fists on your desk now. The ends of frosty hair pricking up as he finds some strength to hold on to the sounds that want to escape his mouth.

Your fingers curled around the base of his cock, it's warm and much smaller than his own hand. You watch him through your lashes as you lean your face closer towards his thighs. You're so close, he thinks he can feel your breath fan over his dribbling tip.

"I need you to relax ,” you mumble, your hand slowly stroking upwards. Your grip tightening when you get to his mushroom tip, your thumb hovering over his slit. Satoru shuts his eyes, the taste of blood on his tongue from how hard he's biting down on his bottom lip. "You should watch.”

Then your fist is moving along the length of his shaft, your hand pumping his twitching cock harder. Your thumb pressing into his swollen tip every time your hand finds it way back. His breath stutters out in broken bursts, fogging his glasses — which are so far from where they should be, he could barely see.

He can't look at your sly smile, of the pictures on your desk, or your of your pretty hand working his cock for every thing he has. He can't keep looking at the computer screen showing him just how lovely you look and how out of place he looks, even with his cock twitching in your hand.

The most vulnerable part of him, quite literally in the palm of your hand.

After years of trying out different sock materials, scents of lotions, and going through an unhealthy amount of flashing videos of people fucking — Gojo Satoru could never imagine another human touching him.

He couldn't picture a girl, especially someone like… you, to ever willing be on the opposing side of offering him sexual gratification. He was sure he would've dealt with his own fist and when the time came, artificial intelligence to do that job.

"Fuck," the word falls from his lips like he's never said it before, clumsy and rushed. Your hand speeds up and it hits him — one, he's about to cum, hard. And two, nothing would ever compare to the warmth of your hand wrapped around him.

"Wh-what are your thoughts on nuc- shit, nuclear reactors?”

You hum, low and your grip tightens just enough to make his hips buck off the chair. "Do you think of nuclear," his knee knocks into yours, his lanky limbs completely out of his control. "… reactors to cum?"

It's something about hearing those words leave your lips that causes his toes to curl. Embarrassing, wet, little whines that he can't swallow down in time mixing with the soft tilt of a chuckle you're holding back. His chest hitches with every stroke, his hair falling flat on his forehead from how much sweat he's producing.

His brain jumps to the answers to a test he took in eleventh grade, a scene of a Bill Nye video follows behind, and then the measurements of how far this very spot is to the moon. Everything that his brain could offer to help him hold on a little longer, rushes in. Wanting to keep your hand around him for a moment longer, feeling the way your fingers grip so tenderly — the action not matching the way your eyes roll whenever he huffs out a breath little heavier than the last one.

And then he feels your breath fan the shell of his ear, your hand still working on his cock. Your movements are lazy, certain — like you already know how everything between you two, and maybe even the world, is going to unfold.

"You're close, aren't you?"

He feels everything in him unravel, his head nodding frantically.

You twist your wrist on the next stroke, your thumb finally coming down to swirl around his sensitive tip. His whole body seizes, thighs trembling and cock twitching in your hand as he spills hot and messy across our fingers, his jeans, and even the hem of your desk. Low moans break out, choked and desperate.

He slumps forward immediately, his hands curling up into his hair, pulling slightly at the roots to give him some sense of normalcy. Like a wake up call from a dream he does not want to wake up from. His chest heaving as if he just ran a marathon.

You let go, wiping your hand down his thigh without much of a care. He twitches under the contact, shocked that your body is still touching his regardless of it just using him to discard his own mess.

"A B would be nice," you murmur, tone light.

Satoru turns his head to finally get a good look at you — his eyes wide, lips parted and still rushing out breaths. He can feel just how red his face is, the tips of his ears searing.

You… you're already leaning back, pulling your chair towards the desk like you're clocking into your office job. No attention paid to the man who's life was just changed.

He wants to hate himself for how easy it was for you to see him unravel. How cool you are, while his brain is editing the reel that was all porn videos to just clips of your hand wringing his cock.

With an ache in his chest, he knows that he'd never recover from this.

And, he doesn't want too.

It's been a couple weeks since your hand was wrapped around his cock, imprinting yourself on to every part of his very pathetic life.

He can hear the sounds of your chair scooting closer whenever he closes his eyes to sleep, or the rolling of your eyes when he's in the shower — cock in his hand as he tries to pump himself to a finish, despite his dick only wanting to fuck into your hand. The white, flash that punches him in the gut never coming.

You've offered more 'jobs' for him — online quizzes, your part of a project that was forty percent of your grade, random homework worksheets that you just didn't care about. Satoru running to your desk like a loyal dog, every time you texted or called for him.

The payments offering him new ways for your body to be meshed against his. Last week, you let him touch your tits (through your bra). His hands gripping and kneading, the lace of your bra tickling his palm. His eyes focused on the goosebumps trickling down your chest and your nipples hardening from the contact. His cock springing at the warmth of his hands on your body. As if his hands were meant to be there. Almost like you wanted them there.

You watched him with this air of experimental determination, like he was the one who was half naked at your desk. Holding back a laugh when his finger ran between your cleavage, a whimper slipping past his own lips. Instantly cumming, making a mess in his jeans as that quiz of yours blinked on your laptop.

Two weeks before that, you gave him his first kiss.

He can't really place what exactly was happening before your lips brushed his, your cherry flavored gloss becoming a permanent taste evading his taste buds.

It was a short kiss and Satoru can honestly say, he paid almost no attention to your tongue colliding with his, your teeth nibbling on his bottom lip. He couldn't, not when everything felt catastrophic. Not when your scent was flooding his air stream, that even after he walked dazedly out of your dorm, he still smelt it. As if a personal cloud of your scent followed him everywhere his feet shuffled.

He couldn't think of anything but how you… you, might just like him in all his pathetic glory.

That's why you're always calling him, asking for his help for the simplest of questions. The answers screaming in highlighted paragraphs in the textbook to your left, your hand stretched across his thigh as you laugh at him stumbling over his words.

You let him stay a little longer each time, tacking on an extra problem for him to figure out for you — sometimes for entirely different classes than the one you're 'paying' him for.

He tells himself it's because you want him to stay. You want him in your space just as much as he wants to live in it — leaning into the world that he always watched with a slacked jaw and practiced confidence in his bright, blue eyes. The world that laughs at him when he reaches his hand to answer another question in class. The world that trips him when he's walking past a group of people who have nothing better to do.

The world that doesn't offer space for opportunities where someone like you can like someone like him.

He gets a glimpse of this world from your Instagram. He found it during one of those searches he swore he'd never do — typing your name in the search bar as if it was second nature, just to see what will come up. Looking for something to hold on to that wasn't physical, but could still feel like it belonged to him.

And there you are. Very public account, reaching numbers in followers that he knows he'd never see.

There are pictures of you in parties, red solo cups in your hand as you pose with friends for a photo. The sound of your laughter frozen in time, his ears searching the pixels to get even a whisper of the sound. In another photo, someone's hand is splayed across your hip, the hand looking like its meant to fit there. Mocking, as if your own hand wasn't stretched around the girth of his cock the day before.

He stares at the photo until his screen goes black, his reflection staring back at him, wide eye and pathetic. His chest tightens, his fingers slippery with sweat as he forces himself to see that it's nothing. It's just the way things flow in your life.

Random hands touch your body, feel the warmth of your legs, smell the shampoo you wash your hair with. But, you call him. You let him touch you. You kissed him.

Those are the thoughts that rush in his head when the lights are turned down low, his head resting on the thin college pillow. Sounds of his roommate's bed bumping along the shared wall, moans of another girl he snuck in flowing with his thoughts and making him think of how you'd sound under him.

His hand slips under the waistband of his sweats, his other hand clutching his phone a little too tightly. The glow of the screen straining his eyes as his thumb hovers over your pictures, like you're too fragile to touch.

His other hand sliding down his cock slowly, trying to replicate how your hand fluttered around him sometime ago. His wrist twisting as he starts to jerk upward, his breathing hitching with every beat of his hand.

Every picture he swipes from feels like a reminder, that you exist in a world that moves without him — one where you drink, forget about your chemistry homework, and lean into other people's touches. A world where he'd always be a finger inch away, waiting for you to touch him again.

His hips start to jerk, wanting more friction. His fist tightening around himself as he slides up his length, squeezing his swollen tip to collect precum to wet his cock.

His breaths coming out in fast tufts, following hard bangs hitting against his wall from the other side. The sounds clashing with his imagination that's dragging reels of you whispering his name, of your chuckle, of you being soft. Feeling good with him, the way he feels good with you.

His hand pumps around his throbbing cock quick, harder. His toes curling under his quilt, as he forces his eyes to stay open and watch your pictures watch him spill strings of hot cum along his fingers.

The room becoming quiet enough that it feels like it's mocking him. Allowing invisible pockets of you to mesh into his world and slither along the mess on his hands.

His phone fades to black. Thigh twitching slightly as his hand stills. The warmth of his own skin somehow not enough anymore.

He's watching you. As he usually does. His eyes scouting you out easily, as if you're an answer for a physics question that has riddled everyone in the class, but him.

You don't notice, or you don't want to. Your eyes narrowed forward, following the people that live in your Instagram photos, who touch you in public, and who laugh at the jokes that Satoru can never get the punch line of.

The group of people you somehow found a home in, sits proudly at a cafeteria table. Limbs sprawled carelessly as some people sit on top of the table, others sitting on chairs. Loud booming voices inching up his spine, their old retorts swishing in his ear as he starts to walk towards you.

His roommate's shirt sits foreignly on his body. The smell of a party from last week etched into the threading and mixing with his nerves. The shame of digging into his roommate's hamper for this isn't as apparent as his want to catch your eye.

He remembers looking over you shoulder one of those days in your dorm, your laptop burning against his thigh as he rushed to get your homework done. Your shirtless back turned to him as you scrolled down your phone, your fingers pausing every couple seconds. Photos of people, men, dressed in a style that doesn't match the clothes of his that's scattered around his room floor.

Maybe you'd finally let him in, right here in the pinnacle of your world if he masked himself as a creature you'd look at. Someone who’s Instagram post will blink on your screen for a millisecond longer than the last post. Someone who can look at you without the restraints of your dorm room closing in on him as you make him cum.

“What’s good?”

He's at the head of the table where everyone stops to crook their necks to stare at him. Confusion sketched on faces, eyes narrowing at the sudden invasion from an unknown/unwanted entity. A few menacingly snickers smacking across his chest as he stands too tall and straight — throwing on faux carelessness. His cerulean eyes only looking at you. 

You cock your head to the side, your eyes stopping at the awkward fitted shirt dressing over his body. "To eat?” Your voice is not as soft as it is when you're asking him answers in the safety of your dorm, but it's not cold either.

His shaky hands hide themselves behind his back.“No,” he shakes his head, making sure to keep the heat creeping up from his chest at bay. “With you?”

There's this eerie quiet around the table. Eyes still on him, lips snarled into scowls, and the smell of your shampoo drifting towards him like a siren call — pulling him to the depths of a sea that's going to spit him out over and over again.

You lean forward, your chin meeting your palm as you roll your eyes. It's not mean, more like a tired act. Like you're not sure what to do with a jittery boy in front of you who wants nothing more than your attention.

“If you’re asking how I am… I am fine, Gojo.”

Then, one the voices that rings loudly with disdain brings Satoru back. Reminding him that he's a bystander and even with your attention making his chest flutter, he's still not welcomed by everyone. “Since when do you talk to loserjo?”

Your eyes flick from him to Sukuna. You blink up at his crimson eyes, shaking your head. “Since I’ve been paying him to do my homework,” you shrug your shoulders, sighing. “Also don’t call him that, the kid is right here.” You point your thumb towards Satoru, your eyes flicking back to him just as quickly as they left him.

You don't laugh with the others when the nickname penetrates the air, or when Sukuna scoffs and narrows his eyes at him — a silent threat telling him that he should walk away.

No, you defend him.

He feels his cheeks heat up, rushing to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose so that the movement can shield the blush burning his face. He wants to smile, let out a chuckle… place his hand on your hip.

"It's cool," he rushes out, his voice cracking at the end. He wishes you can hear the cool tone he's trying throw on, like the one he forced when you first asked for help.

You narrow your eyes, the snickers and chuckles being thrown at him doesn't affect you. "You want to be called loserjo?”  

“Do you want to call me that?”

You blink at him. No smile, no look of concern. Actually, no emotion on your features. The perfect blank sheet, just letting Satoru tack whatever he wants to think on to you. “…No,” your eyebrows furrow, as if you're trying to quickly come up with an explanation as to why he's even here. As if your hands haven't lead him to places of pure ecstasy. “Are you okay? Did your npr podcast cancel or something?”

"'No," he feels the rambling episode speeding out his chest. "I just wanted to say hi," he points to the table, Sukuna's eyes raking over his shaky finger. "Well, you… I want to say hi to you." He nods and he feel his heart beating against his chest so harshly, he thinks he'd have to lay down for a couple hours after this. "But, no they don't get cancelled. There are fifteen minute audios posted daily," someone near you groans and he watches how you send them a smile, like you're thanking them for listening to him. " I listened to one today about the regi-, actually I listened to a couple I can send you a link on the one I think you'd enj-,"

"Hey," you cut him off, eyes wandering down and staring at frayed threads of his shirt. "Gojo, it's okay," you smile, lips softly tilt up at the ends. It does not reach your eyes. Your chin juts into your palm as if you're tired of holding your head up. "I need you to come over tonight. I need you to do a really big project for me."

Satoru swallows, nodding his head and watching as you look over at something else — ignoring that he was ever really there.

He's sitting on your bed, glasses pushed up as he pretends to be fully focused on instructions for this 'really big' project of yours. The words and the numbers jumbling together as he quickly looks over at you every time you make a move.

Your legs are bare, an oversized school tshirt draped over you body — he ignores the want to ask you who's shirt is it — he stares a little to long at the shirt brushing against your thigh. His eyes wander up, desperate to see what's under, if there is anything.

There is this headiness to the air tonight, like something is just within his reach and all he has to do it grasp it. He feels it in the way his skin prickles every time you hum a little too loudly, or the way his throat tightens when you lift your leg — bare skin flashing as he scurries to look away.

The feeling is so heavy, it feels like he could finally close his hands around you. Finally close the divide between public embarrassment and private sessions of his body reacting to yours.

You're quieter today, not scrolling on your phone or rushing to get dressed and leave him to visit people who'll get you drunk. No, you sit across from him — your eyes not leaving his body, like you're a predator tracing every step of her prey.

The lighting in your room sits on your skin a little differently — slower, a little softer. It clashes with the grin on your lips — like it's telling him that you know something that he doesn't. The one he typically sees from others when he's the punchline to a joke he doesn't get.

He tells himself that this means something, something big enough that a simple thought process still won't give him an answer.

That feeling he felt when you first approached him in the library creeps into your sheets, poking at his thighs from underneath. The feeling that right here, possibly right now, his life is going to change.

The axis that keeps himself and everything around him upright, is going to shift once more.

"You know," you finally break the silence, your voice low enough that he believes he's the only person in the world who can hear it. "This project is really big." You shrug your shoulders. Just outside your door, he can hear people shuffling about in the hallways. Low whispers and loud bangs of doors echoing into the room. He blocks it out, just to make sure he can hear every dip of your voice. To make sure the only world that's available to him at the moment is this one, where your eyes are on his and he doesn't have to wear a dirty tshirt to impress you.

"You mentioned that," he says, his fingers hovering over the keyboard of your laptop. "Are you afraid about what grade you're going to get?" He wonders why you'd think that, as he is the one doing it.

You laugh at this. It's soft, and slightly a little high pitched — something he doesn't think he's ever heard from your usual cool tone sounds. And he stares back at you in utter awe. All of the blood that was rushing heat up to his face, instead rushes to his cock.

He shifts, hoping that you won't realize how a simple sound of yours made him hard.

You shake your head, your hair flowing with the movement with so much ease. Like the universe bends around you, trusting your every move — almost like a mirror of how he bends for you.

"No, I'm not afraid of my grade," your pointer finger pokes at your chin. He follows the movement, his eyes switching from the tapping, to the way your lips move to form words. "I'm just thinking of how I should pay you for this," you shrug as if you're talking about a measly twenty dollars.

"Oh," his dick twitches at the thought of your hand milking him. Brain flashing to how your lashes will bat against your cheek as he leans his body on your bed, all of his gratitude flowing into the sheets. He hopes you sleep knowing just how good you made him feel. "I-I don't mind how you pay me," his voice comes out watery, slightly breathless as he feels his thighs tense. Your eyes narrow at your laptop, that is quite literally over his hard on. A pretty smile stretching across your lips as your finger continues to tap your chin. "I also don't mind," his eyebrows furrow as he tries to have the words flow out naturally. "Us just hanging out could be a payment."

You stand up from your spot, walking over to him. Lips still selling that smile, the oversized shirt flowing with the movement as if you paid it to flow exactly like that. Your steps are slow and sure, leading you to exactly where you planned to be and where he thinks he deserves.

His breath hitches when he notices that you're walking towards him. His cock is so fucking hard it aches, he can't help but start to grind against the laptop. Trying to hide beneath the fabric of his pants.

Your phone rings on the desk behind you. The sound ignored as you keep heading towards him, a laugh evident in the way you tuck you tongue between your cheek when you stare at how your laptop is being used.

"What a poor little virgin," you tease, your thigh brushing the edge of your bed where his feet are hanging off. "I know just how I'm going to repay you," Satoru starts to feel the walls of this small ass dorm room close in, the laptop rubbing against his hard on even harder than a few seconds ago.

The bed dips, along with his furiously beating heart, as you climb up. Your knees pushing into the plushness of your feathery bed and fluffy quilt.

Leaning forward on your palms, ass pushed up in the air as you sway your hips along with every stuttery breath he huffs out — your lashes kissing your cheek as you stare up at him.

"I'm going to fuck you," you whisper so lowly, he almost couldn't hear it over the breaths he trying to keep in and the motor of your laptop vibrating over his cock. "… loserjo," the name flows off your tongue so smoothly, it curls through him like a promise he's unsure he'd never break.

Clothes are deliberately taken off. His digimon tshirt thrown safely over your headboard, the tshirt you had on is thrown behind you without much care. His eyes immediately checking to see what was under the tshirt and being greeted with nothing, his mouth watering as your bare body flashes in front of him.

You shimmied his jeans down his legs, his cock springing up and begging to be touched. Your hands ghost over it as you send him a smile, it's almost reassuring. As if he's been in this exact position with you multiple times. His cock hard against the heat of your sloshing cunt, the one he thinks is clenching specifically for him.

The sounds of the world moving outside of this room is loud, showers ringing from down the hall. Your cellphone buzzing with new notifications, your laptop whizzing as it dies down from the feeling of his cock twitching against it.

He can't do much… he doesn't want to do much. His head rests against your pillow — the smell of your shampoo so heavy, he groans to keep himself from cumming from that alone. His blue eyes watch from below, as you offer yourself to him. Your plush thighs caging yourself around his hips as he splays his hands over your hips — the touch warm and intoxicating. They stand still, solid — like they're afraid to move, as if they'd never be invited back to the fullness of your hips.

You lean forward, your tits brushing against his chest and he shivers from the contact. Your hands landing on either side of his head. Your lips near inches from his, and your eyes batting down as the heat of your pussy gushes around his aching cock — every power in the world stilling his hips and keeping him from pushing his tip through your slicked folds. Just to finally get a taste of heaven. To finally feel your body the way you've felt his.

