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planetallure · 2 months ago

Note

alright i’ve seen a lot of arranged marriages with paul and reader is always the one who’s salty about it but what if PAUL was the salty bitch? never seen that before.

reader just wants to make him happy. she’s been in love with him since they were introduced as kids. Paul, however, ain’t about it and he’s all pissy and what not.

The Death of a Star

Summary: Paul thought he could never love you but when a star starts to die, it sucks everything in and in your death, your rebirth, he learns he can.

Warning(s): Cheating! Not the sexual kind but the emotional kind! Toxic marriage, sorta dark Paul, almost sexual cheating, talks of bastards, child birth, violence, arranged marriage, pussy eating, fingering, PinV sex, creaming, use of the voice. Talks of baby making and brief pregnancy mention.

Note(s): I took your ask and shook it all about. And hi, hello, i got this ask basically THREE YEARS AGO! And its been sitting in my docs, brewing, growing longer and longer. This is 12k words. If you want more long fics like this from me and not two/three parters— PLEASE let me know. ALSO, shout-out to @cocoamoonmalfoy bc i bothered her with just random segments of this fic for two years I'm pretty sure 😭 this is so fucking long please don't tell me if there's mistakes im gonna scream.

A little after. (Same universe drabble!)

There is something about motherhood that has changed you.

Of course, there have been obvious changes. You were a girl when you first arrived on Caladan, a girl when they dragged you under the twinkling stars and made you swear to the void you would never stray from your husband. A mere child who wanted nothing more to be happy, to make her family proud, a child who smiled at her husband no older than her and repeated words she truly didn't know the meaning of.

You had become a lady when your husband first laid with you, a woman when the single time was enough to bring forth an heir. It was what your ladies told you at least, bringing a person into this universe was a woman's work and you had done just that. Your son, Oliver Atreides, was born screaming, kicking and crying. The ladies said you were a woman now, covered in sweat, tears, and your own blood but you couldn't bring yourself to agree. You think some parts of the girl you once were resurfaced when they hand you, your babe. You had held him close and wept to him. ‘Oh, Ollie. My little Ollie.’

Motherhood has changed you, yes. It made you harder in spots where you were once soft. But nothing has changed you more than marrying the Atreides heir, Paul.

Once, you had thought he would've, could've, loved you. A child's dream, you realize now. An arranged marriage could never bring forth love, not when it was put in motion by scheming parents who thought of a future long after they were dead. Your marriage to Paul had made sure your family's name would never fade into obscurity, your parents had gotten your weight in jewels and coin’ a thousand times over, your marriage had meant everything to them. To you. But to Paul, to his family?

You had been a punishment. The closest and prettiest broodmare. His parents had thought it would stop his wandering, his rebellion in loving a savage girl who lived planets away. You had looked similar enough, curly hair, brown eyes and brown skin, they thought you enough to quell his hunger. But one can not simply trade swords, sand and love for silk, stars and a willing cunt. They never stopped to think how this would affect you, how his anger towards them, towards the universe would slowly turn to you.

Paul never hit you, never yelled and, somehow, this was a fate worse than any death.

Paul seldom spoke to you. You could count on one hand how many times he looked at you in the past four years. For four years, you had raised your son with the echo of his father, a shadow you caught out of a corner of your eye. You knew he made time for his son, the boy never kept these things a secret, the man dragged his son everywhere and anywhere, they rode horses together, danced and painted. In your eyes, he had gathered all the stars in the sky and displayed them for Oliver and left you in the dark. You both raised your son, never in the same room, never speaking ill of each other or to each other. It was, is, a cruel existence.

“Mama,” Your son's voice is a whine, he pulls at your hand for your attention, letting his body go limp in the opposite direction trusting you wouldn't let him fall. “‘M hungry.”

He's not hungry, you think. He had just eaten an hour or so ago, snacked a few minutes before. He's bored, his coloring forgotten in his effort to bother you and that somehow, worked up his appetite. Ollie whines when you don't so much as move under his effort, you keep your arm locked, your fingers gently wrapped his smaller brown hand. Still, you relent, caving just a bit as you think back to all the times you went hungry in childhood because your mother was worried for your figure. Sure, he wasn't hungry but he was willing to eat. You rather him eat something now than him having an unhealthy relationship with food in the long run. “Yeah? What do you want, Bubba?”

He brightens, drawing closer to you but never letting go of your hand. “Can I haves pie?”

You give him a look, wiggling your fingers in his grasps, he giggles as the tips of them dance under his chin and curls further into your space. “It's ‘can I have’ and no you may not.” You shush his annoyed whine with a kiss to his forehead and you stand from your chair, picking him up as you go. You sulked long enough, motherhood never ends and now your son wants attention and you are eager to give it to him. “But, you can have a sandwich. Do you want turkey or–”

“Can I haves–” Oliver interrupts excitedly then pauses, starting again just as excited. “Can I have the jam one? The one grandma gives me?”

You're already nodding your head in agreement before he even finishes, a short hum leaving you. You haven't the faintest idea what he's talking about, of course, your mind goes to the simple answer: a grape and peanut butter spread, a simple and favorite of yours when you were pregnant with Oliver but then you backtrack almost instantly. Jessica has a taste for the finer, sweeter, things in life. Expensive things. You love your mother-in-law dearly, deeply, but whatever jam she's giving your son is probably from some secret collection she only pulls out for him and with her being off planet, you have no access to it. No matter, you've dealt with worse and Oliver will survive without her expensive jam. You'll just make sure he gets a little something extra with this snack, not a slice of pie but maybe juice… a few candied nuts, even?