"Just relax," you whisper, your lips against his. The blow of your breath causing a shiver to run down his spine and his hips to hilt softly, the tip of his boxed clad dick pressing into your heat. "Also," your hips grind down just a bit, a broken whimper slipping past his lips as he feels just how warm your pussy is. "Don't cum in me."

The thought of protection is thrown out the window when your lips meet his, his glasses bumping into the bridge of your nose. Your tongue running along his bottom lip, asking for permission. Your hands reaching into his hair, demanding that he gives it to you. And he gives it, trying his hardest to follow the mold of your lips and not cumming from the way your tongue rolls against his.

His jaw works along the movements, air coming up short as he only cares about the way your teeth nibble into the swell of his bottom lip and your hips begin to grind along the shaft of his cock. Your hands tugging at the roots of his snowy hair, earning a groan to roll directly into your mouth.

He thinks he can die right here. Lose all will to breath, just to have your lips on his and your naked body pressing him into the sheets of your bed.

Tears prickle his lash line as he tries to keep up with where your hands are, one still tugging his hair and the other drifting in between the sweat glean of your bodies. Your lips still attached to his as your kiss becomes a little more aggressive, a little more demanding — Satoru believing it's just because you want every available part of his body. As if he wouldn't give it to you for free.

You pull back, your spit slicked lips matching his. His eyes dropping to the way your tongue runs along your own lip, as if you're lapping up the taste of his. You cock your head to the side, staring at him with this easiness that he fears he'd never be able to replicate. His dick twitches at the thought of just how easy it feels to be owned by you.

"I-," he shudders, as you lift your hips — the movement flowing under his palms. The hand that was crawling between your bodies is now wrapped around his cock, prodding it out of his boxers. "I like when you touch me," he says, voice weak and desperate.

You hum, squeezing the base of his cock as you stare down at him. Faux innocence in the tilt of your head. His eyes watch as you smile, letting out a big enough breath that he feels the rush of it brush against his lashes. Your tits raising, his eyes drifting to the goosebumps littering your chest.

His hands squeezes your hips, trying to anchor himself to you. You ignore his body movements, his touches, lining your slicked coated cunt above his cock that's aching in your palm, just as it did weeks ago. "And I like when you get me passing grades," he stiffens underneath you, his eyes wide as he stares at you. Stares at the admission that just crawled out of your naked body and fell into his bare chest.

Before he can fully register the displacement of your words, compare the tone to other times that you've just simply said his name, or even gather enough experimental information on the way your eyes gleamed just a little brighter when you said that — your wet cunt stretches over his tip as you line yourself over his pulsating cock.

His thighs tense, eyes squeezing shut as he tries to think of what you just said — to keep him from cumming from just his tip feeling the stretch of your cunt.

Sweat beads his forehead, his frosty hair sticking to his hairline. With gritted teeth and short tufts of breath spilling from his lips, his hips jut up to meet the sweet heat of your pussy. "Relax, you loser," you mumble and he can hear the eye roll you've most likely sent his way. But then, you push down, clamping down on his cock.

"F-Fuck," the curse shoots straight from his chest, his hands rushing from your hips to run through his hair. Trying to ground himself right here, right on your bed. You don't give him much time to gather his senses before you're rolling your hips. Your slick running down the length of his dick and sliding between your thighs and his.

Someone slams their door outside, the sound rattling your doorframe. The movements not being given any thoughts as your folds swallow him into your cunt. "You're s-so fuckin' war-warm," he whispers, his voice hoarse and begging. You roll your hips again, quickening the pace as you watch the tears start to run down the side of his temples.

His balls are heavy and feel like they can explode right now, right at this minute. The previous warning about not cumming in you is hazy, along with everything else.

You shift, a wrecked moan leaving his lips and you stifle your own moan. Your feet laying flat on the bed, your hands pushing onto his flushed chest as you start to bounce along the length of his cock. "Anatomy classes don't teach you what a pussy feels like, huh?" Your pussy is squelching with every bounce, the sounds not loud enough to mesh out his whimpers and heavy groans. Your skin meeting his, balls smacking against the fat of your ass every time you clenched down and bottomed out. Your tits following the movements — so much going on, Satoru feels like this is an assault of his senses.

Your hands reach for his lanky arms, grabbing them out of his hair and placing his shaky hands on your bouncing tits. Your pebbled nipples rolling in between his fingers — his mind rushing to when he came from just touching you through your bra.

His own hips start to jut, finding a rhythm that you've established. His dick rutting into you as if he knows what to do. His cock burrowing deep, feeling your slick coat him as if you want to fuck him because you like him.

He feels it, he knows he's close. Nothing he can think of can hold off the way he needs to cum — no equations, no quotes from bullies, not even what you said to him earlier. The repeated drag of your warm, gummy walls sloppily clenching over his flushed cock, he can't stay in this position any longer.

He feels drunk, how he imagines you feel when you drink whatever is in those red solo cups when you attend parties. How you must feel when you use him to help you pass classes, using the sweet mold of your body to get whatever you want from him.

His hands still rolling against your chest. Your own moans lingering with the wrecked cries shamelessly rushing from his lips. You lift your hips high enough that just his tip feels the heat of your pussy, your eyes locking with his. "You're really pretty when you're crying over my pussy," and then you slam back down, grinding your hips once the your cunt is fluttering around the base of his cock.

And then, he sees that flash of white. Feeling it grow from the pit of his clenched abs, up past your hands pressed against his sweaty chest, and up his throat. His throat clenching, not allowing any warning or sound to escape his lips. The only thing spilling through is the strings of his warm, thick cum.

"Fuck, Gojo," you basically hiss. Your hands pushing off his chest, causing him to heave a little. Your pussy no longer clamping around his hard, hot cock — as it stands, slicked cum dribbling from the tip as he tries to catch his breath.

He wants to apologize. He wants to ask what you meant when you said you liked that he got you good grades. He wants to ask if he can burrow his cock into your cunt for the rest of his sad life.

But he can't talk. He can't even really blink. Rough breath racking his chest. Tears running down his face as he doesn't know if he wants to stay here forever, or run away and never look at you again.

He feels you shift on your bed, the warmth of your body feels close enough that he can make out how you're looking at him — head cocked with interest, as if you never met a virgin before.

"I'd need that project done before," you pause, the buzzing of your phone catching your attention. And then he's forced back to the fact that this was just for a passing grade. "Next Thursday," you huff out.

He nods, finally shutting his eyes and swallowing down the words on the tip of his tongue. Words he knows would not fit in your world, possibly even in your vocabulary.

So he keeps them. He'd say them when his hand is stretched across his cock and he's thinking about how your pussy welcomed him with ease. Or the nickname he hated, rolled off your lips with such a tilt — he'd go to the registrar and change it right now if he could.

"Sure," he whispers, feeling everything he thought he knew about himself seep into your bed.

thank you @crude-saint for chatting about this idea with me months ago! sigh, took some time. and thank you @spearofheaven, for proofreading and lending me your brain! truly a star. love you both!

“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?”

“I’m sorry I called you, I just… How are you?”

He raises an eyebrow, “I’m fine. You wanna talk?”

“No. I mean, yes. Oh, I… Rafe, I’m sorry. You’re probably busy.”

“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?

Then he was gone.

The moment the door shut, Rhae burst into motion.

“I can fix it,” she said, already rummaging through her things, knocking over a small vial in her haste. “There must be a counter-potion. Something to reverse the binding, perhaps a dilution, or...”

“Rhae,” Daella said, rubbing her temple, “you do not even know what you made.”

“I do!” Rhae insisted. “It is a love draught. A very potent one, clearly.”

“That you made by guessing,” Daella replied dryly.

Rhae ignored her entirely, muttering to herself as she began sorting through herbs and powders.

You watched her for a moment. Then you turned away. There were more immediate problems.

You wrote to your uncle Lyonel that same day.

You did not mention potions or spells or foolish drunken decisions. You were not that reckless. But you told him enough.

You told him that Aerion had been improper with you, rude, lewd in a way no lady should tolerate. You told him that his sudden declaration of love felt unnatural. That you did not trust it. That you feared being made a spectacle of, a laughingstock at court if this proved to be some cruel whim.

You did not exaggerate. You did not need to.

You sealed the letter and sent it off with steady hands.

If nothing else, Lyonel Baratheon would come.

And Lyonel Baratheon did not take kindly to anyone slighting his family.

The reply came swiftly. Not to you. To Maekar.

A short, brisk message, delivered with all the subtlety of a storm breaking over the Narrow Sea.

He would come to King’s Landing personally to discuss the matter of his niece’s betrothal.

If there had been any hope that things might quiet in the meantime, it died quickly. Because Aerion did not leave you alone.

You were walking through the gardens when he appeared at your side, as though conjured.

“You did not come to break fast,” he said, his voice softer than you had ever heard it.

You did not slow. “I was indisposed.”

“You should have sent for me.”

You stopped then, turning to him with a sharp look. “Why would I do that?”

His expression softened, as though you had asked something terribly gullible.

“Because I would care for you,” he said simply.

It unsettled you more than his usual arrogance ever had.

“I do not need your care,” you replied.

“I know,” he said quickly. “But I wish to give it.”

You resumed walking. He followed.

You tried to be rid of him. You truly did. You snapped at him when he grew too close. You cut your words sharp and precise, hoping to pierce through whatever madness had taken hold of him.

“You are insufferable,” you told him once, when he would not stop hovering at your shoulder.

He only smiled.

“You may insult me as you please,” he said. “It does not change what I feel.”

“It should,” you retorted. “Any sane man would reconsider.”

“I am not any man,” he said lightly.

That, at least, was true.

You cornered him once, away from the others, your patience fraying.

“This is absurd,” you told him, your voice low and cutting. “You do not know me well enough to love me.”

“I know enough,” he replied.

“You knew enough to pinch me like a tavern girl,” you snapped.

He stilled. For a moment, you saw something flicker across his face. Regret? Shame? It was gone too quickly to be certain.

“I will not do that again,” he said, quieter now.

“That does not undo it.”

“No,” he agreed. “But I will spend the rest of my life making amends, if you allow me.”

You stared at him. He stepped closer, too close.

“You may hate me,” he continued, his voice dropping, something almost desperate threading through it now. “You may strike me, curse me, turn your back on me in public and private. I do not care. Only...” His breath hitched, just slightly. “Do not refuse me.”

“This is not love,” you said.

“It is,” he insisted.

“It is obsession.”

“Then I am obsessed,” he said, without hesitation.

You recoiled. He did not falter.

It worsened.

He began to trail after you openly, no longer caring who saw.

At feasts, he sat too close. In halls, he appeared at your side as though tethered to you.

“Do not send me away,” he murmured once, catching your wrist lightly when you turned from him.

“I will give you anything,” he said, his voice low, almost unsteady. “Anything you ask.”

You pulled your hand free. “I want you to leave me alone.”

Aerion shook his head, as though the very idea was impossible.

“Ask something else,” he said.

You stared at him, incredulous. “You cannot simply decide which of my wishes you will grant.”

“I can if one of them is to lose you,” he replied.

You had no answer for that.

He spoke endlessly.

Of things that made your skin crawl. And things that, against your will, made something in your chest ache.

“I will give you the finest gowns,” he said, pacing before you as you sat, utterly exhausted by him. “Silks from Lys, jewels from Volantis, whatever you wish.”

“I do not care for such things.”

“Then I will build you something better,” he said immediately. “A palace. Not here, somewhere grander. Somewhere worthy of you.”

You scoffed. “You cannot simply build palaces on a whim.”

“I can,” he said, utterly serious. “For you, I will.”

You rubbed your forehead.

“I will fill it with anything you desire,” he continued, relentless. “Books, if you wish. Gardens. A place where storms rage, if you miss them.”

Your breath caught, just slightly. You hated that he noticed.

“I will give you sons,” he went on, softer now. “And daughters. They will have your strength.”

You looked away.

“You will never be overlooked again,” he finished.

That, more than anything, got stuck in your mind. You hated him for it. Well, you tried to. You truly did. But it became…complicated.

Because beneath the madness, beneath the unnatural devotion, there was something else. It was not like he could control it. His voice softened when you spoke, even when your words were sharp. He faltered not in arrogance, but in uncertainty when you pushed too hard. He had not asked for this. He had not meant for it. And still he bore it because he had no choice.

You softened. Not enough to encourage him but enough that your cruelty dulled. Enough that, when he leaned too close, you did not always push him away immediately.

Valarr did not let it rest.

He returned the next day, and the next, and the next after that, each time with the same restless air about him, as though something had shifted beneath his feet and he could not quite understand where the ground had gone.

It was never a single question, never a simple inquiry. He circled the matter, as though careful probing might reveal a crack.

“You must see how sudden it all seems,” he said one afternoon, standing before you while Daella idly flipped through a book and Rhae pretended very poorly to be absorbed in her notes. “Aerion has never shown you any particular…regard before. Not of this kind.”

You folded your hands in your lap, posture straight. “Men are allowed to develop affections.”

“Yes, but...” He hesitated, frowning slightly. “Affections do not usually bloom overnight. Not like this.”

Daella snorted softly, not looking up. “Perhaps you simply never noticed.”

Valarr’s eyes flicked toward her, briefly annoyed, before returning to you. “And you,” he continued, “you never spoke of him either. Not once. You spoke of…many things. But not him.”

You tilted your head faintly, as though considering. “Must I report every passing interest to you?”

“That is not what I meant,” he said quickly, though his composure was beginning to fray. “I only mean that I thought I would have known if there had been…something.”

There had been something, you thought.

Just not what he imagined.

Rhae suddenly interjected, far too brightly, “People can be very secretive about matters of the heart.”

Daella shot her a look.

Valarr’s gaze sharpened. “Secretive? Since when?”

“Since always,” Daella said lazily, closing her book with a soft snap. “You are not entitled to every detail of her life, cousin.”

Valarr exhaled through his nose, clearly dissatisfied, but there was nothing he could press that would not make him seem...what? Petty? Possessive? Something he had never allowed himself to be.

And so he left again, though this time more slowly, as though reluctant to turn his back.

You watched him go. You felt something like vindication. It did not taste as sweet as you had once imagined.

Rhae hadn't slept properly since that fateful day.

At first, it had been frantic scribbling, muttered theories, a scatter of ingredients that grew more chaotic with each passing hour. But as the reality of the situation dawned: Lyonel on his way, Maekar already in agreement, Aerion growing only more attached, her efforts shifted from frantic to feverish.

“This is not simply infatuation,” she insisted one night, pacing the length of your chamber while Daella lay sprawled across your bed, watching her with half-lidded eyes. “It is binding. There must be a way to break a binding.”

“You do not even know how you made it,” Daella pointed out for the hundredth time, already resigned to what fate had willed.

“I know enough,” Rhae snapped, whirling toward her. “There were elements of suggestion, of amplification, of desire already present...”

You lifted a brow. “Desire?”

Rhae faltered for half a second, then recovered. “Perhaps not conscious desire. But something. The potion does not create from nothing, it enhances...”

“Then you have enhanced something deeply unfortunate,” Daella muttered.

Rhae ignored her again, turning back to her table, hands moving with increasing precision now. “If it binds, it can be unbound. It must. Otherwise…” She trailed off, her mouth tightening.

Otherwise, Lyonel would arrive to find you entangled in something unnatural, Maekar would defend his son, and neither man was known for yielding.

Aerion did not give you much space to think.

He found you everywhere. In the corridors, where he would fall into step beside you as though summoned by your presence alone. In the gardens, where he would appear at your shoulder, speaking your name with a familiarity that still felt jarring. At meals, where he abandoned his place without hesitation if it meant sitting closer to you.

“You did not come to the yard this morning,” he said, falling into step beside you as you walked along the outer gallery. “I looked for you.”

“I did not know you kept such careful watch over my movements,” you replied, not slowing.

“I would, if you allowed it,” he said, entirely serious.

You glanced at him, irritation flaring. “I do not.”

He smiled faintly, as though indulging you. “Then I will settle for watching from afar.”

“You are not watching from afar,” you pointed out.

“No,” he agreed, and there was something almost pleased in it. “I am improving my position.”

You huffed a quiet breath, shaking your head, but you did not send him away.

You had learned by now that cold rejection did not deter him, it only twisted into something softer, more pleading, more difficult to withstand.

“You should not encourage me,” he added after a moment, his voice lowering slightly as he studied your expression. “You look at me as though you are considering something unkind.”

“I am considering many unkind things,” you said dryly.

“Will you tell me?” he asked, almost eagerly.

“No.”

“Then I will imagine them,” he said, and for once there was a flicker of something like amusement in his tone. “I suspect they will be worse.”

You sighed and bit back a frustrated scream.

“I have been thinking,” he said, sitting down too close beside you on a bench as you tried unsuccessfully to read. “If you do not wish to remain in King’s Landing after we are wed, we need not. We could go elsewhere.”

You did not look up from your book. “Where would you go? You are a prince.”

“I would go where you are,” he said simply. “The rest can be arranged.”

“That is not how kingdoms work.”

“It is how I would make them work,” he replied.

You sighed, closing the book at last. “You cannot bend the world to your will simply because you wish it.”

His gaze softened, unbearably so. “Not the world. Only my life. And you are part of it now.”

You looked away. He leaned closer.

“Are you unhappy?” he asked quietly.

The question caught you off guard. “…what?”

“You seem…” He hesitated, as though searching for the word. “Distant. When I speak of these things.”

You swallowed. “I am not accustomed to them,” you said carefully.

“I will give you time,” he murmured.

You almost laughed at that.

Time was the one thing you did not have.

The days slipped by too quickly. Lyonel would arrive soon.

Rhae worked relentlessly. And finally, she came to you with something that did not look like a disaster waiting to happen. It was a small vial with clear liquid inside with faint lavender hue.

“This will work,” she said, with a conviction that made even Daella sit up straighter.

Rhae thrust the vial toward you. “This is different. It is not a draught, it is a dissolving agent. It will break the binding. I am certain of it.”

You took it. It felt far too light in your hand for something that might decide the course of everything.

“You must give it to him,” Rhae added, her voice dropping. “Soon. Before your uncle arrives.”

You nodded. Because what else could you do?

It was not difficult to get Aerion alone. You sent for him, and he came immediately as though he had been waiting for the summons.

He entered your chamber with an ease that still felt inappropriate, his gaze finding you instantly, softening in that now-familiar way.

“You sent for me,” he said, and there was something almost pleased in it, like a man rewarded.

“I did.”

You had prepared for this. You had rehearsed it in your mind. It should have been simple. Offer him the drink. Watch him take it. Wait.

Instead, you found yourself hesitating.

Because he was looking at you. He looked at you as though you were...everything. It was too much.

“You seem troubled,” he said, stepping closer. “Has something happened?”

You tightened your grip on the vial, hiding it within your sleeve. “No.”

“You are a poor liar,” he murmured, and there was no mockery in it., only concern.

“I am not lying.”

“You are,” he said gently. “And I do not like it.”

You exhaled slowly. “I am merely…tired.”

“Then you should rest,” he said at once. “You should not be standing. Sit...”

“Aerion,” you interrupted, more sharply than intended.

He stilled.

You softened your tone, forcing steadiness into it. “I asked you here for something else.”

His attention sharpened immediately. “Anything.”

You reached for the goblet you had prepared, pouring the contents of the vial into it.