You ponder silently to yourself as you leave your room. Ollie talks your ear off— something about his grandfather, about the older man taking him to see bulls and whatnot, you respond halfheartedly, humming in acknowledgement. As you walk from your wing of the estate, servants bow at their waist, greetings of, ‘My lady,’ wash right over you as you pass, you only truly pay mind to the ones who greet Ollie before the greet you, slowing your pace to let the boy twist in your arms and greet them happily. A talker he is, curious and somewhat loud, the various servants respond just as eager to him as he is to them. It's an endearing sight and you find yourself smiling as he converses, a smile that quickly falls at the sound of a familiar name calling out to you.

“Lady Wife!”

Your eye nearly twitches at the title. You dismiss the servant with a dim smile and Oliver squirms out of your arms to rush to his father. You hesitate to turn and face him but having your son out of sight so close to him makes you a bit nervous, you turn only to pause. Paul kneels before his son, running a delicate hand through the boy's curly mass of hair, his green eyes sparkle as he smiles at his son. He pokes at the boy's chubby stomach and smiles wider, brighter, when Ollie giggles leaning into him. He looks handsome today, more present than he ever was for you. His hair looks clean, freshly washed, glossy and swept out of his face— you've grown so used to him wearing ridiculously fancy suits that seeing him wearing a tunic and a simple pair of pants sends your mind blanking.

You only realize you're staring longer than you should when Duncan— has he been standing there the whole time?— clears his throat. There's a slight humor that dances across his face when he sees your own mortification but it's gone quickly as he bows his head towards you, your name leaves his lips in a pleasant, near whisper as he regards you, “Where are you off to?”

“The kitchens.” You answer, smiling when he cocks his head in a silent question. “Not for me, Ollie is hungry and I was going to make him something.”

Paul makes a noise from the ground, a grunt but doesn't rise nor pull away from his boy. “We have servants for that, Wife.”

“And there won't always be servants, Husband.” You reply harsher than you intend and Paul's widen eyes snap away from your son to you in shock. You look away before your eyes can meet and they fall to the other guard by the mens' side. He's tall, taller than Paul but not quite as tall as Duncan; his dark hair is pin straight and slicked back but there are a few strands that purposely, stylishly, hang in his face. His eyebrows raise slightly as he watches you take him in and he puffs up under your gaze. He squares his shoulders, shifts his feet and folds his hands behind his back and when your eyes meet again, he gives you a wink.

Oh, you like him.

You huff a laugh, “Your name, soldier?”

“Emmett, My lady.”

You wave a dismissive hand, “Please, you may call me my name. Only my husband ever calls me Lady.” Duncan snorts and Paul doesn't respond, doesn't care to. He stands and your son is in his arms, still talking but in a whisper. Odd. “I haven't seen you around before, promoted recently?”

Emmett's lips quirk into an easy smile and his lips part to answer you but Paul steps into your line of sight and interrupts him. “I am going to visit a friend, but I must stop to visit my mother first. Oliver wants to go.”

Your brow dips. Your husband, Paul, didn't have friends. Not one. His words not yours, he has his parents, a guard and an advisor; Duncan and Gurney. He has you, his wife and even then you hesitate to describe yourself as much. Your mind racks itself for information and then it finds something. A sand covered, golden skinned, something.

It's been two weeks since he's stepped out on you for her. Two weeks— nearly three, he almost broke his record.

You will yourself not to be sick but the sudden bout of nausea is harsh, hot and it sends a bile creeping up the back of your throat. Your heart can't seem to decide what it wants to do, it tries to thunder— to pound its way out of your chests but it trips, stutters and damn near stops at the idea of him bringing your son to see that woman. You clear your throat and try not to scream; are you not good enough? You have wept for the man before you, bled and produce a fucking heir to continue his legacy. And yet…

You clear your throat again, you can't help it. Years of training fly straight into the sun. You know how to read, to cook and manage estates, you know how to hold a sword and parry a strike, you know because you were trained. Rigorously, endlessly. But it still leaves you unprepared because no one ever, ever trained to be emotionless in the face of the person who was supposed to love you the most. You were married off young to another young person for this very reason, the time spent together as you grew older was supposed to grow your love, to nurture it so by the time you were both older you would be an united front. An unshakable unit.

You wish you could throw the pieces of your marriage at all who thought it was a good idea. You want to roar; is this what you wanted? Is this the front you dreamed of? But the training, that god-damned training kicks in and you steel yourself. For the sake of your son. For the sake of your sanity. “Oliver has lessons he can't skip.”

Paul makes a face and your boy whines in his arms, “I'm sure he can afford to miss one, he's just a boy.”

Your nails dig into your palm and your lips pull up into a humorless grin. “You said that last time when you took him riding. Again when you said painting would be a better lesson. He has missed too many lessons, boy or not, he is a future leader and it is good we do this while he is young.” You unclench your fist and soften, just slightly as you draw closer to your husband, to the boy who pouts at you in his arms. You extend yours and he goes easily, much to Paul's dismay. “Come on, sweet boy. I promised you a snack, leave your father to play with his toys.”

Paul watches you leave with thin lips, his teeth clenching. He doesn't have to be smart to see the insult when you bare it to him unabashedly. Even if it wasn't directed at him, he is offended on her behalf. He lingers in his spot for a moment longer, stewing in a petty anger— how is he ever supposed to try with you when you hate everything he loves?

Duncan calls his name and when he looks at the man, there's a deep frown on his face. The look of disappointment is something he's familiar with, it's an age-old argument between him, between his parents, between her about how he treats you. Well, not you but your feelings. Duncan won't say anything about it anymore, not when he knows he won't listen, not when he knows the exact words Paul will say back to him.

'What of my feelings? Why do I have to suffer in a marriage I did not want— a marriage I protested the very idea of? I gave the family an heir. The least they can do is let me finally be happy.'

The two men look at each other and like always, Paul is the first to look away. He turns on his heels, his shoulder colliding with Emmett's who still stares after you instead of watching the tense moment before him and his oldest friend. He storms down the hall, his steps sure but fast, Paul runs from it all. From his responsibilities, his power, from you. Paul always runs.

Emmett lets out a whistle— he and Duncan linger behind their fuming ward— and Duncan raises a brow at the sound. Emmett smiles, dipping his head in your direction, “A proper one that one is. Real easy on the eyes.”

Duncan's brow drops, annoyed. “She is to command you.”

“Trust me, ser. I'd do anything she asked.”

Duncan resists the urge to roll his eyes. It's not like Emmett is the only one to fall for your looks, he has had to rotate multiple guards because of it— most, if not all, of them never tried anything other than looking but he couldn't bring himself to listen to all the vile things they said and when they tried touching, well. You could handle yourself just fine but Duncan doesn't deny the enjoyment he gets from acting on your behalf.

Still. Still, there are ones that you enjoy. There are some he can't send away and he pretends it doesn't bother him. It's the game, the chase of it all, he sees how you blossom under the attention, his attention. Sometimes, he sees it. The flickering lust in your eyes when a pretty soldier leans in real close or when he cradles your face. But you aren't like your husband, not like Paul because you never give in and while Paul has been stepping out on you for years, this small streak of rebellion only started up a few months ago.

Duncan shakes his thoughts clear and then swallows his annoyance. It goes down like shards of glass and lemon juice; he can't send Emmett away, not yet. Not when he's good at what he does and not when you blossom under his attention. He settles for indifference, a dry indifference as he mutters. “She’d eat you alive.”

He ignores Emmett's cheeky reply of, “Stars, I hope so.”

“How is she?”

Arrakis smells sweeter than he remembers. It's hotter too, the sun set a few hours ago but the heat still clings to the air, to the sand that's almost uncomfortable to sit on. He sucks it up though because it feels like home and the sight is as pretty as it is familiar.

Said sight shifts when he doesn't answer, the fire light is gold against her face and her eyes are sapphire jewels in the night. Her fingers move quickly, steadily as she weaves her basket. Two bowls sit before her, one bigger than the other filled with a liquid that isn't water but safe for enough to handle and thin pieces of wood, the other bowl is filled with beads made of rocks, wood, bone and whatever else the carvers deemed bead worthy. “Muad'Dib,” She says and when he still doesn't answer her, she snaps. “Paul.”

It's enough to pull him from his thoughts, he blinks at her then he frowns. “She’s fine. I tell you the same thing every time you ask, I doubt it will change.”

Chani pauses in her weaving. “You told me she was sad once.”

He had. It was an off comment from years ago, when you cried and cried, and cried. Back then, it was rare to see you dry-eyed, rare to see you outside your room but you had gotten over it. You are fine now, you don't cry, you don't shout or pitch a true fit like he's seen other women do. You're just… fine. He thinks of your face when he told you he was leaving, that practiced control but the twitch of your lips giving you away. You were angry, maybe. But not angry enough to lash out, you were okay stewing in it. And that was fine. To you, to Paul. Everything is fine.

When Chani sees he isn't going to reply, she sighs again. Her fingers start to move again, faster than before and Paul tries not to be awed at the sight. She's a master at her craft, something he so rarely sees nowadays, “Nevermind.” She says and before he can speak, she asks, “How is Oliver?”

The smile that falls on Paul's face is easy. “He’s wonderful. His studies are going well– his tutors say he's picking up reading faster than I ever did.” He looks away from Chani and plays with the fabric of his pants, “I wanted him to come today.”

The thin piece of wood between Chani's fingers snapped. She looks up at him, her blue tinted eyes furious, “No, Paul.”

Still, he tries, “He would love you. If she only gave it a chance–”

“Do you hear yourself?” She hisses and he flinches at the tone. “You want to bring another woman's child to me? Do you hate her so much that you'd go this far to disrespect her?”

“I do not hate her. I could never hate her she is the mother of my child–”

“She is so much more than that.” She snaps. “She is your wife. She is the keeper of your estate, she is a person, a woman, you continuously hurt by visiting me.”

Again. It is always that argument, always the flag they throw up, the sand they throw into his eyes. It's always you, you, you. Why can't it never be him? Why can't he ever think for himself? Want more for himself? Paul shifts where he sits, “You wouldn't understand.” He whispers. Chani wouldn't, couldn't, get it. She's not him, she has never been in his place, she has never loved him as he loved her, she just wouldn't get it.

There is a certain fury that settles on Chani's face. It is thunderous, all consuming, a lightning storm that threatens to strike him thrice over and then, it clears. Faster than he can blink and she's standing, throwing the rest of her weaving into the fire. “Grow up, Paul.”

And he's at a loss for words. “What?”