“For me?” he asked, watching you curiously.

“For you,” you said, offering it to him.

Aerion took it without hesitation but did not drink.

Instead, he looked at you longer than necessary.

“You are sad,” he said softly.

Your throat tightened. “I am not.”

“You are,” he insisted, stepping closer, the goblet momentarily forgotten in his hand. “You look as though you are about to send me away.”

Something in your chest twisted. “I am not sending you away.”

“Not yet,” he murmured.

You swallowed.

He reached up slowly, and brushed his fingers along your cheek, as though testing whether you would pull back. You did not.

“May I kiss you?” he asked tentatively.

The question struck harder than any demand could have.

For a moment, just a moment, you wavered.

Because this...this gentleness, this asking, this was more than you had ever been given. More than Valarr had ever offered.

And it was not even real.

You forced yourself to move. You closed your hand lightly over his, guiding it down, pressing the goblet back toward him instead.

“Drink first,” you said, your voice softer than you intended. “Please.”

He studied you.

Then, because it was you and he was bewitched, he obeyed.

He drank all of it without question.

You looked away.

Because you could not bear the way he would be looking at you when he finished.

The potion did not work.

At least, not as Rhae intended.

Aerion's expression shifted, his mouth twisted.

He doubled over violently.

The goblet slipped from his hand, shattering against the floor as he staggered, one hand bracing against the table, the other clutching at his stomach.

“Aerion...” you started, alarm flaring.

He did not answer.

He was already retching.

part 3: pending...

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You must have fallen asleep on the sofa. 

Finally they fell on him, your not-so-little boy stood in the doorway, brows furrowed unimpressed, watching you precisely as you pulled yourself to sit up, clammy fingers clutching the cushions. 

“You were calling for me?” he spelled it out for you, brow raising expectantly, “You must have shouted me twice.”

You swallowed, cringing against your dry throat. “Sorry. Weird dream.”

He only sighed, “You’ve been working too late again, haven’t you?” He asked, pushing off the door frame and falling back into the armchair beside you, picking up the remote on his way past and flicking the TV channel over. 

“Is your dad not home yet?” you tried to redirect him as you scrunched your eyes against the images still burned into your mind, raking a hand through your hair to unstick it from your forehead. 

He shrugged, “I thought I heard him outside, but I can’t see anyone.” 

A sigh pushed itself from your nose as you reached for your phone. Sure enough his text was right there – Sorry, love. Meeting went into overtime. I’ll be home by 9. 

You tossed it to the side, rolling out your neck, tuning your attention into whatever it was that was now on the TV, rolling your eyes at whatever fight your son had picked as his entertainment of choice. WWA? E? Was that it? 

“Do you have any homework left?” You pulled your attention back to him, his eyes trained firmly on the screen. 

“Only the stuff you set,” he smirked, flicking his attention to you just briefly. 

You pursed your lips to smother the laugh rising in your chest as you stood, swatting him lightly on the shoulder as you passed him to the kitchen. “Don’t think that just because I’m your mother I’ll hand you straight A’s.”

He groaned theatrically, sinking back into the cushions. “But I’m good at biology. You’ve said it yourself!”

“Then prove it by passing on your own merit,” you called back, poking your head around the doorframe just long enough to flash him a grin.

His sigh was so dramatic it made you chuckle despite yourself. The sound lingered even as you turned to the sink, hands still a little unsteady as you reached for a glass from the drying rack, filling it quickly. The smile slipped the moment he couldn’t see your face anymore.

The cool rim pressed against your lips, grounding you as you took a sip. But the tremor in your fingers betrayed you. The nightmare wasn’t a new one. You relived it more often than you cared to despite having been over 30 years ago. A part of you blamed your husband for insisting on naming your son after his grandfather. Pure coincidence. A common name. He wasn’t to know, you supposed. But there was something about the past month that had it waking you nightly. 

“I was thinking of staying on campus tomorrow night,” he called from the next room, pulling your attention back to reality. You frowned just slightly as you turned, leaning against the doorframe again. He rarely chose to stay in Nevermore, not when home was so close by.

“Oh?” 

He hesitated for a moment, his eyes focused on the TV still, but this time not paying attention. No, he was trying to avoid you. 

“I said I’d help Wednesday with something before the gala.” 

The blood drained from your head, your jaw snapping tight. “I told you to stay away from that family.”

You tipped the glass back, swallowing the rest of the ice-cold water in one go, forcing it down past the lump rising in your throat. 

It didn’t help.

Your son turned in his chair, his fathers scowl etched into his brows. “I really don’t get why. They’re a little weird, but—”

“We’re not talking about this now,” you warned lowly, offering him a look that quickly shut his lips. 

He only huffed, sinking back into the cushions. “You never talk about it.” 

You swallowed again thickly, rolling your lip between your teeth and biting down to try and calm the heat raising in your chest. “I don’t need this tonight, Isaac.” 

“You never do.” It was muttered, almost swallowed, but you heard it.

Your breath left you through your nose, slow and sharp. You turned back to the sink, dropping the empty glass into the bowl with a dull clink. Your palms pressed hard into the counter as you leaned forward, spine curved, fighting to slow your breathing before the edges of your headache threatened to split you in two.

It took you a minute to find the energy to straighten yourself again, rolling your neck out. 

Your eyes fluttered open slowly, fixing on the darkness outside the window. 

But it wasn’t just the darkness that met you. 

You froze, your breath stalling in your chest. For a heartbeat you thought the night had tricked you, shadows shifting into familiar shape. But the longer you stared, the more certain you became – it was him. His face, pale and still, looking at you from the dark.

Then, he smiled. 

The dimpled cheeks made your stomach drop. A hollow ache spreading through your ribs as your pulse hammered in your throat. 

Despite it all, you found yourself moving to the back door, frantically, almost, your fingers trembling as they fumbled with the key, yanking the door open as if he would disappear if you took just a second longer. 

“Hello, my dove.” 

Your skin prickled. He wasn’t just your imagination.

“Y-you’re-”

Isaac Night – your Isaac – chuckled, low and familiar, the sound echoing inside your skull until you swayed with dizziness. You caught yourself on the handrail as you took staggered steps forward, knuckles lightening with the effort against the wood.

“It really is me,” he hummed, stepping towards you slowly. “I came back for you, my dove.” His fingers lifted to your cheek slowly, pausing just over the skin as you stared at him wide-eyed, like a deer in headlights. For a moment, his expression flickered – hurt flashing sharp beneath the composure, before he closed the distance, brushing his fingers against your skin.

The touch was cold. Too cold.

“Are you not pleased to see me?”

“You died…” you muttered, your gaze flicking between his dark irises, lost in their depth, suddenly feeling 17 again. “They killed you.”

He shushed you, the gloved fingers cupping your cheek softly. Despite the chill you leaned into his palm instinctively, your eyes fluttering shut. “None of that matters now. I–” 

“Mom?” Your son’s voice pulled you from him, your body suddenly tensing as you pulled away from his embrace. “Who are you talking to?” 

“Just a neighbor!” you called quickly, too quickly, the words tumbling from your lips. Relief washed over you when you glanced toward the kitchen door and saw he hadn’t bothered to come closer. “Can you go do that homework before bed, please?”

A huff, the click of the TV shutting off, and then the sound of reluctant footsteps dragging up the stairs. Each step that faded made your shoulders sag just a fraction.

But Isaac Night, or whatever he was now, was still watching you.

The frown that carved into his brow made your pulse falter, your chest seize. “Mom?” he tested the word on his tongue. A smile spread slowly across his lips, but it was wrong – it didn’t touch his eyes. He tilted his head, an accusation in the angle. “Who was that, dove?”

Your stomach lurched. “It’s been thirty years.” The words scraped your throat, thin, weaker than you meant. “You were gone.”

“Huh.” His chuckle was humorless, brittle. His gaze flicked toward the second floor of your home. “It has a father, I presume?”

You swallowed thickly. “He does.”

Isaac’s jaw flexed, his lips curving into something dark, something that set every nerve in you alight with dread.

“We’ll see to that.”

“Isaac—” you began, though you weren’t even sure what you meant to say. An explanation? An apology? A plea?

He closed the space between you with deliberate steps, forcing you to tilt your chin up to keep his gaze. His gloved hand rose again, fingertips grazing your jaw this time, firmer, more insistent than before.

“You built a life without me,” he said, low, as though the words were more accusation than observation. His hand lingered near your cheek, cold fingertips brushing your skin before sliding down to your throat. Not squeezing – just resting there.

Your pulse thundered against his palm. “I thought you were dead,” you whispered, the words trembling in the cold. “You were dead, Isaac. What was I supposed to do?”

“You were mine…” he murmured, his fingers not loosening their grip even as his voice quietened. His eyes defocused slightly, studying your face as if it were some puzzle, as if he could see past the years back to the 17 year old who had perched at the edge of his work bench until 3am. Suddenly, his attention snapped back, his eyes piercing yours. “Do you still have the ring?” 

The memory slammed into you before you could stop it.

He hadn’t even asked. He’d been hunched over his sketches, curls falling into his eyes, ink staining his fingertips, and without so much as glancing up he had pulled a small velvet box from his coat pocket. He’d flipped it open carelessly, almost tossing it toward you, as though the act itself was a foregone conclusion.

You’d stared at it for a long moment, your pulse hammering. “What… what is this?” you’d whispered, hardly daring to touch it.

Only then had he lifted his gaze to you, dark and steady, the corner of his mouth twitching with that insufferable confidence. “What do you think it is, dove?”

And when your shaking fingers had taken it out, when the ring glimmered in the lamplight, he hadn’t smiled or softened or said anything tender. He’d simply watched you, as if he’d known all along, as if your answer had been written before you’d even seen it.

The memory twisted in your chest, leaving you breathless under his stare now.

“Yes…” It was little more than a whisper.

The smile that pulled at his cheeks would have seemed so innocent were it not for the hand against your neck, fingers twitching as they slid up to hold your cheek. “Of course you do,” he murmured. His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth. “You could never let it go. Not really. Not when it was me who put it there.”

Your eyes burned, heat pressing at the back of your throat. “Isaac…”

He tilted his head, studying you with something between pity and triumph, as though your answer had only confirmed what he already knew. “All these years, all this pretending… husband, house, kid. And yet here you are, still keeping my promise tucked away.” His voice dropped, hushed but searing. “You see? You were mine before you ever belonged to anyone else.”

Your chest tightened painfully, the weight of the ring hidden away in the back of a drawer you swore you’d forgotten about. You shook your head weakly, though his touch kept you from pulling away. “That doesn’t mean anything now.”

His laugh was low, bitter, brushing warm across your skin as he leaned closer. “It means everything.”

Finally, the sob you’d been holding back escaped at last. “I loved you, Isaac. God help me, I still do. But you died. You left me with nothing. Do you have any idea what it was like – losing you, trying to breathe in a world that didn’t have you in it?”

His eyes darkened, the mockery fading just enough to leave something colder, something like pity. He leaned closer, his lips parting–

The sound of the front door opening silenced him. Footsteps. ‘Honey? Sorry I’m late.’ Your stomach dropped like stone.

Isaac’s gaze flicked over your shoulder toward the sound, and for a heartbeat the smile he wore was feral.

“No,” you whispered desperately, catching his wrist with trembling hands. “Don’t. Please.”

His brow arched, mocking almost. 

You swallowed hard, the tears thick, your chest shaking as you forced the words out. “I’ll see you again. I promise. Just… not now. Not here.”

The smile that curved his lips then was a dangerous thing, dimples sharp in the moonlight. His hand slipped from your face slowly, as if savouring it. “Good girl.”

He didn’t remember the exact moment his mace had struck. He only knew that his son lay on the ground—and that it had been his hand that put him there.

Maekar had been sitting before the fire for hours, wrapped in the dense silence of the early morning. The funeral pyre had burned at dawn, and now nothing remained but ashes. He had not slept. He had not eaten. He had done nothing but stare into the flames and relive, over and over again, the instant when everything ended.

Reader was his first son. The first to be born, the first he had held in his arms, the first he had watched grow. And also the first to fall by his own hand.

Oh, Reader.

He had been a good boy. He always had. Not like Daeron, with his dreams and his constant need to drink himself into oblivion. Not like Aerion, whose cruelty seemed to deepen with the years. Reader was different. He never caused trouble, never challenged his authority, never forced him to raise his voice. He was obedient without being submissive, strong without being arrogant. When Maekar trained with him in the yard, he felt pride. A quiet pride, without boasting. Reader learned quickly, listened closely, and when he wielded a sword, he did so with the same determination Maekar had possessed at his age.

But he was warm, too. Perhaps he had inherited that from his mother. He knew how to smile at the right moments, how to ease tensions when the air grew tight at the family table. He was the son who never caused worry, the one who was always there, the one who never asked for anything in return.

And yet, he was the one who fell.

Maekar clenched his jaw, his knuckles white against his knees. He had defended his sons all his life.

He shielded them from enemies, from rumors, from the consequences of their own actions. He endured the court’s stares, the whispers about Aerion, the comparisons between Daeron and Reader. He was always there—steady, willing to bear the weight of their mistakes.

But that day, in the heat of battle, he protected no one. He did not measure his strength. He did not see his son’s face until it was too late.

He could not remember the precise moment of the blow. Perhaps it was his mind protecting him from what he could not endure. Perhaps it was simply shock—the void that follows an instant too brutal to be processed. But he remembered the aftermath. He remembered the silence that followed, heavier than any scream. He remembered the weight of his mace, suddenly unbearable in his hands. He remembered kneeling, touching his son’s face, and feeling nothing. No warmth. No life. Only the certainty of what he had done.

And now he sat there alone, before embers that no longer gave heat. His son—his first son, his good boy—had burned hours earlier. And he remained seated, unable to move, unable to weep, unable to do anything but repeat a truth he could not undo.

It had been his hand.

His alone.

[. . .]

—You’re quite chubby for only a few moons old, —Maekar said, holding little Reader in his arms.

The baby was plump, yes. He had been born with a good weight—more than expected—and the maester had assured them it was a sign he would grow healthy and strong. Maekar remembered nodding without a word, but now, with the child resting along his forearm, he couldn’t help noticing how small he truly was despite it all. He fit perfectly in the space between his elbow and his hand, as though he had been made to rest there.

Reader babbled something—a string of shapeless sounds—accompanied by an enthusiastic swipe at the air. His eyes were open, large and violet, staring at him without blinking. Maekar frowned.

—I don’t know what you’re trying to say, —he muttered.— But you can try again when you learn how to speak.

The baby responded by shoving his fist into his mouth and sucking on it with great determination. A thin line of drool slipped down his cheek and fell onto Maekar’s tunic. He glanced at the damp stain, then back at the child, who continued gnawing on his fist as if nothing had happened.

—That’s new as well, —he said, making no move to wipe the fabric.— You put everything in your mouth, don’t you?

Reader pulled his fist free for a moment, looked at him with grave seriousness—and then promptly shoved it back in. This time with even more enthusiasm.

Maekar rocked him slightly, just barely—a movement so subtle he had learned it without realizing. The child blinked, eyelids heavy, though he stubbornly resisted letting them close completely.

—Go to sleep, —Maekar told him, not expecting obedience.

Reader did not fall asleep. Instead, he stretched out a small, plump hand toward his father’s face, fingers spread, searching for something to grasp. He found Maekar’s nose. And squeezed.

Maekar went still, feeling those tiny fingers pressing against his skin. He did not pull away. He simply waited for the child to tire, which did not happen for several long seconds—until Reader lost interest and returned his attention to his own fist.

—You’re stubborn, —Maekar observed quietly.

The baby did not reply. He was far too busy drooling on his hand.

Outside, the wind could be heard, and the fireplace crackled a few feet away. There was no one else in the room. Only the two of them. Maekar watched the child for a long while, saying nothing, doing nothing but holding him.

Then, without quite knowing why, he lifted a finger and brushed the baby’s cheek. The skin was soft, warm. Reader instinctively turned toward the touch, seeking more—but Maekar withdrew his hand.

—There will be time for that, —he said, more to himself than to the child.

Reader babbled again, and this time Maekar could have sworn it was an answer.

[. . .]

Maekar woke to a tug at his sleeve.

He blinked into the darkness, the sound of rain striking the fortress walls filling his ears. Lowering his gaze, he made out a small figure beside the bed.

Reader.

Four years old, eyes swollen and shining, cheeks damp even in the dim light.

—Father, —the boy whispered, his voice trembling.

Maekar glanced to the other side of the bed. Dyanna had not stirred. She breathed deeply, exhausted from the day, and neither the thunder nor her son’s footsteps had woken her. They would not now.

—What is it? —Maekar asked quietly, sitting up with care so as not to shift the mattress.

Reader did not answer at once. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, a clumsy, damp gesture, and looked up again with those wide eyes that had not yet learned to hide anything.

—Bad dream, —he said at last, barely more than a thread of sound.— And the rain… it’s very loud.

Maekar nodded slowly. He was not good at this. He never had been. Dyanna was the one who tucked them in, who found the right words, who soothed them simply by being near. Not him. He was the father—the one who taught them to hold a sword, who corrected, who watched from a measured distance.

But Dyanna was asleep.

And Reader stood there, trembling a little, tear-streaked and frightened of the thunder.

—Come here, —Maekar said, opening his arms.

Reader climbed onto the bed with all the awkwardness of his four years, tangling himself briefly in the blankets. Maekar lifted him onto his lap. The boy was light, small, and pressed himself against his father’s chest as though he wished to disappear inside him.

Maekar hesitated only a moment. Then he raised a hand and began to stroke the child’s hair—slow, gentle movements. He did not know if he was doing it properly. He only knew that sometimes, when he himself had been a boy, that was what he had needed.

—What did you dream? —he asked, still running his hand through Reader’s hair.

—I don’t remember, —the boy murmured against his tunic.— But it was scary.

—Dreams cannot hurt you.

Reader lifted his head to look at him, his face still wet.

—But the rain can, —he said, just as thunder rumbled outside.

Maekar felt the child tense against him. Small fingers clutched at his clothes, eyes wide, breath held tight.

—The rain does not come in here, —Maekar said.— You are inside. The walls are thick. Nothing will happen to you.

—Are you sure?

—Yes. I am sure.

Reader studied him for a moment longer, as if weighing whether he could believe him. Then he rested his head back against Maekar’s chest and went still.

Maekar continued stroking his hair. The boy smelled clean, faintly of soap, and his hair was fine beneath his fingers. The rain kept falling; thunder sounded now and then. But Reader no longer trembled so much.

—Father, —the boy said after a while, his voice thick with sleep.

—Yes?

—Will you stay awake?

Maekar glanced toward the window, toward the storm still raging beyond the stone. Then he looked down at the small head resting against him.

—Yes, —he answered.— I will stay awake.

Reader said nothing more. Soon his breathing slowed, deepened. He had fallen asleep.

Maekar did not move. He did not lay him back down or attempt to sleep himself. He remained there, his son in his arms, feeling the small, warm weight against him, listening to the rain against the walls, stroking that hair again and again.

When Dyanna woke in the morning, she found them like that.

Maekar awake, propped against the headboard. Reader asleep on his chest, cheek squashed, a thin line of drool slipping down his chin.

She smiled.

Maekar merely raised a brow.

—Do not look at me like that, —he said quietly.— I could not move.

Dyanna said nothing.

But her smile widened.

[. . .]

Maekar held the cloak in his hands. It still carried his scent. Soft, warm—that scent that had belonged only to his son. He pressed it against his chest and, for a moment—just a moment—he could pretend it was him he was holding. That Reader was there, alive, breathing.

Gods.

Why? Why, of all those who could have stood in that trial, of all those who could have taken up a weapon that day, did it have to be Reader? Why him? A thousand times over he would have chosen himself instead. Let it have been his body in Baelor’s arms. Let it have been his blood mixing with the rain.

But it was not.

It was Reader. His son. His first son. His good boy.

He remembered the moment with a clarity that burned through him. The mist slowly thinning, the heavy silence that followed the clash of battle, and the instinctive search of his gaze. He always looked for his sons after something like that—to make certain they were whole, that none had been struck down.

But that time, when the fog lifted, he did not find Reader standing.

He found him in Baelor’s arms.

His elder brother knelt in the mud, holding his son’s body close. Reader’s head hung back, lifeless, and from his right temple a dark line trailed downward, already beginning to dry. The wound. The cursed wound he himself had opened.

Maekar could not run. His legs refused him. He stood rooted in place, watching as Baelor lifted his eyes and found him among the crowd. No words were spoken. No gestures made. Only his brother’s gaze, heavy with something he could not name, while he held the one thing Maekar should never have lost.

He walked. He did not know how, but he walked. Each step was an effort beyond strength, as though the mud sought to drag him down as well. When at last he stood close enough—close enough to see his son’s face clearly—the world seemed to stop.

Reader’s eyes were not fully closed.

A small space remained. A narrow slit where the white still showed. As if, in his final instant, he had tried to look at something. As if he had been searching. For something. Or someone.

Maekar stared at that half-open eye, unable to look away. He did not want to think that it had been him his son sought in those last moments. He did not want to imagine Reader falling, confused, wondering why his father had done this to him.

Baelor said nothing. He did not accuse. He did not console. He simply watched him, his nephew’s body in his arms, and waited.

Maekar tried to speak. Tried to say anything at all. But no words came. He could only reach out with a trembling hand and touch his son’s cold face—the same face he had once stroked when he was a child frightened of a storm, the same face he had watched grow and harden, the same face that now lay empty and still.

—Forgive me, Dyanna, —he whispered that night, alone in his chambers, Reader’s cloak clutched against his chest.— I failed you. I failed you both.

He had promised his wife he would protect their children. He had promised the day they were born. He had promised every time he rode away without her. He had promised with a look whenever she entrusted him with the most precious things they had. And now one of those lives had ended by his own hand.

If he could go back. If he had never taken part in that cursed trial. If he had not swung his mace with that blind, unmeasured force, thinking only of reaching Aerion—of stopping him, restraining him. If he had measured his blow. If he had seen before he struck. If he had been the father he believed himself to be.

But there was no going back.

There was only him, with his son’s cloak in his hands, the scent of him fading slowly, and the image of those half-open eyes seared forever into his memory.

It was rare you got to spend time with your family. Your elder brother Edwyn was the heir to your father’s title and, as such, the pair of them spent a great deal of time overseeing the land and renters. Leo, as a second son, was antsy and often busied himself on adventures that you could only dream of. Your sister Marian had been married some six months ago and you missed her dearly. When you had heard than she and her lord husband would also be in Ashford, you had been more than content to brave the long ride down just to see her.

And then there was the matter of your betrothal to Lord Frey’s son, Owen.

You hummed to yourself as you navigated the dark corridors, slippers padding along the stone floor. The only sign of life you could hear was from yourself. There was a good chance that you had gotten yourself turned around so you stopped and began to retrace your steps.

The pair of you had met at your sister’s wedding and both Lord Frey and your own father had been delighted at the way you seemed to draw together. Owen Frey was handsome enough, and not unkind, and he knew all the right things to say. When your father had told you of the potential for an arrangement, you had agreed without really thinking about it.

Owen Frey seemed a sensible enough man, and you certainly tried to be a sensible woman. Lord Frey was said to be an honorable and loyal man, and he and his wife genuinely seemed to care for one another. You hoped that with them as an example, Owen would also come to care for you as a husband should.

You paused, huffing a breath as you scanned your environment. It all looked the same. You were just about to turn on your heel again when you heard something ahead. Some kind of scuffling, and a laugh.

Pressing your lips together, you debated turning around. But by now you were likely already late for dinner and your father would not be pleased. Not when the Ashfords were such accommodating hosts – and not when the Targaryens were also staying.

With a nervous breath, you made your way forward and peeked around the corner. Immediately you sucked in a breath, clapping your hand over your mouth as you registered what was before you.

At first you saw only two lovers entwined. Hands beneath shifts and unbuttoned trousers and choked gasps. Then you recognised the clothes on the woman – a household servant of the Ashfords. You cringed at the way she scratched down the male’s back, moaning into his neck as his hands did something down the front of her dress.

You were not ignorant to the ways of man and woman. Well, not entirely, anyway. But you knew enough to know that it was incredibly bold of the pair to be so intimate so out in the open. You stifled a laugh and turned to dip away – and then you heard it.

“Oh, Owen, please!”

You stalled, mouth popping open with a silent ‘oh’. Shaking, you peered round the wall once more, just to confirm. Neither of the pair had spotted you. This time you saw what you had been previously blind to. The sword at the man’s hip, the Frey sigil on the pommel. The hair, an unassuming shade of brown, that only now you recognised. The man’s hand moved to grip the girl’s hip and you saw the rings adorning his fingers.

You stayed for only a moment longer, a headache forming between your brows. You did not confront them. Instead, you raced away, as quietly as you could, turning blindly down corridors until you bumped into a maid who was, by chance, looking for you.

You trailed after her until she reached the dining room, slipping by her as she held the door open for you. Your father stood to greet you and you heard yourself explaining that you had been lost. So silly of you! Your father laughed boisterously and made some joke about you being distracted due to your engagement.

“For a moment, daughter, we thought you had snuck away with Owen,” he chuckled, “Lord Frey told us the boy is ill.”

Baelor Targaryen offered you a polite smile as he responded to your father. Distracted once more, your father sat down and began conversing with the heir. Feeling that all attention was once again off of you, you made your way to the table and found yourself a seat.

You sat down at your brother’s side without looking up. It was only after your brother had pushed a steaming plate in front of you that you glanced about. You found yourself squeezing at your utensils, something hot and uncomfortable brewing in your stomach as you picked at your beef.

After a particularly vicious stab, you set your cutlery down. Tucking your hands beneath the table, you squeezed at your thighs until you were sure you drew blood. Your eyes stayed dry. You searched yourself for despair, for sadness, and instead found red hot fucking fury.

A shiver wracked through you and finally you looked up. Aerion Targaryen met your gaze. He did not blink as he stabbed a hunk of beef and brought it to his mouth. He chewed it nicely but his eyes were anything but.

You knew about Brightflame. About his propensity for anger and cruelty. You had made a game of avoiding him all week, despite the fact your family took meals with his almost daily. And now, with him sitting across from you, this was the closest you had ever been.

It must be exhausting, you thought, to be so angry all the time. You could feel your own righteous rage swirling in your chest, taking violent swipes at your heart every time you attempted to push what you had seen from your mind.

Aerion stopped chewing and stared openly. You blinked as you realised your lips had curled in something like a snarl. Your anger burned hotter than you knew what to do with. You slouched back in your chair, ignoring the way your brother coughed at your ill manners, and stared right back.

It was stupid. You knew that but you did not look away. Let him be cruel, you thought, let him spit and curse at you for your disrespect. You discovered that you anger enough to return the fire. It needed to go somewhere, did it not?

Your brother stilled, hand finding yours beneath the table and squeezing in warning. And still, you did not move. To your surprise, it was Aerion that moved.

He cleared his throat and set his fork down. He leaned forward and you readied yourself for the fall out of your disrespect.

“Woman,” he said slowly, “what is your name?”

Your brother nudged you to answer. Distantly, you wondered if Owen remembered your name. If you thought about you at all as he fumbled with the maid girl in the corridor, where anyone could come across them. Did he feel guilt as he humiliated you? As he made you look like a foolish, sheltered girl?

“You do not recall my name,” you said slowly, “despite the fact that our families have dined together all week?”

Your brother choked on his wine. Aerion’s eyes widened, something chaotic and wild fluttering in his pupils. It looked like fire.

“I do not,” he answered just as slowly, chin dipping as he waited for your response.

You should tread carefully. You should apologise. You should lower your gaze and speak only when spoken to. You should pretend you never saw Owen and the girl and marry him anyway, settle for a life long of betrayal and disappointment.

“Then I do not wish to tell you,” you hissed, slamming your palms to the table as you shot up out of your chair. All eyes landed on you. “Father, I am unwell. I wish to retire.”

Aerion’s eyes made your skin burn. They drilled into the side of your face as you stoutly ignored him, dipping your head as your father stammered out an excuse and the host bid you well.

You walked quickly from the table, wrenching open the door before the guard could do it for you. Once alone in the corridor, the cool air brushing at your heated cheeks, a hysterical laugh bubbled in your throat. To Aerion and Leon, it probably looked as though you were running. But it was not fear that had driven you from that hall.

Alone in your room, you waited for the tears to come. When the hours dripped on, and the tears still did not come, you resorted to pinching your thighs until bruises welled beneath your nails. Your eyes remained dry.

The anger would not leave. Seething, you threw yourself across the bed, tempted to tear at the sheets like some wild animal. You did not feel like the lady you had been raised to be. But where had that gotten you? Reeling and thoroughly humiliated, you felt lost.

What Owen had done was not out of the ordinary. You were sure that even your father had fathered a bastard or two in the village. But it was not what you wanted for yourself, and as a fourth daughter, you had more choice than most.

Owen had seemed like the safe choice. The sensible choice. You were vexed at your own naivety, annoyed at your own surprise and subsequent disgust. You had been willing to settle for the first man that seemed reasonable and now you were stuck. Did a right choice even exist?

There would be no wedding. You were sure that you could get your father to agree once you told him of what you had witnessed. Your father would not take kindly to his daughter being embarrassed in such a way. The Freys were going to benefit from the wedding more than your family so it would be no great loss.

You sighed. So much had changed in so little time. The tourney was over tomorrow and you would be making your way back home by mid-afternoon. Once on the road, away from the Freys, you could tell your father what you had seen. He would send word of the cancelled arrangement to the Freys, all without you having to set eyes on Owen ever again.

As the sky began to darken further, a maid came in to light your candles and the fire in the grate. Idly you wondered if she was the one you had seen with Owen earlier. Once she had left, you sat up and went to the window, peering out with boredom.

Anger still kindled in your stomach. You rested a hand over your lowed belly, half expecting to feel heat.

The castle was quiet. The gardens below were quiet, too. Your father would kill you for walking around in the dark without a guard but the room was beginning to feel stifling.

When you were young, you had been an unruly child. Eager to escape your finishing lessons and play with your brothers or roam the grounds alone. Your father had assumed you had grown out of it and maybe you had.

Now, though, all you wanted was to leave the suffocating grip of the castle. Owen was under the same roof as you, somewhere, sleeping soundly or perhaps not alone. If he was going to flout the rules so blatantly, then so would you.

Like earlier, you got turned around several times before you eventually found your way outside. The ground was slightly damp from the earlier rain. You would have to clean your slippers before dawn.

You wound your way around bushes and flower beds until you found your way to a hidden alcove. The moon was bright enough to guide your path and you kept carefully out of sight of the castle. The wall was slanted enough for you to rest against it, almost sitting.

The air was soothing against your harried flesh. You closed your eyes and imagined it cooling further, eager to shake the weight of emotion from your chest.

The garden was enclosed in high walls. Beyond them you could hear raucous laughter and singing. The final night of the tourney was just as loud as the first. What would it be like to be among the smallfolk? To laugh, to dance and to drink as they did? As men did?

What would it be like to fuck as they did?

The word was so crass that you open your eyes and looked around, half expecting your father to appear and scold you for the mere thought. Satisfied that you were indeed alone, you settled back and closed your eyes once more.

It was hard to tell how much time had passed when you heard it. Your name, cutting through the careful silence you had cultivated, drawing a shocked yelp from your lips.

Aerion Brightflame stood five feet in front of you, hand on the pommel of his sword. The gesture was not threatening – or maybe it was. It was difficult to tell when everything about him was threatening.

Aerion silver hair was tousled, as though he’d been running his hands through it. His clothes appeared hastily thrown on, as though he had gotten ready for bed and then changed his mind. Perhaps the night air cooled his temper, too.

He repeated your name again, and you realised that someone else must have told him it. He looked smug and you wanted to smack him clean across the face for thinking he had won whatever stupid game it was that he thought you were playing.

“Do you make a habit of sneaking about alone?” he asked, stepping closer.

You squinted at him and did not reply. Was this the same man you had been avoiding all week? Whatever fear you had previously felt had been eaten away by fire and now fatigue as you slumped back against the wall.

Aerion’s lip curled at your silence; displeasure dotted in the creases of his face. You tilted your head a little. He was not unpleasant to look at, even when he scowled. He was handsome, you admitted, as all Targaryens tended to be.

“Answer me, woman,” he finally snarled, “or I’ll drag you before your father.”

Aerion had stepped closer. If you reached out a hand, you would be able to lay it on his chest.

What would it be like to fuck as they did?

It was a terrible idea. Downright stupid. When was the last time you had been stupid? Been anything other than the lady you were supposed to be?

You reached out and laid your hand on the dragon’s chest.

Aerion stilled. You met his eyes steadily, attempting to gauge interest. He did not stop you when you stepped closer, tilting your head until your eyes landed on his lips. They looked red and bitten already.

Aerion did not stop you when your hand slid up his chest and into the short hair at the base of the back of his neck. His lips parted and his breath puffed out when you tugged a little, curious. Owen had tugged that woman’s hair. It seemed like something that was done.

“Woman,” Aerion finally said, “are you stupid?”

“No,” you murmured, “but I think I’d like to be. Just for tonight.”

You were not sure who moved first; only that, one second you were thinking how similar a shade Aerion’s hair was to the moon, and the next you were pressed up tight in the alcove.

Aerion used his body to pin you there. At first, the kiss was clumsy and unpracticed. It was your first, after all. But you had always been a quick learner.

Aerion’s mouth was firm and unforgiving. Your lips parted under his like they had done so a thousand times, tongue reaching out to brush silkily along Aerion’s and earning a surprised groan. His hand came up to squeeze your face, holding you still as he had you how he liked.

It felt good. The kissing and the rebellion of it all. Throughout it all, your hands remained in his hair, tugging hard whenever he did something you particularly liked. He nipped at your lips, pulling sweet gasps and moans from them as he went. That push and pull of his tongue in your mouth, smoothing softly over yours – was that what fucking was like?

Aerion pulled away and you almost hissed. His hair looked messier than previously, the front of his clothes ruffled from where you had been pressed together. His lips were red and wet from the kiss and you watched as his tongue darted out and smoothed over them.

The anger had given away to something impossibly hotter. Something molten and desperate was welling in your core. It was nothing you had ever felt or even considered feeling when it came to Owen. You tilted your head back against the stone wall and waited for the prince to make a move.

“Foolish girl,” he finally said, dragging his eyes from where your breasts heaved against the ribbon of your dress. “Is that what you wanted? To act like a whore for the night? Are you satisfied, then?”

You laughed quietly, the sound ringing through the garden. “I think whores do a great deal more than kiss, my Prince.”

Before you could think too much, you reached down to rest your hand over the hard outline of Aerion’s manhood. He made a choked sound and jolted forward, no doubt surprised at your boldness. Instead of laughing at the shock on his face, you pressed your nose to his chest, seeking out the sliver of bared skin you had seen then.

And then you bit down. Hard.

Aerion groaned long and loud, hand coming up to grip the back of your head as he allowed you to sink your teeth into his flesh. It felt powerful. You did not relent until blood welled beneath your teeth, copper leaking onto your tongue as you laved it over his wounded flesh.

You kept your hand firmly on his cock, rubbing the heel of your palm over where you assumed the head was. Aerion’s grip grew tight before he let you go, chest heaving, staring down at you with blow pupils.

He said your name again, quietly this time, and with no mocking. His hands had fallen to grip your wrists but he let go of one, reaching up the place his palm over the spot you had bitten.

“And yet,” you sighed, “I still do not feel like a whore.”

You kept your mind switched off as your hands dropped and began tugging at the strings on his trousers. Your own core throbbed with every little move. It was different from the lazy self-exploration of yourself you had previously indulged in. Was this feeling normal or was it to do with the dragon before you?

“Fuck,” Aerion swore as you popped his cock from his trousers, the heated flesh pulsing in the cooler air.

It looked big – but that did not matter. You had no intention of taking it inside of yourself. Instead, you smoothed your palm over the head, collecting the wetness that had gathered there. You squeezed experimentally and smiled at the sound it produced from Aerion.

Aerion cursed again and then his hands were on you. You yelped as he held you firmly against the stone wall, damp rock pressing into your back, and began to ruck up your dress until it was fluffed around your waist. He kicked your legs apart and shoved his hand down the front of your garments until his fingers met the soft curls at the apex of your thighs.

This was not the plan. Not that there had been one in the first place – but this definitely was not it.

Aerion’s fingers met the soft, pillowy flesh on your cunt with little ceremony. His eyes were glued to your face, chest rising and falling swiftly as he parted you with his fingers and ran his index over the tight flesh of your hole.

“Even whores do not get this wet,” he growled, cupping your tender flesh. “Put your hand back on my cock. Now.”

You resented the bite in his voice but your mind was surprising gentle exploration of his fingers. Instead of sliding inside, they ventured up, up, until they met the soft ball of flesh that would surely make you lose your fucking mind.

Aerion buried his face in your neck, tongue licking over the exposed flesh as your hand found his cock and began to move. When he stopped, you stopped. You would not let him come away from having had more than you. You were determined to satisfy your earlier curiosity.

His fingers rubbed tight circles over your swollen flesh, faster and then slower. He rutted into your palm with hard thrusts, breath hissing in your ear as he approached his peak.

He was not the only one. You could feel your own fast approaching. For the first time, clarity began to clear your mind. You understood why Owen, why that girl, had gotten so caught up. Initially you had wanted to do this to experience what you felt you were missing out on, to be reckless as they had been. Now you felt the urge for control. The urge to prove that you were better than them.

Still you allowed Aerion’s fingers to rub you. There was no doubt that he knew what he was doing. His hips bumped yours as he fucked your hand, orgasm tearing through him in a way that made you dizzy and thirsty for your own.

You yelped when Aerion’s head bent down, nuzzling into the pillowy tops of your breasts before he bit down. Hard enough that you were sure he immediately drew blood. You whimpered and yanked at his hair, teetering on the edge of your own orgasm.

If I go over the edge, you thought, I do not know if I can come back.

With surprising strength, you shoved Aerion away. Your dress came tumbling back down and the whisper of fabric over your skin was enough to almost have you orgasming anyway. Unprepared, Aerion staggered before righting his stance.

His still hard cock was still peeking out of his breeches and you tore your eyes away before you abandoned all common sense. You could feel his seed on your hand, warm and sticky. There was blood smeared all over his mouth and when he snarled at you, you could see it in his teeth.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he barked. “You are not done here – we are not done here.”

You breathed heavily and swayed a little on your feet. You could see your own arousal on Aerion’s fingers, glittering in the moonlight. It looked rather pretty.