“Grow. Up.” She says again, as if she hasn't said something world tilting. Paul feels like his chest is collapsing, like the sand around him is starting to swallow him whole. “I have put up with it for years. You complain about things not being fair to you.” She shakes her head, gathering all her finished baskets and her bowls of beads. “You complain and complain and complain. Do you see where I live? Do you see what my people have to do to survive? What do you know of struggle? Of suffering? You cry and whine about loving me, about caring for me but having to suffer a fate of never having me. I am not an object to own. I am not a prize to wave in your wife's face.”

She looks at him then, her face grim, haunting in the fire's light. “What do you know of suffering when you are here with me and she's alone with your son? What do you know of pain when she bled to produce an heir for you? I love you, Paul. As a friend, always a friend. Only a friend and I can't just sit here and pretend like you aren't ruining lives over petty childishness. Go to her, love her, see her as she is.”

“I–” Paul stumbles to his feet, nearly tripping to reach out to her. “I can't– do not do this to me, Chani– please, do not do this.”

Pity. There is only pity on her face. “Go home, Paul.” and she leaves him. Standing alone in the Arrakis' desert, surrounded by sand, stars and the sweet smelling wind, Paul begins to weep.

It is hard to play dumb but…

“Higher, my lady…”

Emmett's voice makes you shiver slightly and you all but let yourself relax in his warm arms. They circle you, his hands on your elbows raising and steadying the bow in your hands. You force yourself to let your fingers shake and smile when his hands leave your elbows to hover over yours. He slides a forefinger over the back of your hand before it hooks under your wrist and holds the bow true. “Release.”

Whoooosh! Thunk.

The arrow misses.

Emmett lets out a polite laugh, his breath brushing against your ear and it's enough to make you bite your lip. If playing the role of the defenseless noblewoman was enough to get him this close, you think you'd do it all the time. “You’re laughing at me?”

“Not at you, my lady.” He chuckles. His warm embrace leaves you as he takes a step forward, a hand playfully gliding past your waist as he does— he goes for the many missed arrows from the previous tries and shoots you a smile. “At the situation, I suppose.”

“Oh?” You ask, coyly. “And what's funny about the situation, Ser Emmett? My lack of skill with the bow or my streak of missing the target.”

He gathers the arrows, his smile growing a tad impish as he picks up the last as twirls it between his fingers. Your eyes follow the movement instinctively— it glides between his nimble fingers, around and under, under and around— Emmett ends the small show with a flip of the arrow, catching it by the small bit of the notch, the dull arrowhead tapping against his lips. “What's funny is… the famed daughter of a very noble hunting family needs help with a bow.” The arrowhead presses into his lip when he smiles, “I heard said daughter used to bring down bucks the size of small shuttles but now she stands before me as if she never handled a bow.”

You tut, annoyed you've been caught but delighted he knew so much about you. “You aren't the only one who can do research.” You say, you move forward with graceful steps, till the both of you are face to face. “Emmett Deacon. That is an old name, you know. But strange as Lord Deacon has no heirs or living relatives besides his wife. Now, it is unbecoming of me to gossip– to listen to the words of those who whisper behind backs but… but I was, am, curious about you, Emmett.”

This close, you notice his eyes are green. They are far darker than the eyes of your husband, Duncan or Jessica. Emmett's eyes are the color of the forest after a thunderstorm; when everything is still dark near black underneath the clearing clouds. Emmett grins at your closeness, his eyes glinting, promising some type of mischief. “Careful now, my lady.” He teases, his voice light despite the subtle redness creeping up his neck, “You walk a dangerous line, some men would take offense to what you are attempting to imply.”

Carefully, you pull the arrow from the man's grasp, your lips quirk up in a humorless smile as you take a step away from him. “Attempting, Implying? Make no mistake, Emmett, I know what you are.” You give the man your back as you face another untouched target. Mentally, you thank yourself for having the thought to scatter them about the training area before approaching Emmett under the guise of needing guidance. This target is much closer to the door, just a few paces to the right.

“Do you?”

Suddenly you are warm. He is pressed right up against you, his hands on your hips pulling you flush against his body and you barely bite back a shiver as you right your posture as if he wasn't there. His breath comes out ragged, fanning against your ear and he holds you so tight he scrunches your silks. Emmett is pretty as he is eager for you, desperate almost. It is not what you usually go for but the men you usually do go far were always so hesitant, reminding you of your husband or the ever watchful Duncan. Emmett fears neither, it makes you like him more but you are not an idiot, Emmett Deacon doesn't exist outside of the Atreides Castle. Lord Deacon has no legitimate heirs, only bastards, hundreds of bastards he refuses to recognize unless they make a name of their own. There is no Emmett Deacon, only Everett Brightwater. Son of a working mother and elder brother to a handful of other siblings.

But in the Atreides castle, the castle of a bastard, those types of things tend to go overlooked. Most like to forget that technically, Paul Atreides was born out of wedlock, that he was legitimized by the former Duke Leto— it is a story all bastards wished for, what Everett wished for. Pity it is you, that always seems to take a fancy to them.

“I have bedded a bastard before, Brightwater. Void-forbid I don't recognize the touch of another.”

The sound that leaves the man is downright sinful, a ragged gasp and his hips damn near hump into you. “And you have made heirs–”

“A singular heir, Oliver has no siblings.”