Aerion took a step forward and it shook you out of your reverie. Before he could say anything else (or use his fingers and command you to stay) you tore past him and ran inside. In some miracle, perhaps as reward for your restraint, you found your way back to your room in a matter of minutes. If Aerion called your name, you did not hear it.

The next morning was nothing memorable. You were beyond tired and still mildly irritated, but glad to be rid of the place. You had stayed up late cleaning your shoes and the conspicuous wet spot the prince had left on your dress. If the maids noticed anything as they packed your trunks, they did not say.

Your father was in a good mood. It was a good thing to spent time with the heir to the kingdom; it reflected well on the house. You smiled blandly as he and your brother Leon recounted their days, commenting on who had done well and the favourites.

The Targaryens had supposed to have been leaving early, but as you and your family made their way down, you discovered that they had not. You kept your gaze averted and curtsied when necessary, thanking Lord Ashford for his hospitality and Balor and his family for their company.

When you reached Aerion, you curtsied as before. Aerion surprised you by lifting your hand and pressing a soft kiss to your inner wrist. You felt his tongue on your skin and bit your lip, praying that your father would not notice.

Aerion pulled back and smiled. Your mouth dropped open. Your blood was still smeared across his lips and teeth.

Within days of arriving home, your father had contacted Lord Frey and told him the engagement was off. He was horrified by what you had reported. His poor darling girl, witness to such depravity!

As he had ranted and raved, you had subtly tugged at the high collar of your dress. You had taken to wearing such high collars and avoiding help from the maids since arriving home. The mark that Aerion had left on you was shocking. Blue and purple tinged with red. It was still sore and throbbed when touched firmly, which you did often.

You had managed to muster tears in your eyes and a tremble in your voice as you recounted the events of that evening. Perhaps you exaggerated a little. It did not matter; your father was thoroughly on your side.

Some days later, after some back and forth with Lord Frey, your father told you that Owen had left The Twins and was no doubted headed here, to your home. Your father had almost had an aneurysm at the sheer assumption of hospitality.

“Do not worry, father,” you had patted his hand, “perhaps he will come to apologise. I will hear him out, but I have no intentions of marrying him.”

“You are kind, daughter,” he nodded, “and wise. You deserve more than foolish young boys.”

Wise. You had nearly laughed. A week ago, you had been the stupidest person in the entire seven kingdoms. Stupider now, perhaps, since you did not regret it.

A week and a half after the tournament, you were sitting in the library when you heard the sound of a party arriving. You set your book down and straightened your spine before marching from the library and heading for the hall.

You paused outside, sharing a look with your ladies’ maid when you heard your father’s laughter from within. That was certainly not the reception you had envisioned for Owen Frey. Confused, you opened the door and stepped within, ready for an explanation.

Your father was stood there, arm in arm, with Maekar Targaryen. And to the left of him, tall and polished, was his son, Aerion.

You froze. For a moment you debated edging your way back out of the room but then your father caught sight of you.

“Ah!” he threw up his arms and came to grab your arm, pulling you further into the dragon’s nest. “My Princes, you remember my youngest daughter?”

“Certainly,” Aerion interjected before his father could speak. He dipped his head, mocking. “My Lady.”

You assumed you responded appropriately. You could not be sure. Maekar nodded stiffly, something like curiosity in his eyes as he looked you up and down. How much had Aerion told his father? Was he, in turn, going to tell your father?

“Why are you here?” you asked bluntly.

Your father said your name, surprised. “You did not know? I invited them here whilst we were all at the tourney.”

“Yes,” Aerion smiled, “I am here to hunt.”

The ground felt like it was dropping out from beneath you. Even the air felt thin. Whilst you swayed on your feet, vehemently regretting that night, your father chattered on to Maekar.

He had no fucking idea what he had agreed to. And, truthfully, neither did you.

Unwilling to leave your father and the princes alone, you found yourself getting ready for a hunt. You yanked on your riding dress and, once your front was covered, turned to allow your maid to lace up the back.

You did not know what Aerion had told Maekar, nor what his plans were with you father. You were worried that, at the first chance he had, Aerion would tell him of your indulgent and careless behaviour. Why else would he come all this way?

It seemed insane that he would do all this just to torment you. Or perhaps it would, if he were anyone else. Out of all the boys to fool around with. . .

You descend from your room and head for the stables. Yanking on your riding gloves, you find the stall of your horse, Silver. She was a precious thing and fickle with anyone other than you. You smoothed your hand over her mane and waited for the stable boy to arrive.

Aerion arrived first.

You scowled at the flash of silver hair you saw from the corner of your eye and did not bother greeting him. It was not him you feared; it was what he might tell you father. You should probably consider attempting to butter him up. Your lips thinned at the idea and you continued to ignore him.

Heat was radiating from his body as he stepped up bedside you, bumping your arm with his. Without asking, he reached out to pet Silver. You hoped she would bite him. Instead, she huffed and leaned down to nose at his palm. You frowned.

Distracted, you did not notice Aerion’s other hand creeping up toward the collar of your dress. You squeaked when you felt his fingers on the hem, yanking it down until the ugly spot he had left on your upper breast came into view.

The flesh was still unhealed. Whenever you looked closely in the mirror, you could still see the outline of Aerion’s teeth.

“Good,” he hummed, “yours has not healed either.”

He did not let go of your clothing, instead leaning closer as though he might bite again. Outraged, you slapped the prince across his face. Aerion let go at once, hand coming to rest on the quickly darkening flesh of his cheek.

Your chest was heaving, eyes wide and blinking furiously. You wanted to shout, to slap him again, to demand the real reason as to why he had come. You had finally been getting back to normalcy when he and his father had shown up.

You snarled still as Aerion reached out again, raising your hand as though you might strike him once more. This time he did not try to tear at your clothes. He tugged them back into the rightful position, brushing the wrinkles from your bosom as though his fingers were not leaving trails of fire behind as they went.

“I knew you had fire in you,” he finally said, brushing his fingers over your bared collarbones.

Before you could respond, there was the sound of someone clearing their throat. You whirled around, horrified to see Maekar waiting by the stable doors. Aerion did not seem alarmed. He met his fathers gaze and inclined his head before going to his own horse.

Maekar did not say anything. His gaze bounced from his son and then back to you, as though he was putting something together. He did not speak and seemed surprised. Had he seen you slap his son? It was nothing he had not deserve.

Markar must have agreed because he offered you a soft nod and then turned his attention to Aerion. You went back to Silver and pretended that neither of them were there. The two of them were having some kind of hushed conversation and you could not make out what they were saying.

Eventually your father and the stable boy arrived, and the hunt began.

Your father and Maekar rode ahead, crossbows hanging by their sides. It was the most serious you had seen your father. Neither of the men spoke, which you preferred.

Aerion rode at your side, which you did not prefer. He had his own crossbow but seemed to have little interest in it. His gaze was firmly fixed on the side of your head. Occasionally he would come close and kick softly at your calves, or reach out to pull your hair when he knew neither of your fathers were looking.

One particularly hard pull had you swearing and slapping at his hands. Aerion laughed quietly so as not to draw the attention of your fathers. Yours was particularly oblivious. Maekar, on the other hand, kept glancing over his shoulder, eyes sliding from Aerion to you. He seemed bewildered. Perhaps you were not the only one who did not know what Aerion was up to.

After several hours with no sign of game, you began to wish you had remained home. Let Aerion say what he would. It was not worth you distress.

Suddenly everyone seemed to still. You shivered at the sudden change. Even Aerion was silent. You peered out into the dense forest, trying to see whatever it was that had captured everyone’s attention. The only sign that anything was there was a slight rustling in the bush, and then a dull ‘thunk’ as Aerion fired from his crossbow quicker than you thought possible. Then a thud, as whatever it was hit the ground.

Aerion dismounted and disappeared into the brush, returning with an impressively large stag. Your brows raised at the clean shot. It was something even your brothers would have struggled with. Aerion held it up by the antlers and stared in your direction. You smoothed your expression and looked away as though you were bored. You did not want to encourage further ridiculousness.

You stayed on Silver as the men tied the poor creature between their horses and began to head home. Bloodlust satiated, Aerion mostly left you alone, and for that you were thankful.

At dinner, Aerion had the honor of the first serving. It had been divided into manageable chunks, cooked and seasoned in the preferred way of your guests. The scent of venison was thick on the air and you were hungry after the ride.

Your eldest brother Edwyn joined you at dinner. His lady wife was unwell and remained abed. If he was surprised by the royal visitors, he did not show it. He settled into pleasant conversation with your father and Maekar. To his credit, he attempted to include Aerion but the prince seemed determined to make him uncomfortable.

Rather than take the first cut for himself, Aerion slid it your way. All the men at the table went silent. Aware of the gaze of your father and brother, you smiled sweetly and acted surprised.

“For the lady,” Aerion said, smirking at your obvious discomfort.

The meat was rare and bloody. Not your favourite but you would manage. Aerion tucked in to his own with little fanfare, blatantly ignoring his fathers’ eyes. Greasy blood dripped over his lips and he chased the flavour with his tongue, never breaking eye contact with you.

 Conversation resumed and you ate your own food whilst wishing for the ground to open up beneath you. Did Aerion even have to say anything? One look at him and your father would surely learn of your behaviour that night. Aerion was hardly subtle.

For the first time since they had arrived, you wondered about Owen. He had been on his way here, had he not? You cringed inwardly at the thought of Owen and Aerion interacting. Not that Aerion would care about Owen, but during the Ashford tournament, Owen had been practically tripping over himself trying to impress the Targaryen guests. You dreaded to think of enduring that behaviour within your own home.

Aerion chose that moment to kick you under the table. Your knee bounced against the underside, drawing the attention of everyone once more. You laughed uneasily and apologised, waving away your father’s concerns.

You waited until all attention was back on the food, and then you kicked Aerion right back.

The next few days went by in a similar fashion. Maekar continued to hunt with your father, returning empty handed most days, and Aerion remained at the castle with you.

Everywhere you went, he was there. More often than not, the pair of you ended up alone. The servants were scared of him and you could not blame them. You overheard him barking at them on several occasions, and he had even thrown something at one of the maids who had come to wake him one morning.

Miraculously, none of these incidents seemed to make their way back to either of your fathers. If the staff trembled when they refilled Aerion’s cup, they did not notice. Neither did Aerion, for his attention was usually fixated on you.

You kept waiting for that temper to turn on you but it never did. So, you continued to bite back, though not literally, and convinced yourself you were doing it on behalf of all the servants.

After several days, you realised that the only thing that seemed to genuinely irritate him was you ignoring him. So, naturally, that was exactly what you did.

No longer did you glance up when he entered the room. At mealtimes, you arranged yourself carefully in your chair so that his legs could not reach you. You had your ladies’ maid, Silena, wind your hair into intricate braids so that there was nothing he could easily pull.

Aerion’s fury built. You pretended not to notice when he sniped at the servants and scowled at your father. Maekar, eager to soothe over any tensions caused by his wild son, was always quick to distract your father with conversation.

One day, Aerion went out hunting with Maekar and your father. Once again, he presented you with the first cut of meat that he had caught. You thanked him politely and nibbled at it as though dissatisfied. Aerion jerked about in his chair as though he might jump up and start shouting.

Would that be enough to get your father to send him away? Probably not. You were beginning to understand that Targaryen princes got away with everything.

Four days trickled past, and there was still no sign of Owen. Not that you thought of him often. A raven had arrived from Lord Frey, asking if his son had arrived. It was odd and you had felt sorry for the man, worried for his son. No doubt he would turn up soon, but not so soon that you had to bear with him and Aerion under the same roof.

On the fifth day, you were thoroughly exhausted. You had begun to avoid Aerion as much as possible – and it mostly wasn’t. The man seemed to have eyes on you at all time.

He had spent most of the day with you in the library. When he wasn’t thumbing through books, he was digging his dagger into the table that had been in your family for generations. His blatant disrespect was unsurprising and you had snuggled further in your chair and tried to pretend like you were actually reading the words on the pages.

After an hour or two of the stifling silence, Aerion had got to his feet and torn the book from your hands. He had torn into it, throwing pages over you like confetti. You had been furious and ready to deliver another swift smack to his cheek. A servant had entered that time, saving you from breaking your silence, and you had both gone down for lunch.

Your father was not the most observant man, but even he could see that you were beyond taxed by the end of the day.

Rather than indulging in evening drinking and games, he suggested that you retire early and have a bath drawn by the staff. You were more than happy to do just that.

You lounged on your bed with a book you did not read as the servants prepared your tub. The water was steaming hot and inviting. Once it was full, they scattered petals into the water and added drops of some scented oil that had you relaxing almost instantly.

Your ladies’ maid waited to help you undress but, as you had every day since returning, you waved her off.

“I’d like some time to myself, Silena,” you smiled softly, “I’ll call for you once I am finished.”

You waited until the door was shut, and then several minutes more for good measure, before undressing. You tried to avoid looking at the bruise on the swell of your breast. Your eyes were drawn there automatically.

Pressing a hand over it, you hissed at the memory of pain and ignored the sparks it sent between your legs. Piling your hair on your head, you arranged it until you were satisfied it would not get wet. Once you were completely bare, you stepped into the tub and settled down, letting your head fall back against the high edge.

The water was verging on boiling, as you liked it. It was milky from the oils and soap. You grabbed a washcloth from the edge of the tub and began to run it over your shoulders and behind your ears.

You let your mind go blank as you cleansed yourself several times over until all you could smell was lavender and something almost smoky. Once more you sat back, content to relax until the water turned cold.

The sound of the door opening had you sighing and dipping lower into the water to hide your bruise. “Silena, I have no need of you yet –“

“But I have need of you.”

You shot up straight, sloshing water over the edge of the bath. Aerion let the door fall shut, reaching behind himself to click the lock into place. His eyes were dark as the fixed on you in the tub and you shivered, cold despite the hot water.

“I’ll scream,” you warned him.

“I’ll tell your father what we did together,” he countered.

He toed off his shoes as though these were his rooms and began to make his way towards you. You had no weapon, nothing with which you might fight him off with, and he seemed to know it.

You dared not take your eyes off of him. When he settled on his knees next to the tub, you became painfully aware of your naked state. It was strange; he had had his fingers on you, almost inside of you, and yet he had not seen you. Not really.

Aerion seemed to be thinking the same thing. He seemed displeased at the milky state of the water. It concealed you from him. You drew your knees up to your chest and waited for him to speak.

Aerion dipped his fingers into the water and hissed. “Hot.”

“I like it that way,” you defended. Then you shut your lips tightly, wishing you had not spoken at all.

Aerion smiled and touched your bare knee beneath the water. You tried to jerk away but he gripped you tight, nails biting into your softened flesh. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I am not here to entertain you, prince.”

“I thought that, too, at the tournament,” he said, “but then you were so wonderfully entertaining in the garden that night. I want more. Have wanted more, since then, and yet you deny what was once so freely given. Why?”

Your mouth felt dry. “I am a lady.”

“And yet,” he repeated, “you betrayed your betrothed that night, with me, didn’t you?”

You stilled, barely registering his words before they hit you full force. “He betrayed me first!” you snarled, sending a wave of water over the edge of the tub.

Aerion squeezed your knee tighter, ignoring the water creeping its way up his sleeve. It soaked into the golden embroidery that was pattered there, darkening the fabric until it looked like it had been flecked with blood.

“Betrayed you?” Aerion repeated. “Vengeful little thing.”

“He is no longer my betrothed,” you added weakly. “I told my father about what he did.”

“But he was coming here to see you regardless,” Aerion said, mostly to himself.

“How do you know about that?” you asked, finally tearing his hand from your knee. Blood welled from the indents he had left in your flesh with his nails. You shivered at the sting as the warm water washed over them.

Aerion’s eyes dropped low, searching for that mark he had left on your skin over two weeks ago. Then they dipped lower still, fixing on the tips of your breasts that were barely visible beneath the water.

He let out a muted groan, dragging his eyes upward until they were once again on your face. “I believe I said that we were not finished.”

It took you a moment to remember what he was talking about. “Aerion, no.”

“You think you know what you want,” he murmured, “and maybe you did, all those weeks ago. But your mind has become clouded. Allow me to clear it for you.”

You gasped when Aerion leaned over the tub, hands grasping your shoulders as he pulled you forward and arranged you to his liking. He had you with your back to him, against the tub, allowing him to peer over your shoulders and down your body.

You tried to move forward but he would not allow it. You stopped moving when you felt his teeth at your neck. If he left a mark there, it would be visible to everyone, including your father.

“Good girl,” he praised. “Let me finish what we started.”

Beneath the water, Aerion cupped your breasts with a firmness that had you whimpering. You could feel his warm breath puffing over the shell of your ear and you squirmed, searching yourself for your earlier reluctance. It was not there.

When Aerion rubbed his thumbs over your nipples, you nearly dissolved into the bath water. He kneaded them gentle, rolling the tips between his fingers in a way that had you gripping at his arms and shoving your face against his shoulder.

One hand abandoned your breast, instead snaking down and over the swell of your stomach, searching for the wetness between your legs. You let your thighs fall open without a second thought, eager for that feeling from those weeks ago.

Aerion sucked in a breath. “Sweet girl.”

He pressed a kiss to your cheek at the same time as his fingers made contact with your aching clit. This was dangerous, you tried to remind yourself, for this you might do anything.

Like before, Aerion’s fingers began to propel you toward orgasm quicker than you typically could alone. Your clit seemed more than eager for whatever he wanted to give and each touch felt devastatingly soft, as though he was punishing you for not allowing him to give you this back in the garden.

Distantly, you wondered if he was trying to prove something. You could not find it in you to care, so long as he kept doing whatever it was that he was doing.

You almost didn’t notice when his fingers began to slide lower until one was nudging at your entrance. It was not something you typically did alone. You were always too worried of spilling your own blood. You opened your mouth to protest but, before you could, Aerion had you spread apart on his fingers as he gently fucked you with his hand.

You choked on your breath. “Aerion, please – you can’t –“

“Shhh,” he whispered, surprisingly tender as he took you apart. “Do not worry. Just feel.”

All it took was one swipe of his thumb over your clit. You had to plaster your hands over your mouth to mask the sound that was spilling from your lips. Aerion did not stop and instead continued to stroke you through your orgasm, to the point of painful sensitivity. He did not stop until you physically pulled his hands from you, and even then he seemed reluctant.

You sagged against the tub, entirely breathless and shaken. Aerion grabbed your face with one hand, turning you this way and that, as though he were admiring his own work. You waited for some snarky comment.

Aerion hummed to himself, letting his hand drop until it was hovering over the bite mark. His bite mark. He did not touch it, instead he pulled back and got to his feet, stepping somewhat unsteadily away from the tub.

“I shall see you tomorrow,” he said. “Never ignore me again.”

With that, he unlocked the door and slipped out as though he was never there. The only sign that he had been was a churning in your stomach and an ache between your thighs.

Once you were sure he was gone, you dunked your head under the water and did not come up until your lungs were screaming for air.

Despite his words, you did not see Aerion the next day. Nor the one after that. You father, brother and Maekar also seemed to have disappeared. Uneasy, you assumed they had some official business that needed seeing to. Maybe the princes had even left.

No, you knew they hadn’t. It felt silly to say but you could feel Aerion, still lurking in your home, despite staying out of sight. Fire seemed to burn hotter with him in the building.

At night you found yourself sweaty and cross, abandoning your blankets and tossing and turning until you were able to pass out. You never slept for long.

On the second day, after hiding in the library and dining alone, you felt unusually anxious. All your clothes felt tight and ill fitting. Had Aerion told your father about the bath? It was all you could think about all day. You picked at your food and didn’t read a thing until it was time for bed, at which time you went up alone and dismissed Selina in favour of dressing yourself.

You tugged on a sleep gown, relishing the soft loose fabric in comparison to your day clothes. The fire in the grate was out and you felt too warm to fetch Silena so you left it alone, allowing the candles lit to guide the way to your bed. You shoved all the sheets down until they were not touching you. Then you positioned yourself like an X, trying to cool down and banish the day’s anxieties from your brain. You had to stay in control. It would not do to let your guard down when Aerion was around.

Sleep would not come. Even when you trained yourself to stay perfectly still, taking even and deep breathes, it seemed to taunt you from the darkest corners of your room. Eventually the candles went out, leaving you in almost complete darkness.

The moon still shone in through your window. It allowed you to see vague shapes and the outline of your own body. You squeezed your eyes shut and begged the seven for sleep.

Just when you were ready to jump up and begin lighting candles, there was a noise. For a moment you did not recognise it for what it was. Your heart shot into your throat as you realised it was the sound of your door opening and shutting, then the lock falling into place.

You remained still, tense and silent as you peered into the darkness, heart hammering in your chest. It was not until the moonlight glinted off of something silver that you relaxed.

“What the fuck are you doing?” you breathed, sitting up as Aerion approached your bed. “You can’t be in here.”

“Scared?” he asked, settling himself on the edge of your bed.

“This is highly improper,” you warned, eyes bulging from your head as Aerion began to shed his clothes as though the room were his own.

He did not respond. He continued shucking his clothes until only his braies remained, the outline of his cock already half hard between his legs. You swallowed and commanded yourself not to stare. Eventually he shed those too.

“You can’t be in here,” you repeated weakly.

Aerion’s hand found your ankle in the darkness. You yelped as he yanked you, your back hitting the mattress as he dragged you further down the bed. You were near winded as he climbed on top of you, knees on either side of your hips as he rested his weight softly on your stomach.

It wasn’t until he began to snatch at your wrists that you remembered yourself and began to struggle. With a yell, you set your teeth to the first line of flesh you saw.

Your teeth sank into his bicep much like they had sank into his chest all those weeks ago. Blood trickled into your mouth and you bit harder.

Aerion’s hand came to cradle the back of your hand. “That’s it, just like that.”

Immediately you let go, hissing up at him with bloodied teeth. “There is nothing sweet about this. Now get off.”

Aerion leaned down and licked the blood from your mouth, moaning every time you nipped at him with already bloodied teeth. It was insanity, madness, and it was making you unbearably fucking wet.

“My turn,” Aerion said, and then his teeth were burying into your neck so deeply that you faintly wondered if you would scar.

Your hips bucked upward, driving his cock into your stomach as he sucked at your neck, teeth pinching and tongue soothing as he went. You were done. There was no way you could cover whatever mark he had left this time. Had this been his plan all along?

When Aerion pulled away, there was blood smeared across his face just like before. More of it, even. He ran his fingers over the mark you had left and hissed, fisting his cock with his other hand.

“Enough with waiting,” he muttered, “I have been a patient man.”

You did not protest as Aerion shoved your night dress up until it was bunched under your armpits. You nearly moaned when he parted your thighs, baring you to him fully for the first time.

He pressed his fingers to your entrance and groaned. “So fucking hot. Are you sure you are not blood of the dragon?”

He ran his fingers through your arousal and brought them to his lips, letting your slick mingle with the blood before licking his fingers clean. Your cunt throbbed with each pass of his tongue over his fingers and it took you a moment to realise you were whimpering aloud.

“No matter,” he said, “you’ll have a dragon inside you, one way or another.”

Placing one hand on your stomach, Aerion used his other to notch his cock at your entrance. The heat coming off him was intense. Sweat beaded on your hairline as you tried to focus on the consequence, on why you should not be doing this, but your mind refused to focus on anything but the thick feel of Aerion sliding into you.

There was a flash of pain as he nudged up against something inside you. He gave you no time to adjust, instead thrusting forward and taking your maidenhead with little compassion. You winced at the bite of pain.

Aerion kept your thighs pinned wide to accommodate him. His eyes darted from your face to the obscene sight between your legs. His hips began to shift as he thrust in earnest. All thoughts of pain fell away as you became accustomed to the thickness of him.

Aerion Brightflame was fucking you and you were letting him.

Everyt ime your eyes fell shut he would stop until you were focused back on him. The wet sound of your union had your ears burning as you mewled beneath him, greedily chasing every little feeling he was introducing you to.

You could feel yourself twitching around his length as his nails dug into the meat of your thighs. The scent of sweat and sex was a heady thing, heavy on your tongue as Aerion fucked you steadily with deep thrusts of his cock.

Your jaw dropped open when his hand dipped between your legs, collecting blood there and bringing it to his chest, smearing it there as he gazed darkly down at you.

You watched as he smeared the blood in a line over his lips, and then as he reached down and made the same motion over yours. You could taste the copper and sweat and felt almost dizzy with the arousal that hit you.

Aerion was not finished. His hand went down again, this time with his thumb finding your clit. He wasted no time. He began rubbing in the way he had learned that you liked, driving you toward orgasm faster than you could keep up with.

Your thighs clenched around his hips, trying to slow him down, but he was relentless. Between the quick passes of his thumb and the way he was fucking you, you were helpless. Your orgasm splintered through you like physical thing, wiping your mind blank until all that tied you to earth was the cock breaking you open and the hands gripping your face.

“Yes, yes,” Aerion chanted, hips driving into yours with vigor. “Come around me, wife.”

His words made no sense and yet – your orgasm washed over you, stronger than ever, until you were left writhing beneath him on the bed. You recognised your own voice, begging for a break as Aerion wrang every drop of relief from you.

It was only then that his hips began to lose rhythm. He leaned down to press a sloppy kiss to your lips, tongue chasing the combination of blood, sweat and arousal that coated both your lips. You felt him moan into your mouth, felt his hips stutter as he emptied himself inside you.

You were still aware enough to know that it was a bad thing. Visions of yourself, unwed and with child, threatened to break the bliss. You tried to push Aerion off but he was having none of it.

“Be still,” he grumbled, arranging you in his arms until he had you pinned to his chest, cock still inside you. He pinched your ass when you would not stop moving.

“Aerion,” you cried, pushing at his chest. “You – you have ruined me! I could be with child –“

“Good,” he yawned, fingers pinching, “it will reflect well on me when you are with child in less than a year after the wedding.”

You paused, remembering his earlier words. “Wedding? I am not getting married, Aerion.” “Oh, but you are,” he grinned, all sharp and poision, fitting his teeth to the mark he had already made on your neck. “You are to be a dragon’s bride. My bride.” “My father would not allow it,” you said weakly, disbelieving.

“He already has,” Aerion bit down, “he will tell you of your good fortune tomorrow morning.”

“My father would not make me –“

“Make you?” Aerion repeated, pulling back slightly so that he could see your face. The movement reminded you that his cock was still very much inside you. “Who is he to refuse a dragon?”

“Besides,” he continued, “you are well suited to me, wife.”

“Wife,” you said numbly, shivering when Aerion tilted his hips and rubbed his cock against a particularly inviting place inside you.

“What do you think I came all this way for?” he smiled wolfishly. “Look how you blossom beneath me. My wife. Call me husband. I demand it.”

a/n - when the cookie is so good he stalks you across Westeros and his father is so tired of him that he goes along with it

I worked so hard on this 😭 please let me know if you enjoyed it! Every like, reblog and comment is deeply appreciated

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THE DRAGON'S COURTSHIP

The dinner was rather quiet at Summerhall since the girls were gone to spend time at The Red Keep with their cousins Valarr and Matarys. Of course they didn’t care for that – they wanted to spend a few weeks in King’s Landing. Their cousins were only an excuse but Maekar knew about it very well.

Now he was left alone with his three sons since Aemon was away as well. The silence was becoming awkward, so he cleared his throat.

“I received an invitation to Highgarden,” he explained. “Some tourney Lord Tyrell wishes to see us at. I don’t plan on going, though,” he winced a little. “It’s too far away and Tyrells bore me to fucking death.”

“Good,” Daeron mumbled. He got sick just thinking of a tourney he’d have to participate in.

“Please, can we go?” Aegon’s squeaky voice pleaded. He loved to watch the knights and jousts. “Please, father…?”

Maekar sighed. When his youngest son was asking so sweetly, he had to at least reconsider it.

“I would like to go, too,” Aerion’s eyes were sparkling but he was trying to play it cool and not to show how excited he was getting. “Let me show those gentle Highgarden boys how real dragons fight,” he smirked. “I can even take Egg as my squire.”

“Brother,” Daeron snorted into his goblet of wine. “We all know why you want to go there.”

Aegon giggled and Aerion clenched his jaw, angrily. He hated how obvious it seemed that he had a crush on a certain Lady. He considered it to be a weakness and he didn’t want other people to know about it.

“Lady (Y/N) Tyrell?” Maekar raised an eyebrow. “You still think about her?” He asked his son.

“No!” Aerion answered quickly, making his brothers laugh.

“Is this why you still have the handkerchief you stole from her?” Aegon asked.

“And is this why I caught you sniffing it?” Daeron’s eyes lit up with amusement.

“I did not… sniff it,” Aerion protested, feeling his father’s burning gaze on him.

“I do not wish to know what you were doing with that handkerchief,” Maekar closed his eyes for a moment to sigh. “In fact, I do not wish to even think of it.”

“I don’t know what you all are talking about,” Aerion mumbled and focused on his food to avoid everyone’s gaze.

Maekar took a deep breath as he remembered the day Lord Tyrell had asked to stay for a night at Summerhall on his way to Dorne. His eldest daughter, Lady (Y/N), had been with him but she had been feeling ill. She had spent her father’s whole visit to Dorne at Summerhall instead of going with him down South. During those few weeks, Aerion had seemed to be a different man. Maekar had never seen him so… trying. Trying to be a better version of himself that would impress a Lady.

And the Lady was no ordinary woman either. Maekar remembered her moods, her laughter, her capability to call Aerion stupid or proud or irrational. And each time the young prince had been getting angry, she would smile at him and flutter her eyelashes, which had seemed to solve it all.

Maekar realised that a woman like her could be good for his son. Instead of laughing at his infatuation, perhaps he should… encourage it.

“We will go to Highgarden,” he started and Daeron groaned. “Not you,” he looked at his eldest son. “You can stay here and watch over Summerhall once we’re gone.”

“Thank you, father,” Daeron nodded.

“We will go to Highgarden… if…,” Maekar laid his eyes on Aerion. His second eldest son raised his eyes to look at him. “If you ask for her hand in marriage once we’re there.”

A short silence occurred. Aegon’s giggle broke it eventually. Daeron kept staring at his father and brother with disbelief. Meanwhile, Aerion felt a bit uncomfortable with the thought. It seemed pretty final… Not that he minded it but he would have to expose himself enough to get hurt.

His ego was not ready to get hurt.

“What if she is betrothed already? It was six months ago, she could have secured a match since then,” he pointed out.

“Would a betrothed be a challenge for you, brother?” Daeron chuckled. “You can duel him and win easily. Are you not a dragon?” He teased.

Aerion smirked at that. His foolish, drunkard brother was right. He was a dragon. And a dragon had the right to take whatever he wanted.

When you found out that Prince Maekar would arrive at the tournament with Prince Aerion and Prince Aegon, your old feelings resurfaced, causing confusion within you.

You missed them – you missed them all. You remembered your weeks spent at Summerhall extremely fondly. Especially Prince Aerion.

You liked his mad Targaryen eyes, his pretty silver hair, the way he would lick his lips, the way his body moved when he trained with the sword. You liked to tease him and call him out whenever he acted awfully. But truth to be told, his arrogance spurred you on in a way; it made your cheeks hot and your heart to pick up its pace. He was different from all the men you knew from Highgarden. Bold, unapologetic, obsessive and… dark. That darkness was dangerous but you were not afraid. Many times you had crossed the line but he had never bit you. And that feeling – of standing so close to the dragon who could kill you yet he didn’t even roar at you – that feeling was addictive.

But you also knew that all those feelings you were harbouring for him… They meant nothing. They would change nothing. Prince Aerion Targaryen was not fit for love. You were aware that even if he shared his feelings, your life with him would be a rather dreadful one. 

Still, for the day of his family’s arrival, you dolled yourself up in a pretty green dress and yellow roses in your hair. Standing by your mother’s side, you greeted everyone with the same smile but when your eyes locked with his, goosebumps appeared on your skin nearly immediately.

“Mother… This is Prince Aerion who kept me company during my time at Summerhall,” you introduced him.

Your mother was not impressed by the young man. She bowed at him out of courtesy and moved on to another person as if she could feel what kind of person he was. And your mother always knew how to read people. Her reaction was not a good sign.

When he walked away, you could feel his eyes on you. His burning gaze on your back like a dragonbreath.

There was a welcoming feast for the noblemen taking part in the tournament on the evening before the first day. Since you were the eldest daughter of Lord Tyrell who organised the whole thing, many knights asked you to grant them your favour on the next day. Like a skilled seductress you were, you told each single one of them that you would consider their request but they would find out on the next day who would become your champion for the tournament.

“Ser Seamus Mormont is quite interesting,” your younger sister Flora said to you when you were standing by the table with the snacks and gossiping.

“What makes you think so? He’s rather… raw looking,” you pointed out.

“That is exactly why. Men up North are different than here. I like it,” she admitted.

“The Mormonts are not very rich, dear sister. He would not provide you with a lavish life,” you reminded her with a laugh and she rolled her eyes.

Both of you hoped for a match out of love but you also were aware of the practicalities of life.

“If I were you, I’d give your favour to the Lannister knight then,” she winked at you.

“He is his father’s sixth son,” you sighed, annoyed. He was handsome indeed but he was not important.

“It is not like you are to marry your champion,” Flora pointed out as she took one of the strawberries covered in chocolate to put it in her mouth.

“Our parents might think so,” you admitted, taking a glance at your father. “They are… beginning to push me to finally start looking for a match,” you admitted. “They might start looking for one on their own soon…”

“Oh, please! Please, do get married, (Y/N)! You know that I will not be allowed to secure a match before you do!” Flora clapped her hands and you rolled your eyes.

However, her playful smile dropped at the sight of someone standing behind you. You couldn’t see the person but you felt their presence. And you could smell them… The familiar scent it was. Metallic and spicy.

“Lady (Y/N),” Aerion’s voice reached your ears and you turned your head around to flutter your eyelashes at him.

“My Prince,” you acknowledged him. “It is good to see you again. How is Summerhall, allow me to ask?”

“It is rather empty ever since you left,” he admitted and you felt your cheeks heating up at those words.

“That is very kind to say,” you fixed your hair with a nervous smile.

“I have my moments,” he smirked. “Will you grant me your favour on the morrow?” He asked nonchalantly.

He had to be aware of the fact he was the last one to ask. Yet, the way he inquired seemed to be so confident.

“I might consider it,” you teased him like the others and he gritted his teeth. Aerion didn’t like being rejected even in the smallest things.

His reaction reminded you why you should be wary of him despite your infatuation.

“She tells it to everyone,” Flora joined the conversation. She was visibly scared of Aerion but she wanted to defend you. You held her by her wrist to thank her and to show her support.

“Why not make the decision today?” Prince Aerion asked.

“What fun would that be?” You asked and he squinted his eyes.

However, he nodded after a while and walked away. Flora sighed with relief.

“This one scares me,” she admitted. “Yet, you have told me so many nice stories about him from your time at Summerhall…”

“He can be charming when needed,” you explained to her. “And there is something about him… Something quite enchanting.”

“Enchanting?” Flora’s eyes widened. “Sister, you must have had too much of the sweet wine.”

You chose Ser Brandon Tully to be your champion. 

All the knights were standing side by side on their horses in front of the stands and the box you were sitting in beside your father. You stood up and approached the railway as you hesitated. You looked directly at Prince Aerion, his smirk visible from all that distance. But after a moment, you shifted your gaze and laid your eyes on the Tully knight.

His father’s second son. A nervous young man with a gentle face you found rather handsome. He needed encouragement and support, therefore you chose to give it to him. 

You couldn’t know that your green ribbon sentenced him to an uninventable failure.

Prince Aerion Targaryen challenged him as his first opponent. He maimed his horse, caused him to fall off it and then he made sure that his own horse ran over Ser Brandon Tully’s leg. Everyone gasped. Aerion rode away with a satisfied and wicked smile.

After the jousts of the first day, you hurried to the Maester’s chambers to check on Ser Brandon. He had his leg broken but nothing more.

“He had lots of luck,” the Maester told you. “Once his bone heals, he will be able to mount a horse again.”

You breathed with relief as you looked at Ser Brandon with pity. Deep down you knew that it had been your fault. You shouldn’t have rejected a dragon.

“Ser Brandon…” You approached his bed. “I am so sorry that this happened to you…”

“My Lady, I am the one who should be sorry. You chose me to be your champion and I failed,” his wet eyes looked deep into yours as he opened his clutched hand. Inside there was your green ribbon, now all muddy but still in one piece. “Please, take it back. I am not worthy of it.”

“Keep it, Ser Brandon,” you shook your head. “You still have many tourneys ahead of you and you will receive many such ribbons from other ladies,” you added with a smile. “However, this will always be your first and I want you to keep it. I do not regret granting you my favour.”

He blushed and nodded as he mumbled a “thank you”.

You left him in the Maester’s chambers and went back to your own room to prepare for the evening. Your father loved celebrations so each evening would be a feast. The grandest one would happen on the last night but all the evening parties were supposed to leave all the guests impressed.

You went to the gardens to hide there after realising that Aerion Targaryen’s irritated eyes had been following you. Thankfully, the gardens of your castle were big and you knew them better than any other place between its walls. You had practically grown up in those gardens, so you quickly disappeared between the paths to find a place of solitude.

You stood inside a small gazebo surrounded by roses, staring up at the bright moon.

“My Lady,” a familiar voice brought goosebumps onto your skin. You turned around, slowly, a little terrified of the fact that he had been walking behind you all that time. Silently, like a predator hunting his prey. Waiting for the right moment. A dragon; ready to attack.

“Prince Aerion,” you forced a smile.

He stood next to you and for a moment you relaxed. It brought back all the memories from Summerhall. How you two had used to spend lots of time together and nothing bad or improper had ever happened. Why would it happen now then?

“You are avoiding me,” he pointed out as his eyes scanned your profile. You still refused to look right into his face.

“You nearly killed my champion,” you reminded him.

“Barely,” Aerion rolled his eyes. “Besides, you only chose him to spite me,” he chuckled.

“No,” you shook your head and finally looked at him. “I chose him because he was kind.”

A long silence occurred. Aerion’s face seemed to be confused at first, which later turned into embarrassment. But eventually a bit of anger flashed in his eyes. His mood was always as unpredictable as the storm or the sea.

“You should choose your next champion more carefully,” his eyes sparkled with mischief.

It was a threat.

“Is this why you came here? To tell me that?” You asked, pretending to stay calm. You didn’t want him to see how nervous he was making you feel.

“No,” he admitted. “I came here because I made a promise to my father,” he said with all seriousness, looking at you intensely. “He allowed me to join the tournament under one particular condition.”