“But he could,” He rolls his hips against yours backside again and you bite back a grin, “I could give you–”

The door opens and it startles you. Your fingers slip from the bowstring and the arrow is sent flying, hurtling towards the target as Emmett rips away from you like he's touched fire. Your husband stands at the door, his eyes red rimmed and looking downright furious. His eyes never meet yours, staying trained on Emmett who looks everywhere as the arrow hits its mark. Bullseye.

Emmett's voice is choked as he speaks, “Congratulations–” His eyes flicker over to Paul for a brief second as he rasps your name. It makes your heart nearly jump to your throat as you blink absurdly at the man but he pushes forward, inclining his head as Paul prowls closer, “Your talents amaze me–”

“Leave.”

Emmett pauses mid sentence, he blinks once then nods, his lips set tight. He says your name again, lower, sweeter, then his dark green eyes cut to Paul as he gives a shallow bow. “Your liege.”

He is out the room faster than you can blink and it draws a scoff from your lips as you turn to face your husband. “That was rude.”

That makes his face twitch. Like he wants to scowl or even pout down at you but can't decide which one to choose and it settles as a sneer instead. “Was it, now? I walk in on one of my men pawing at you–”

The laugh that leaves you is sudden and sharp, “You are being ridiculous.”

“He was all but humping your leg and you let him!” He hisses. Then takes a breath to blink and shake his head, “It is disrespectful, my son is only paces away–

“Oh, that is disrespectful?” You ask. Your blood is boiling, your heart thundering in your ears. How dare he throw your son in your face? The very boy you put to bed alone, hushing his cries for his father. The very same boy that spent the day talking about his father and his mysterious friend that he insisted Ollie call an aunt. “What about you trying to take my child to see another woman?”

Paul flinches then, just barely, but keeps the sneer on his pretty face. “That is different, you know that is different–”

“What of all the times I've found your letters to her? All the times you've left me for her?” You press, “All the birthdays, my birthdays wasted alone waiting for you, all the anniversaries? What do you know about disrespect, husband?”

He is silent, silent but staring, gaping, trying to muster an answer he knows he can't. But it is strange, odd, that he hasn't tucked tail and ran. In the rare arguments that seemed to happen between the two of you, he'd spit his poison and then choke on yours; floundering for a rebuttal before escaping to his wing of the castle and yet… he still stands before you, unmoving. Then, he speaks. He whispers, “I am sorry.” He clears his throat, “I am, for what I put you through, for everything but I want better for us, I want–”

“She finally did it, didn't she? She finally turned you away?”

He doesn't respond and that's an answer all on its own. You cast your bow aside, not caring how it crashes against the floor and your quiver soon follows. “You’re pathetic.”

You don't look at Paul as you go.

Duncan stands beside you.

It's nothing new, of course. He is always there, whispering into your ear, a guiding hand on your back or teasing Ollie who was usually on your hip.

It's been nearly two weeks since the incident in the training room, since Paul came to you saying he wanted better for your relationship— nearly two weeks since you almost allowed Emmett to fall under your skirts and Duncan no doubt knows this by now and yet, he stands by you.

You're sitting on your bed with nothing but a thin sleeping shift with Ollie curled up into your lap as you gently twist and braid hair away from his face and Duncan watches, his eyes trained on your steady hands. Then, quietly, he speaks to not stir Oliver.

“It’s going to be cold tonight.” He says lightly, his eyes pulling away from your hands, letting them trace over the way the fabric hugs your form.

You don't look up as you finish a braid, using the tip of your nail to section out another braid, a distracted hum leaving your lips, “It is always cold, Duncan. It's Caladan.”

“It doesn't have to be.” He says and he hates how you pause when he says it, he hates the way his voice grows tender for you so he clears his throat, unwilling to unearth something you both ignore daily and plasters a teasing grin on his face, “Shall I call for Emmett? He is rather eager–”

He barks out a laugh when you toss a throw pillow at him, twisting out of the way before it even hits him. “Damn you.” You curse him despite the smile playing on your lips, “Speaking like that to your lady could be considered treason, you know.”

“Maybe on Somnus.” He teases as he slinks closer. He pulls the stool from your vanity and plops down on it next to you, his smiling falling just a bit as he asks, “How are you?”

“Fine.”

He levels you with a look that you don't meet, continuing to part and braid through Oliver's hair. He reaches forward then, to pull your hand free from the boy's hair and simply hold it— to command your attention towards him as he whispers your name, “I worry about you. Truly. I– Paul has told me what he said to you.” He holds your hand tighter when it jerks in his grasp, he searches your face, his eyes soft. “And it was cruel. You waited for him for void-knows-how-long and he comes to you when you finally search for another.”

Stubbornly, you purse your lips and force your eyes away from him. “I don't care.”

“It is not my place to call you a liar.” He says and it's almost automatic, years of training resurfacing as he searches for the right words. “But as someone who is close to you… as someone who cares for you, I think you do.”

You pull away and he lets you, your hands returning to Oliver's hair almost nervously. The boy doesn't even stir, “Your concern for me is endearing but it is misplaced.”

“Don’t shut me out.” He says, his voice tight and it makes your eyes slide back to him. “Your pretty words don't fool me, I know you. I see you, you have been miserable, you have suffered and it is okay to acknowledge that. It is only you, your sleeping boy and I in this room, you do not have to pretend.”

“What would you have me do, Duncan?” You ask, a touch incredulous. “Would you have me pitch a fit? You'd have me disgrace the Atreides name because what– my husband wants to be a husband?”

“I would like it if you cried.”

You flinch back, “What?”