“Which is…?” You raised an eyebrow at him.

“I have to ask you something… important,” he took a deep breath in.

Were you actually projecting things or was he… stressed?

“What is it, my Prince?” You inquired.

Aerion smirked and scratched the back of his head as he looked down for a moment until he finally looked at you again.

“Ever since you left Summerhall, I find myself unable to forget you,” he whispered. “I don’t know if you bewitched me or put a love potion into my wine but I do not care. I know one thing, though. I shall not rest until you become my wife,” he finished, a slight pink shade coming onto his cheeks.

You were stunned. As much as this confession was rather sweet to you, you knew that Aerion Targaryen was the last person who could actually fall in love. 

You laughed and quickly covered your mouth with your hand. Aerion’s jaw clenched and his eyes lost all the softness in an instant.

“Do you find me funny?” He asked.

“No, my Prince, no. It is just that… I am sure you must be jesting,” you explained.

“I am no jester,” he insisted.

“I find it hard to believe that you would fall for me. For anyone, actually,” you said.

“Oh really? And why is that so?” He raised an eyebrow at you.

“It does not suit you, that’s it,” you admitted. “Maybe you think you feel this way but in reality… I cannot imagine you in a happy marriage. And I wish to be happily married,” you explained. “I am honoured, of course, my Prince. But you are not the man I seek nor need.”

“Who would that be?” He asked, trying to hide his anger from you but you could see right through that.

“A patient man. Someone putting up with me,” you explained. “Someone who would adore me. Adore me completely. Someone who would feel grateful to be married to me instead of reminding me every day how lucky I am to be his Lady Wife.”

“I can be all those things,” Aerion claimed.

“I highly doubt that,” you insisted.

“How can you know if you are not willing to give me a chance to prove myself?”

“Oh, you have proven yourself enough earlier today,” you reminded him. “That was enough for me to see you for who you truly are. In fact, it scared me,” you admitted, lowering your voice.

When he heard those words, he took a step back, hurt and confused.

“I… scared you?” He asked. You nodded, carefully. “I only meant to let you know that you belonged to me,” he explained.

“I know. And that scared me,” you said. “I felt hemmed in, trapped.”

Aerion didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t comprehend your way of thinking and viewing this situation. He was sure that he had been courting you the proper way. The dragon way.

“Forgive me, my Prince… They will be looking for me,” you bowed your head and quickly walked away from there to join the rest inside the castle.

On the next day you were scared to give your favour to anyone but your father insisted that you needed a new champion since the one you had chosen couldn’t fight anymore.

You took a deep breath in and looked at the faces of all the men. You couldn’t hurt another one. You simply couldn’t. And they all looked scared, too, knowing what your choice would possibly mean for them.

You clenched your jaw at the realisation you would have to let him win. To save others from a terrible fate, you had to boost his ego.

“Prince Aerion Targaryen,” you cracked a nervous smile at him, “I choose you to be my champion,” you said and allowed your golden ribbon to fall down. 

He approached the stands on his horse and gently caught the ribbon as he looked up at you. This time there was no smirk on his face. He nodded his head instead and rode away to attach the ribbon to his armour and wait for the joust.

You still were scared. Now, when he had your favour, there was a big chance that he would want to show off even more and hurt every single one of his opponents.

But he did not.

Instead, he fought fairly on that day. No horse was seriously injured and when the Lannister knight fell off of his stallion and landed in the mud, Prince Aerion offered him his hand to help him stand.

“His father must have scolded him for yesterday,” your father whispered to you.

You nodded but you knew it was not the case. You were sure it was the effect of the argument you had shared in the gazebo on the night before. But you couldn’t understand the game the Prince was playing.

During the evening feast Prince Aerion seemed to give you space. In fact, you couldn’t see him amongst the guests at all. Yet, he remained present in your mind. You wondered why he had chosen to change his behaviour so much on that day.

“Your choice of champion today astonished me, dear sister,” Flora approached you.

“Could you not see that I had to choose him?” You asked her.

“What do you mean?” Flora asked, visibly surprised.

“He would hurt anyone I’d choose over him,” you told her. You thought it was rather obvious.

“Do you really think that was his reason to hurt Ser Brandon?” Flora widened her eyes. “Most people see it differently.”

“What are you talking about?” You inquired.

“Well, they say that Prince Aerion’s brutality from the first day impressed you,” she told you and you felt as if someone smacked you on the face.

“That is horrendous! It is quite the opposite!” You protested.

“Why would he hurt Ser Brandon, though? I can see only one reason for such outrageous behaviour and it seems unlikely,” Flora pointed out.

“What would that be?”

“Love. He would have to be in love with you, (Y/N). But he is not, am I right?” She asked you.

But you didn’t know what to say.

The last day of the tournament was very sunny and beautiful. It was pleasant on the field, too. Prince Aerion was still wearing your ribbon and he remained the most chivalrous. Yet, he was winning duel after duel, making everyone realise that all his usual cheating was probably caused by the fact he loved the adrenaline of it. Not because he actually needed to cheat.

Which only made it worse, to be fair.

Ser Seamus Mormont was his last opponent. From the corner of your eye, you could see your sister digging her fingernails into the chair she was sitting on. Apparently her interest in Ser Seamus hadn’t changed.

He was a fierce warrior and he fought like a real bear. You could see Prince Aerion actually struggling with this one. But he had one advantage – he was smaller and more flexible, whereas Ser Seamus was wide and moved slower, heavier. Once he fell down, he was not able to get up. But he seemed to be fine other than that. Prince Aerion had treated him rather gently. Considering his usual standards.

Your sister gasped at the sight but everyone else stood up to cheer for the champion. You had to do that as well even though you were unsure how to feel about it.

Aerion took his helmet off and smiled at the cheering crowd, showing off his teeth covered in blood from the fight. He enjoyed the victorious feeling and bathed in it.

His younger brother and squire – Prince Aegon – ran up to him holding a wreath made of yellow roses, the symbol of your house. Aerion looked down at his brother and took the wreath from him before he approached the box you were sitting in. The crowd went silent.

“I wish to crown Lady (Y/N) Tyrell… The Queen of Love and Beauty,” he announced, causing your heart to stop for a moment.

You saw it in slow motion. The way he threw the wreath gracefully in your direction but you were too stunned to react. Your father caught it instead and put it onto your head as the crowd went ecstatic with the way they clapped and cheered. Prince Aerion kept staring at you from below, breathing heavily and waiting for your reaction. Any reaction.

“I am honoured, my Prince,” you nodded at him out of courtesy.

Your heart was beating so fast now that you were scared it would jump out of your chest. All your feelings – all those feelings you had been trying to suppress – now they resurfaced and overwhelmed your senses.

“Make sure it is noted in the chronicles that my daughter was crowned,” you heard your father’s voice addressing one of the Maesters. You smiled at that. 

Indeed. You had never been crowned that title before. And you doubted you would be again. It was something that would happen once in a lifetime to a lucky Lady and every young girl was dreaming of it.

“Where are you going?” You asked Flora. The sight of her hurrying out of the stands brought you back to reality.

“To check on Ser Seamus,” she told you, her eyes widened and her hands slightly shaking.

“He is fine,” you told her.

“I must see with my own eyes,” she insisted.

“Sister…” You scolded her with a meaningful look.

“Do not judge me!” She exclaimed. “I must!”

She ran away and no one stopped her. Your parents were too busy talking to other people, very content with the fact their eldest daughter was The Queen of Love and Beauty.

So you walked away, too. And your legs brought you to the Targaryen tent where young Prince Aegon was helping his brother out of the armour.

“Be careful, young rascal! If you break it, I’m going to smash your empty head with it!” Aerion scolded his brother over a piece of armour the younger one was struggling to take off.

“It is too heavy for me to carry!” The squeaky voice of Aegon protested.

“Not my fault that you’re so little and skinny,” Aerion answered.

“Ekhem,” you cleared your throat and they stopped the banter to turn around and look at you.

“Lady (Y/N)!” Aegon smiled at the sight of you, dropping a piece he was holding in his hand. It landed on Aerion’s foot as the older brother cursed angrily. Aegon couldn’t care less, though. He ran to you and gave you a hug as you wrapped your arms around him to hug him back. “You look so pretty in your crown!”

“Thank you, my Prince,” you smiled at the boy.

“Leave us alone now,” Aerion snapped at his brother. Aegon sighed and left the tent. “Have I proved myself, my Lady?” He asked you, taking off his armour on own now, visibly irritated with something. Probably you and your previous lack of enthusiasm after being crowned.

“You only proved that you can pretend very well, my Prince,” you pointed out and he clenched his jaw. “Pretend to be honourable and chivalrous. I do not know why, though. What is the gain for you in marrying me?” You asked. It was the question that had been bothering you the most.

“The gain?” Aerion raised his eyebrow at you. “I simply want you for my wife. There is no gain. The only gain is the mere fact you would be by my side.”

“Why me, my Prince?” You asked another question. “Surely, you can have any woman in the Realm. Someone with the blood of Old Valyria on top of that. I remember you mentioned that back at Summerhall. That you would marry one of Targaryens if you ever had to marry at all.”

Aerion blushed when you reminded him of his old words. He regretted ever saying them out loud around you.

“You are the only woman who dares to speak to me this way,” he said and you smirked.

“Do not change the subject, my Prince. Just answer me, please. I am trying to understand you at least a bit.”

“That was the answer,” he explained, approaching you.

It took a moment for you to understand the meaning behind his words. Meanwhile, he stood so close to you that you could see his bright eyes as clear as ever. Like during that one day at Summerhall when he had brought you fishing with him. For some reason he had insisted it would have to be a secret kept from his brothers.

Back then, by the lake, his lips had nearly brushed yours. And now he was just as close.

“You have nothing to be afraid of,” he whispered. “Each time you make me angry… I do not wish to hurt you,” he confessed, raising his hand to gently brush your cheek. “Instead, it makes me want to do things to you that I should not speak of in front of a Lady,” he smirked and your cheeks became hot to touch at his words. “You look beautiful wearing that crown indeed,” he added. “If you become my wife, I shall win every tournament for you and crown you The Queen of Love and Beauty so many times all over Westeros that you will be remembered in all the books and chronicles as the most titled Lady of the Seven Kingdoms,” he lowered his voice, the tip of his nose now brushing yours.

It went lower, to trace your lips, then he moved his nose up again to caress your cheeks with it as if he was a dragon sniffing its prey right before the meal. The metallic smell was even more intense than usual since his mouth was full of dried up blood. You hitched your breath.

“I do not know how else to convince you but do believe me when I say that I want you,” he whispered. “Your body, your flesh… But also your mind if you are willing to offer it.”

Your knees went weak. He was too damn close to reject him. The moment was too intimate and the fact anyone could walk in on you two any given moment was even more exciting. You put your hand on his chest.

“You would have to ask my father first…” You whimpered and Aerion chuckled at that, taking a step back to take a better look at your face.

He fixed the wreath on your head carefully.

“My father asked your father on the first evening,” he admitted.

Your jaw opened slightly, which made Aerion laugh even more.

“Oh?” You managed to let out.

“Lord Tyrell was apparently delighted,” Aerion said. “His daughter marrying a Targaryen Prince…? Of course he agreed.”

You swallowed thickly.

“So… The decision was made anyway?” You took your hand away from his chest. “You gave me an illusion of choice? Played with me like a cat with a mouse?” You asked.

It felt like a punch in your guts. You were heartbroken and even the wreath on your head suddenly felt heavy. You wanted to take it off but your limbs were too numb.

“My rose, don’t be upset,” Aerion realised you felt betrayed as he reached out to caress your cheek but you moved your head away. He tried once more, though, grabbing your chin and forcing you to look at him. “I will be good to you, I promise,” he whispered. “You are the treasure I will protect,” he promised. A hint of desperation in his voice made it very clear that he cared for you to believe him. 

You hesitated as your wet eyes looked into his mad ones. Perhaps you should put him to a test.

“And if I would rather die than marry you, my Prince?” You asked, quietly.

Aerion let go of your chin and moved back. He was hurt. In fact, you had never seen him that hurt before.

“If you loathed me so intensely, I would let you go,” he admitted in a whisper. “I do not wish to torment you… Not you.”

You nodded and a silence occurred as you watched him carefully.

“But it is not true, am I right? You do not wish to die at the thought of marrying me?” He cleared his throat, his voice full of insecurity that did not suit him at all.

Yet, it was real. You could hear it.

“No,” you admitted as you shook your head. “Of course not,” you added and he sighed with relief.

Aerion wanted the wedding to happen on the same night, at the feast celebrating the end of the tournament, but your fathers did not agree upon that. Instead, you were sent to Summerhall a month later and you two were wed there. It was a quick wedding either way.

He could not stop smirking at the sight of you when you arrived. He felt smug because he had won you but also because he was so proud to have you by his side. 

His sisters loved you ever since your last time at Summerhall – your Highgarden dresses, the way you braided your hair, your fragranced oils and your Tyrell charm. They were more than happy now that you would live with them.

Prince Maekar found you a bit annoying but he didn’t expect anything less – after all you were a woman who wanted to marry his son. You couldn’t be completely normal. And he still remembered all the mischief you had been causing last time you lived with his family. Now you became a part of it but he had to admit you fit in very well. 

“I received an invitation to Lannisport,” he announced at the dinner table a few weeks after your marriage to his son. “Some tourney Lord Lannister wishes to see us at. I don’t plan on going, though,” he winced a little. “It’s too far away and Lannisters bore me to fucking death.”

You chuckled at that as you took a sip of your wine. You felt Aerion’s hand on your thigh under the table as he squeezed it.

“I would like to go,” your husband announced and you looked at him, surprised.

“Wait, really? You do not jest, my dear?” You asked.

“Of course not,” he smirked. “I have made you a promise, haven’t I?”

“What promise?” Maekar inquired, rather harshly.

“To crown my wife The Queen of Love and Beauty at every tournament so many times all over Westeros that she will be remembered in all the books and chronicles as the most titled Lady of the Seven Kingdoms,” Aerion said, causing Daeron to choke on wine slightly.

Maekar closed his eyes and sighed as he threw his head back out of irritation.

“Seven Hells…” He muttered under his breath.

“Does this mean we are going to take part in every tournament from now on?” Aegon’s eyes lit up immediately.

“Yes,” Aerion nodded. “But I am not taking you as my squire anymore, you useless–”

Smack!

Your hand on the back of your husband’s head brought an end to his insolence towards his younger brother. His smirk disappeared immediately, too. His sisters giggled at the sight.

“Apparently so,” you smiled at Aegon as you answered his question instead. “And you will be the most wonderful young squire, bringing Aerion wreaths of flowers to crown me with.”

Dragonstone has always smelled of sea salt, smoke, and something eerily ancient. Ser Duncan hardly ever enjoys the company of a few members of the royal family, and there, at their ancestral home, he finds himself stranger than ever.

That's why Egg had spent most of the day guiding him around the surroundings rather than the interior of the castle itself, showing him the cave nest where the dragons had once lived, the cliffs from which they used to launch into flight, and the soggy coastline. Dunk would ask him again and again to go over the names and traits of everyone present, since he didn't want to confuse or offend anyone.

Inside the castle, the flames of the torches glow brightly that evening, flashing off the glossy black walls of the Great Hall as the heavy Targaryen banners dangle over the tables of the feast.

It is Prince Valarr's name day, successor to the heir, and although he would never have demanded it, the celebration has been arranged with the formality that his name would require.

You had arranged everything, naturally, from the decorations to the color scheme to food choices. You had spent an entire week organizing this, as it was the least you could do for your beloved husband.

You are seated at his right at the head of the high table. Dressed in midnight black, embroidered with silver thread reminiscent of dragon scales. Hair pulled back modestly, back held straight. Expression... stern.

Most people are chatting animatedly at the table, but not you.

You just observe, as if that were your absolute favorite way to spend your time, and just let others talk. You move your sharp eyes back and forth across the faces of those present, studying their features and gestures, listening attentively to their stories or funny anecdotes, occasionally nodding your head to confirm that you are indeed listening to the conversation.

Duncan has picked up on that. You rarely say more than is strictly necessary, and he has only seen you smile a couple of times since he first got to see you.

You are undeniably one of the most breathtakingly beautiful women he has ever seen, as well. Your face is gorgeous, your eyes—though they can be intimidating—are bewitching, you are a charmer in your own quiet, nonchalant way, and that mysterious aura that you carry around like a shadow is something he finds strangely appealing, to say the least.

Valarr, on the other hand, seems to cope with the attention with polite patience. He smiles when appropriate, appreciates every toast, and laughs sheepishly at every memory shared about his childhood. But every few minutes, his hand would reach for yours under the table for reassurance.

And you always respond when he gives you a little appreciative squeeze, aware that you must be having a particularly difficult time dealing with all the extra attention and loud noises.

“You're squeezing too hard, Val,” you warn him without looking at him.

“It is my name day, my heart,” he replies softly, intertwining his fingers with yours. “I'm allowed a little indulgence, aren't I?”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see a broad smile grow on his pretty lips when he senses you squeezing his hand back, and placing them together on your lap, caressing his fingers affectionately.

At the far end of the hall, the doors burst open.

“Valarr!” calls out Egg as the opened gates reveal him, striding toward the table with enthusiastic steps, overjoyed.

Behind him comes Ser Duncan the Tall, strolling along with clumsy steps, bowing his head respectfully in salutation to everyone present, as several of them have turned to look at the boisterous entrance.

Valarr sighs, looking at you with a warm smile. “My cousin never arrives unaccompanied by a spectacle.”

Egg stands before you two with a bright smile, his face and clothes dirtied from the journey through Dragonstone's grounds. At that, Prince Maekar looks at him with a frown of disapproval. “Happy name day, cousin! I brought you a gift.”

Duncan shifts awkwardly beside his squire, shaking his head as Valarr looks up at him, amused and curious. “I'm—I'm not the gift, m–my Prince. H–happy name day”

One of your eyebrows barely arches at the terrible way he presents himself.

“Iugh,” you huff, not amused by his silly joke.

Valarr glances at you for a moment, with a look that is both reproachful and playful, clearly amused to see you in pain, and then he turns back to the knight, bowing his head in appreciation. “Thank you, Ser. It's good to have you here.”

And as Egg rummages through the contents of his small shoulder bag and Valarr shares a humorous glance with you, Duncan seizes the moment to take a better look at you.

You. He doesn't even remember ever asking Egg about you. There are so many Targaryens that he could barely name three.

You must be a Targaryen, judging by the way you carry yourself.

You’re seated next to the prince, leaning back in your seat with an air of weariness, your gaze flicking over the faces of those who are starting to turn toward you with curiosity, and you’re clearly displeased by the attention.

Duncan is overcome by a familiar sense of dread when your terrifying eyes finally fall upon him. They are cold and menacing, making him feel as if he could be squashed to pieces by them if they could.

Oh, no. He thinks, swallowing hard. Maekar's spawn. Another one.

He truly should say nothing at all, especially when you're staring at him like that.

That has always proven the safer choice in rooms filled with dragonlords. Dunk should have learned that by now, he should know better.

And yet, he clears his throat.

“My apologies, Princess,” he begins, voice respectful but just a touch too loud for the quiet pocket of space around the high table. “I—I don't believe we've been formally introduced before. I'm Ser Duncan. I did not realize Prince Maekar had another daughter.”