“You haven't cried in years.” He says. “Oliver was born and you haven't shed a tear since, you have not mourned, you haven't grieved.”

“Those are the same things.” You start frowning at him. “Besides, I am a mother, a Duchess to a growing empire. There are whispers that I could be Queen, what do I have to cry about?”

“Everything.” He answers, his voice true. “Yes, you are all those things and more. But you are also young, you may be a woman now but you were a girl when you were wed.”

“That doesn't matter.”

Duncan looks at you like you've grown a second head. “It does matter. The very concept of your love was crafted for you before you ever got the chance to make it yourself. Do you like laying down and taking it or is that what you were taught? Do you like that he walks all over you or were you told to accept that?”

Your hackles rise before you can even stop yourself, “He is your lord.” You hiss, “Watch your tongue.”

Duncan throws his hand out, his eyebrows nearly touching his hairline. “You defend him and call him Lord, you do not call him a husband because that is what you are taught.” He lets his hand drop, “When I was your age–”

“You are not that much older than me.”

He continues like you didn't speak. “When I was your age, I experimented. I built my ‘love’ from the ground, I know how to kiss, how to fuck because I have done so with enough people to know what I like. That is not something that can be taught.”

You flush at the topic, imagine Duncan in such intimate situations would not be a… first for you. There were many lonely nights in your marriage and your mind often wandered. It was natural, of course, Duncan is kind. He is strong and sweet with a silver tongue, it is only natural that your mind went there when your hand traveled between your thighs. It was only natural that you had toyed with him out of pure boredom and curiosity. Moans of his name often left your lips when it was his turn to keep your room guarded. You had left your door cracked, catching his wandering eye once or twice as you… reached your peak. For voids-sake, you are quite certain Duncan has seen you in some state of undress more than Paul has and has not once mentioned it to you, has not tried to close your door or turn his head. Duncan has stood beside you for nearly six years, watched you for the same amount of time. You know you could say one simple word, a plea more than a command and it'd be just as damning and he'd be in your bed.

And yet…

You clear your throat and shake your head. Ollie jolts in your lap but doesn't wake, turning a curling deeper into your warmth. You steer the conversation back on course,“What does this have to do with me crying?”

“You were young when you were married.” He says again, like he truly doesn't understand why you don't get it. “You were young when you had Oliver, it was scary. Traumatizing, even. No one prepared you.”

“Yes they did, my parents, my tutors even–”

“Did you even get to say goodbye to the girl you once were before you were ripped away from home or did you bury her– throw her into this fucking sea the moment your engagement was announced?”

When you don't answer, he makes a noise— it's nearly a scoff but it sounds much too pitying. “I know you.” He says again, “I know that you hurt. I see it in the way you carry that blasted bow— it is all metal and wrong because your planet crafts from wood and vines. I see it in the way you hesitate at dinner because you want a second helping but the teaching of tutors or maybe even your mother told you it was unladylike. I see it when you look at Oliver because you were only a girl when you had him–”

“Do not.” You interrupt weakly, your eyes darting to your son. “I love my son.”

“I know,” He agrees. “You love him more than life itself, I'm sure, but it does not negate the fact that your family, this family, was okay with a child having a child.”

You swallow once, twice, then you blink hard. There is an odd pressure building up in your head, a pounding behind your eyes. You open your mouth to respond but your lip wobbles unsteadily. You struggle to find your words, your breath leaving you unsteadily— pinched as you try to control yourself and Duncan only smiles soft and sad. His hand resting on your knee, he speaks. “I’d have you cry.” He says again, “For the girl you lost, for the woman you became. Cry because you are a mother, a good one and you do it nearly alone, cry because you can– because it's okay. Over spilt milk or broken glass, cry because it feels right and it's a start.”

“And then?” You murmur.

Duncan shakes his head, “I can not teach how to feel better.” He says, “I can not teach you to forgive. I can only give advice— guide you through your tears. I want better for you, My lady. To give Paul a chance, to see if his word is true, if you truly want to stay in a place that caused you nothing but grief.”

“What could I do?” You ask and it hurts to hear how helpless you sound to your own ears. “If I don't want to stay, what would I–”

And for the first time since this conversation has started, Duncan hesitates— then, much quieter than before he begins to speak, “It was Leto who granted your marriage, while your parents drafted the contract– he was the one who allowed it. Therefore, if you were to go to him– if you were to air every grievance you have with Paul, tell him of all the cruel things his son has done to you… he could void your marriage.”

You shift, pulling your son up your body, cuddling him close and Duncan follows the movement.“ But what would happen to me, to Oliver?”

“Nothing.” Duncan answers. “You are the one approaching Leto here. You are the injured party and if you were to separate, you'd get half of the Atreides… well, everything.”

“What?”

“It is an old tradition.” Duncan explains quickly, “It went by many names; dissolution, annulment, divorce. You'd get half of everything– if not more, you'd get to keep your status as Duchess, you'd probably have enough money to build your own castle free and far from all of this.” He sighs. “You’d get to decide if Paul even got to see Oliver–”

“I cannot do that to him, he loves his son–”

“You are the injured party.” Duncan stresses, “It would be your choice, all of these would be your choice. I can not tell you what to do, my lady. But if you were to ask me, I'd cry first. At least once.”

And despite all the training saying otherwise, you let one tear fall. Then another and another and a–

Duncan lets you cry, his hand finding yours as you begin to curl around Ollie and bless the void— the boy doesn't so much as stir— and you sob for the first time in years.