Silence. Devastating silence.

His words echo around the walls and the musicians fall out of tune, reducing the music to an uncomfortable, eerie silence.

Daeron, somewhere, seems to be drowning in his own wine. And at his side, Prince Maekar closes his eyes briefly, as though praying for patience.

“What the fuck, hedge knight?” his angry voice cuts through the silence, one hand patting his eldest son on the back to help him breath again.

Egg stands motionless, his hand still in his bag, staring up at Dunk as if the knight had grown a second head, a particularly stupid one.

Valarr slowly turns his head toward you, seemingly intrigued to see your reaction to such offense.

You are frighteningly calm. Your eyes, which Dunk already found unnerving, narrow into two slits of seething indignation, looking much more offended than annoyed.

Your husband brings your entwined hands to his own lap, pulling you closer to him to reassure you. This causes Duncan to frown.

The prince chokes out a stifled laugh, doing his best to save the poor knight's life.

“Ser Duncan,” Valarr says, his voice buzzing with amusement, “I’m afraid you’re terribly mistaken.”

But Duncan isn't even listening to him, he's too focused on not letting a single muscle twitch as he stands there under your scrutinizing gaze.

“Maekar's...?” your voice is low, drawling, and fraught with the kind of venom that makes Dunk take a step back, nearly bumping into Egg. “Daughter?”

Duncan feels the ground slipping, finally noticing how quiet the room has gotten, and how everyone seems to be holding their breath, waiting for your reaction.

He must have done something wrong.

“I only meant—” he stammers, “I didn't mean to offend your father or your family—you carry yourself very much like—well—”

Your head tilts slightly, urging him to continue speaking.

“—like someone who belongs to Prince Maekar’s line,” Duncan finishes weakly, knowing now that he has said something wrong. Very wrong.

Your head remains tilted and your face is finally beginning to show emotion—discomfort. “W–what?”

Egg looks seconds away from either fainting or laughing.

Valarr squeezes your hands in his lap, thumb brushing across your knuckles in a slow, grounding stroke.

“She is not my uncle’s daughter,” he says then smoothly, rescuing the knight at last. His smile vacillates between amusement and pride, “she is my wife, Ser.”

Duncan's jaw drops.

Understanding dawns slowly upon him.

“Oh,” he breathes.

“Yes,” Egg whispers helpfully by his side.

Duncan clears his throat again, this time more cautiously. “Then… my congratulations, Your Grace. You are a fortunate man.”

“I am,” the prince agrees.

“I chose this family, Ser Duncan,” you say very cautiously. “It did not produce me.”

The knight bows his head in remorse and shame and apology, babbling out words of forgiveness incessantly.

“My deepest apologies, my lady—truly—I meant no insult—only that you possess a... a presence.”

“A presence,” you repeat flatly, definitely irritated by all his nonsense. Your eyes squint contempt, not even understanding what the man was really alluding to.

“Yes. A strong one. A royal one.” Duncan persists in trying to make amends, yet only seems to be getting worse. “Well—and you're so beautiful—just like a r–real princess, so I only assumed—”

He shuts his jaw shut when he notices Valarr's brow gradually furrowing at his choice of words.

“Careful now, Ser Duncan,” the prince says pleasantly, the warmth in his eyes dimming by a fraction.

Then, he lifts your entwined fingers, brushing his thumb along your knuckles in a steady, calming rhythm only you seem to notice.

“You must forgive Ser Duncan, my love,” Valarr says to you. “I don't think he's meant to offend you in the slightest. He has been on the cliffs all day. The sea wind muddles the mind.”

A few cautious chuckles ripple through the hall.

Egg nods vigorously. “It does! It really does.”

“You may rise, Ser,” you say at last, almost bored, gesturing dismissively with your hand. “And get out of my sight before I decide to have you thrown off the cliffs—if only to determine whether your head might function better upon the rocks below. You're disturbing my husband's day.”

He realizes only then that he has half-knelt without meaning to and scrambles to his feet so fast he nearly knocks over a goblet.

“Yes, my lady. Thank you, my lady. I will—ah—not test the rocks,” he mutters, retreating one careful step at a time.

Somewhere down the table, a snort of laughter escapes Prince Daeron before he smothers it in his sleeve.

“Mhm,” you hum, still staring at him, unamused.

Egg, traitor that he is, beams, finally placing the small gift he had brought for his favorite cousin down in front of him on the table.

As the noise swells once more, Valarr leans closer to you.

“My wife,” he says charmingly, voice pitched only for you, “you cannot threaten to execute my guests on my name day.”

“You are indulging,” you remind him, teasingly. Only for him. “So am I.”

That does it.

A quiet, helpless laugh escapes him—bright and warm and so very unlike the tense hush that had fallen moments before.

“You were magnificent,” he whispers, pressing a soft kiss on your cheek, which immediately softens your face into a warmer, more sheepish expression.

Your lips curl into a small pout as you turn to look at him, still visibly upset. “I was insulted.”

He bites his lower lip, unable to resist the urge to lean closer to you so he can kiss your little pout away. “You were magnificent while insulted.”

Your fingers loosen slightly in his grasp, and your lips twitch.

It is subtle, barely even there. But it is a smile.

“You find this amusing.”

“I find you terrifying,” he corrects, teasingly. “It is one of my greatest comforts.”

“You are impossible,” you mutter.

“And yet,” he smirks, his hand casually wrapping around your waist to bring you closer to him, “I'm your husband.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “That fact does not grant you immunity.”

“Oh? No?” he hums, far too pleased with himself. “I was under the impression I possessed certain privileges.”

“Delusion is not a privilege.”

He laughs softly at that—warm, bright, entirely unbothered by the hall still watching in poorly concealed fascination.

“You look overwhelmed, lover,” you remark after a moment, quieter now.

“I am,” he admits.

Your thumb brushes lightly against the inside of his wrist, the smallest gesture of comfort.

“Five more toasts,” you say. “Then I will invent an excuse and steal you away from all these people.”

He exhales a laugh, softer this time, and presses his forehead briefly against your temple in a gesture so intimate it nearly goes unnoticed by the rest of the hall.

Nearly.

From below, Duncan dares one more glance upward and feels deeply horrified.

Because the woman who just threatened to dash him against the rocks is now looking at Prince Valarr as though he hung the very moon above Dragonstone.

Your sharp edges soften in his closeness, the line of your shoulders relaxes, your thumb traces idle circles on his blushing cheek.

Egg nudges him with his elbow.

“Told you,” the boy whispers smugly.

Duncan shakes his head in disbelief. “She doesn’t glare at him.”

When Valarr says something low and teasing in your ear, you lean in—just slightly—and answer with a whisper that makes his ears turn pink.

You brushed through Kelvin Gemstone’s hair. Slick with gel to obtain the perfect fauhawk look. The room loud with Judy and Jesse’s southern twang screaming back and forth. Choosing to ignore the two pompous Gemstones to make sure you did not mess up Kelvin’s look. He was just nominated for 'Top Christ-Following Man of the Year' after all. His strange lover squatted by the side of the chair discussing something you halfway zoned out. Fixated on the hair atop his head.

“Jesus Christ, Jesse! You literally stole that look from Beej! He was rocking the stache then you swooped in and tried to grow your own little pube-stache!” Judy’s voice sounded like she was on the verge of crying. The argument continuing over from a few days prior. Tensions high now that their father’s newfound relationship had been revealed to them.

“Shut the fuck up, Judy! BJ wishes I was copying him. He’s just a punk-ass Gemstone wannabe,” Jesse snapped his fingers to end his sentence.

“How did you end up so… not like them?” you leaned down to whisper to Kelvin, smiling in the mirror at him.

“I’m the baby. So Mamma and Daddy got to screw up twice before hitting the lottery,” his eyebrows bounced as he joked with you, thumbs wiggling as they pointed towards himself. Hiding your shared giggles as to not interject into the argument roaring behind you.

You had known Kelvin since your childhood. Being a member of their church for as long as you can remember. Your father being one of the Deacons, allowing you to get closer to the Gemstones. Being closer in age to Kelvin than either of his older siblings. It helped you bond.

“BJ looks like a sad, washed-up seventies porn star! One of those ones that had to hand out his VHS’s to get anyone to watch ‘em,” Jesse exaggerated with his hands.

“Bitch, please— You’re talking about a possibly permanently disabled man! This isn’t some stupid joke, Jesse! There are more important things happening than your dumbass mid-life-crisis mustache!” Judy stomped her foot, hands balled up at her sides. Teeth gritted together as she sneered at her brother. Tears welling as she stormed out of the dressing room.

“Get your shit together before Sunday service,” Jesse shouted after his sister. Flattening out his collar in the mirror. Fluffing out his sideburns and mustache. Deep eyes looking at the reflection of your ass across the room. Pretending you did not notice as to save face.

It was scandalous. And completely wrong. But you and Jesse had been hooking up for years. Making sure to keep things as secretive as possible. The Gemstones could not afford another scandal.

And you made sure no one knew. Cringing at how Judy and Kelvin would react learning that you, someone they had grown up with, was fucking their older brother. Married, older brother. Which is why you kept your interactions limited. For the sake of your friendship, but also Jesse’s marriage. It’s not like you ever expected him to leave Amber. She would kill both of you before he even got the chance.

"Alright, Kelv. Is this to your liking?"

"It looks great as always, Brother Kelvin," Keefe smiled brightly admiring his boyfriend.

"Perfect, per usue, Y/N," Kelvin smiled up at you, placing his large framed glasses on his face. Standing and thanking you again. Walking out with his partner following him closely. Stopping to give Jesse a dirty look, "Have Y/N fix your hair, you look like someone just shook you up."

Jesse arched his lip and stuck his tongue out at Kelvin. Brother returning the gesture with an annoyed snort. You remained where you stood. Cleaning up the countertop ridden with stray hairs and product. Pretending the silence was not deafening. Trying your hardest to keep your eyes off him. Always awaiting his signal. He loved thinking he was in charge.

The click of the lock on the door made you smile. Stomach flipping at the sound of his fancy shoes clicking on the linoleum floor. Ring clad hands splaying across your stomach pulling your attention up. Smiling at the older Gemstone in the mirror. His face tucked against your shoulder. Newly grown mustache tickling the bit of skin exposed by the off-shoulder dress.

"You just gonna act like I ain't even here?" Jesse grinned, voice lower and sultry. Kissing gently along your neck, trying his hardest to get a reaction out of you. Biting your lip in an attempt to hide the smile that began to beam across your cheeks. One of your hands reaching into his curly locks behind you.

"Is it the 'stache?" Jesse joked, poking a finger in your side. Causing you to jump and your facade to falter. Giggling quietly as his hands turned you around to face him. His tongue glazing across his teeth as his eyebrows bounced. Cheeks pink as his eyes met yours. Fingers digging into your waist, holding you against his chest. Lips finding their place on yours. Familiar rhythm of your mouths, knowing how the other would kiss. Teeth clinking together causing a laugh to bubble up between you.

"It's definitely... different," you flattened a hand against his open collar, "Better than when you were dying your sideburns." You teased him as always. Causing a chiding laugh to come from him. Lips attaching themselves to your throat. Facial hair brushing your jugular. Sloppily kissing along your pulse, canines grazing your skin for a moment. A soft moan fell from you when one of his hands gripped your ass. Feeling Jesse smile at the sound.

"I could give you a mustache ride," Jesse's tone was laced with tease. So you laughed. Noticing how his brows furrowed at your response. Stopping when you realized, "Oh! You were serious."

"Duh," Jesse rolled his eyes.

You smacked his arm, "Don't get snippy with me, boy."

Jesse growled with a smile, lips back on yours as he pushed your body against the counter. Hands roaming every inch, desperately cupping and pinching every flab and mound. Almost like he was trying to see if anything had changed with you in the few weeks it had been since the two of you had been alone. Kissing into you harder than he normally did. Tongue parting your lips. Your hands cupped the sides of his face, manicured nails scratching his scalp.

Large hands helped you onto the counter. Spreading your legs so that he could stand between them. Your dress inching up your thighs. Cold marble helping cool the sensation at your core. Hungry lips ventured down your neck, kissing along your collar as he kneeled before you. Knees pressed into the shag rug on the hard floor. Tucking his face under your dress and gawking at your soaked panties.

“Fucking slut, aren’t you? I’ve barely even had my hands on you,” Jesse reprimanded, his way of dirty talking. You nodded, chills decorating your limbs when his hot breath fanned against your core. Thick digits spread fondly across your bare thighs. Massaging the meat, pushing your dress up so that he could look at you. Eyes dark with lust fluttered up at you.

Tenderly, he peeled your panties from your core. Exposing the place you needed him most. Jesse chuckled in satisfaction, pressing himself into you. Mustache tickling your throbbing clit as his tongue swiped along your slit. Your head fell back against the mirror, moaning his name.

“Goddammit, you always taste so good,” Jesse grunted feeling his cock harden under his dress pants. One of his thick fingers curled into your hole, causing your hips to rut forward. Whining as you laced your fingers in his curly locks. You would definitely have to fix his hair now.

Jesse’s finger prodded at the soft spot that had you closing in on a quick orgasm. With how his mouth sucked on your clit, and the overstimulation of his new lip broom you were sweating. Never realizing it could make such a difference in your experience. In love with the way it rubbed you perfectly.

Your hips rocked against his face. Chasing your orgasm at a rapid rate. He perfectly curled and pumped his finger inside you. Cold metal of his rings sending goose bumps down your skin. You cursed under your breath each time his tongue would circle your nub. Lapping into you, knowing your body. Knowing how close you were to gushing along his face. From the sound of the air tightening in your throat and how you had your head thrown back. Swallowing hard with forced shut eyes.

You looked so beautiful like this. Jesse always thought you did. Unable to pry his eyes off you anytime he would make you finish. Whether he be above or below you. Loving how soft you got, compared to your usual combative nature with him. Always making sure to seem like you were childhood ‘friends’ instead of fuck buddies. If you could even call yourself friends. Just being one of his younger brother’s stupid friends who always seemed to hang around. If he had known you were this good of a fuck, things would have been different. Not allowing you to slip through his fingers. Not having to settle for just this. As good as it was, he wanted you.

Those thoughts only angered him. Which was why he talked down to you during sex. Unable to stand the way his chest fluttered when you would smile at him. Or when your big eyes would doe up at him. How softly his name rolled off your tongue.

Like it did right now. Even while you were cumming on his tongue, his name was like heaven from you. Repeating it like a prayer over and over. Nails scratching his skin as you held onto him for support. Waves of ecstasy had you shivering. Thighs spasming as he continued sucking and fucking your hole. Ignoring the way his cock throbbed almost painfully.

Standing and smashing his lips into yours. Taste of yourself strong along his lip. Mustache glistening with each bit of arousal he had collected. Trying so hard to catch your breath with his mouth on yours. Chest thumping heavily as you gasped. Thin line of sweat forming along your brow.

“Pretty girl,” he complimented. Hands quickly freeing his throbbing member from its confines. Smacking upward, pubic hairs dancing along the base. Tip leaking and swollen, needing you. Feeling yourself drooling at the sight. Inviting him back between your legs. Sheathing himself into your welcoming entry.

Moaning in tandem. Pressing your mouths back together to hide any louder sounds escaping. Jesse allowed you to adjust before finding a fast rhythm. Hips snapping up into you. Pussy still sensitive from your previous orgasm. Voice cracking as you tried to say his name.

Skin smacking deliciously together filled the room. You gripped his girth perfectly. Jesse only having one other to compare you to, having a personal preference for you. Liking how you clinged to and praised him. No matter how far back he pulled, you were always happy to bring him back. A pleasant reminder of your relationship.

Jesse tucked his face into your neck, one hand firmly on your hip the other wrapped around your waist. Gutturally moaning into your skin as he approached his finish. Kissing your clavicle as he repeated your name. “I’m gonna cum, Y/N. Can you take it, baby? Let me fill you up real good,” Jesse breathlessly begged.

You nodded profusely. Arms draped over his neck as he repositioned to be pressing foreheads together. Noses resting on the others tip. Eyes awkwardly staring from this angle.

“Gonna be sitting through church with a reminder. Won’t let you forget how good I fuck you. My fucking cock sleeve,” Jesse heaved with his words.

“Yes, Jesse— please—“ you begged, feeling yourself approaching a secondary release. Knot tightly wound up. Overwhelmed with how full of him you were. Cock stretching the walls inside you so pleasurably. Convulsing along his member.

Coaxing him to his own finish. Thrusted and holding himself flush against you. Jerking with his rope of cum that shot inside you. Savoring the way your cunt milked each drop of his seed. Panting as you both rode out your finishes together. Your chin resting against his shoulder with your weight slumped into him. Heartbeat pulsing along your skin as you rested your eyes for a moment. Loving the musky smell of sex. Mixing perfectly with his expensive cologne.

Silently, you held each other. Nothing but heavy breathing being exchanged. Jesse’s hands spread along your back, looking at himself in the mirror. How perfectly your body fit against his chest. Analyzing the zipper on the back of your dress. Loving this color on you. Pulling back to kiss your lips again.

“Let me fix your hair,” you giggled. Hopping off the countertop. Instructing him to sit. Rummaging through one of the drawers finding his curling brush. Making sure his halfway pompadour would keep every bit of volume it had. Running it through his disheveled hair. All your doing.

Jesse pressed himself forward, planting a tender kiss on your hand. Trying his hardest to get a smile from you as you attempted to hide what had happened. Fluffing his locks with blushed cheeks. Jesse’s hand rested on your hip, absentmindedly thumbing circles into the flesh. Eyes admiring your face as you concentrated on his hair.

“I’ll have to clean off your,” you put a finger across your top lip, “little friend too.”

Jesse smiled. Cheeks bulbing at your joke. Having a million things he wanted to say, opting for silence. Watching you walk over to the sink and wet a towel. Coming back to dab the soapy cloth along his lip. Stretching his mouth down so you did not accidentally get any in his mouth. Lovingly, you combed through the hairs on his upper lip. Restoring him to his former glory.

“Voila!” you held your arms up at your sides, “All ready for the big screen now, stud.” Earning yourself a smile from him. Quick to stand and press his lips to yours again, hands cupping the sides of your face. Your own hand joining one of his, leaning into his touch with a smile. Enjoying the moment of intimacy. Knowing it was fleeting.

“Are you coming to service?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Fuck no!”

“Then it’s settled,” you shrugged. Laughing at his dramatic and over the top nature. Watching him check himself out in the mirror one more time. Blowing himself a kiss, just in the hopes of hearing your switch laughter once more. One of his favorite parts of you.

“There’s a trip coming up. And I’ll need my personal stylist with me,” Jesse said off-handed trying his hardest to not sound desperate.

“Of course, Mr. Gemstone,” you teased, swiping off his shoulders. Looking at his eyes in the mirror. His hand coming up to hold yours against his shoulder. Imagining a life where he did not have to hide you. One where you could have been the mother to all three of his boys. Where you shared a bed every night. One where he did not have to cheat on his wife…

But that’s not how things worked out.

And he was happy to have you anyway he could.

~~~

[END]

// Thank you so much for reading! I still cannot believe this is going to be the final season of the Righteous Gemstones, I’m so heartbroken. I am so happy to still be receiving requests for Jesse, seems like the girlies are in his court this time around. As always, Comments and Reblogs are appreciated. If you want to be tagged, or have a request feel free to message me! I love hearing from you guys <3 //

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