The next few days are… odd.

Paul tries, you give him that. He is there before you wake, lingering just outside your door with Duncan by his side. He greets you with a smile, a kiss on the hand then he offers you his arm— it varies where he leads you. Sometimes it's straight to Oliver, the boy wakes with a big grin and messy hair delighted at the sight of his parents together and other times, he leads you to a hidden alcove; a well furnished cave on a cliff side overlooking Caladans’ main sea. These moments are often spent in silence— you eat a bit and Paul watches you, you spend more time pretending not to notice then actually enjoying it but it is… time spent together and that is good, you think.

Today, however, is proving to be a bit different from most. You eat as you always do, you watch the waves crash on the rocks, you count the seconds between each of your husband’s blinks and take little glances at Duncan when the man sighs whenever Paul clears his throat. He always clears it,you find, a nervous habit only ever shown amongst close family or friends and most times, nothing would follow it, Paul would fall back into silence and the both of you would eat then go back to the castle.

Paul clears his throat and you look at him curiously because that is twice within a minute and as much as you detest him, you wouldn't want to see him choke and when you do look at him, he's fumbling with a bundle of grey cloth wrapped in twine, “Oliver,” He starts, soft and unsure and it makes you strain to hear him over the sea. “He says you like these so–” His fingers are slick because of his nerves and it takes a minute or so for him to unravel the twine but once he does— he places the cookies on the table and slides them towards you with a smile.

You look at the oddly shaped balls and smile— they are obviously handmade. They're big, clumpy and some even sink in on themselves, a few have seeds on them burnt and crumbling but seeds nonetheless and it gives you some pause. Your eyes flicker up, past Paul to Duncan who is giving the cookies an equally puzzled look. This isn't lost on your husband who frowns— he looks between you and Duncan and his brow dips, he fidgets with the edge of the grey fabric, then the skin around his nails, “What?” He asks a bit louder than he should, “What is that look?”

Your mouth opens to answer then it closes just as fast. Paul is trying. You remind yourself that he's spent much of the marriage away from you in his own universe, he wouldn't, doesn't know much about you. He is trying and so are you, trying to give him grace— he has given you cookies, as ugly and deadly as they might be, they are made by his unskilled hand and you can't help but appreciate that.

Duncan, though, is not you. “Were these made with sunflower seeds?”

Paul continues to frown, looking up at the man. “Yes, why?”

“Ah.” Duncan starts, his voice flat as you instantly push the cookies away with the butt of your fork. “Your wife is allergic.”

Paul turns red. From the tips of his ears to the ends of his toes— his mouth drops open and he founders, a choked apology starts to leave him but he only gets as far as, ‘I'm–’ before he stops because you aren't cursing him out or banishing him away from your sight. Hells, you don't even move from the table, you just watch him carefully, your eyes dancing across his face and he wishes that a sun– any one of them, explodes and spares him from this experience, from this life.

Sadly, no exploding sun spares him from this. There is no blistering heat or quick death, just your searching eyes and your cool words.“You wouldn't know.” You say simply, smiling and Paul is shocked that it holds no maliciousness. “Ollie seems to have tricked you because these are his favorite not mine but… I appreciate that you thought of me.”

“I–” He's still red, still choking on his words but his mind spins as multiple things fly through it; he can't be mad at his son because he would have pulled the same trick on his father, he is embarrassed, incredibly so because he had almost killed you because he did not know of a simple allergy but Duncan knew. He is your husband and he didn't know.“Forgive me.” He breathes, pleads.

For once, he wants you to be mad at him but you only frown, your hand carefully intertwining with his. “You didn't know,” You say, “We are… we are only beginning to know each other. We have much to learn. You didn't know and that's okay.”

Paul nods but his head spins. Duncan knew. His green eyes meet his trusted guard and he frowns, he then notices your closeness— even though your fingers are locked with his, you're leaning back towards Duncan and he is standing as close as possible to your chair. You both are sharing the same air and it is not like you and Paul who sits across from you with only a hand connecting you both. You breath out and Duncan inhales– shifting somehow closer, his lips twitching when Paul obviously catches the movement. Paul thumb strokes your hand and any negative feeling that was starting to build melts away when you smile at him, he pushes Duncan from his mind as he refocuses himself on you, a smile of his own forming.

“Well,” He starts and his voice is still shaky from the embarrassment. “Besides sunflower seeds, is there anything else I should be aware of?”

Paul doesn't know how he never saw it before. The warmth in your smile, the light in your eyes. Paul had begged for a Sun to end him, blind to the star burning bright promised to him. These years of neglect had not dulled your shine, your heat— you glow and Paul thinks he'd happily go blind if it meant staring at your light forever. “Well…” You start, smiling wide and warm.

The two of you spend the next five hours talking, laughing and trading stories of food illnesses to embarrassing ones from your youths.

When Duncan is called to Paul's study, he already knows for what. Emmett pesters him with endless questions but the Brightwater man quickly falls silent at the mention of your name, he pales and Duncan clicks his tongue when the bastard excuses himself from the room.

To think you thought that man was bold. You thought him brave and uncaring, Duncan pretends he does not hear him emptying his stomach into the toilets. He knows the man fears he'll lose his job and Duncan does not bother to reassure him.

The route there is easy, quick. It's as if he blinks and he is there, pressing up the door and taking a step inside. Paul is sitting, facing a large window that shows Caladan’s raging sea. The waves crash on the beach's shore and drag the sand out with it, the sky has grown dark since your outing with your husband— a storm raging in the distance. A storm raging in the man in front of Duncan.

“For how long?”

Duncan doesn't bother trying to play stupid, he doesn't sit nor does he take a step further in the room. “Does it matter?”

Paul turns just as lightning strikes the sea. His eyes flash and Duncan is taken aback at the rage that is there. He doesn't not flinch away from it, he bares the storm that spills when Paul speaks. “She’s my wife, Duncan. My wife!”

Duncan blinks. “I am aware.” He then looks away. “She is aware of that too. It is by her hand only that I haven't landed in her bed.”

Paul stands, he is shaking. Duncan is his friend but this— he smoothes a hand over his face. His eyes sting but he does not cry, he did not do so when he caught the beginnings of something with Emmett so why would he cry now? He looks at Duncan and his heart clenches. Duncan is his friend. “And if she said yes–”

“In a heartbeat.” Duncan answers. He is cruel in his honesty but he doesn't care, Paul has been crueler with his own and he can't help the smile that twists at his lips. “Castle Atreides would be filled with more bastards than you, Paul.”

Duncan does not flinch. Paul in all his anger and crashing tides has made his way across the room, his blade to his neck and drawing blood. The cut stings, bubbles with his blood and Duncan doesn't not break eye contact. He has hid his love for you long enough and this is freeing, Paul would not kill him. He knows that because Paul is a trained soldier, trained to kill and his blade shakes against his throat. “You will leave.” Paul says and his voice is shaking. There is a tear threatening to spill from his eyes. “You will leave and you will not return until I call for you.”

Duncan's heart drops. “What?”

“You will not come when she calls.” Paul continues. “And she will call and you will not answer. Not for her not for Oliver. Do you understand?”

Duncan searches his young master's face for some kind of tell but Paul is serious. The blade presses closer and when Paul opens his mouth, it is The Voice that leaves it. It is hundreds of voices all at once, it is his mother's, it is his fathers and it is yours. The commands sinks into his brain, pulling at flesh and his eye twitches as it forces it's will deeper. He is being sent on a mission, he is being sent to Arrakis. The voices dig deeper and there is a dull alarm that coils around his heart, Duncan hopes Paul will not take his love for you away. His lungs tighten and the blade is pulled away from his neck as he falls into a kneel before Paul who still commands his existence. He is to forget this. This confrontation, this moment of insecurity and rage, he is to forget why he never wanted to leave Caladin in the first place.

Please, please, please. He begs when the voice doesn't fade, there is terror building in his blood but as soon as it grows it is wiped away by The voice, by the soft whisper of your voice. He is to bring Deacon's bastard son. The voice fades and Duncan is gasping, clutching at his neck and his fingers slip in his own blood. Paul stares down at him, his eyes blank, the storm raging on behind him and Duncan remembers… nothing. Just his mission.

He pushes himself to his feet, surprised when he stumbles. His blood flows dark and Paul doesn't look away, a thin lipped smile on his face. “You slipped.”

Duncan knows that's not right but he can't bring himself to question it. Paul is moving away from him, back to his desk and fixing his chair. “Best to prepare for your departure and send Emmett to me when you see him.”

Duncan knows his way to Paul's office and he knows the way back just as well. But today, he couldn't help but get lost on his way. He has a headache brewing.

You like to believe you do not know who cries more when Duncan leaves. But Oliver stops crying within an hour, distracted by his grandparents and pulled away for a mini adventures and it is two weeks later when you burst into tears because you think you've smelt him.

It is embarrassing, unladylike but Duncan had told you he had wanted you to cry more and Paul took it in stride. Duncan had been your foundation for so long so for him to be sent away, you are left crumbling but Paul is there and more than eager to get to building. At some point, he had snuck his way into your rooms— he had wide eye amazement as he took in everything, the plants that climb their way up your walls to your blankets and how much thicker they are than his. Paul had smiled when he saw despite everything, you still favored his colors– your house colors. You and Paul sleep together but not sleep together. Your mornings had become shared, whispers and giggles shared the first time you both woke up together— you and Paul had talked into the night, Oliver curled into his side and his hand running through his son's hair.

Still days later, you find waking up next to him, your husband hasn't gotten old. Paul clings to you when he sleeps, he's incredibly warm and you find you no longer need your blanket when he wraps around you in the night. Emboldened by his soft snores, you pull away gently, taking him in the soft morning light. You brush a soft curl from his face and he frowns in his sleep, it strikes you just how pretty he is. He's the makings of every Prince you ever read about growing up, blessed by luck and kissed by beauty and all that. He nuzzles against your hand with a sigh, his frown melting from his lips and you realize you want to kiss him.

You pull your hand away out of pure embarrassment, flushing hot. You shouldn't be embarrassed, you try to reason with yourself. He's your husband— the father of your child, he's touched your naked body before, he's kissed you before but that was years ago and all of that stopped the moment you fell pregnant. You haven't ached for such affection from him in years yet here and now, you wish you could press your lips to his. How embarrassing, you simper trying to pull further away from him but Paul's hold is ironclad, he curls around you tighter, his legs sliding between yours, his hands settling on your back. “What are you doing?” He murmurs, “Where are you going?”

You thank every star that's ever existed that he doesn't open his eyes. He keeps his eyes clamped shut as if protesting the morning sun and he completely misses your fading flusteredness. “Nowhere.” You answer, trying to relax in his touch. He's drawing patterns against your back, trying and failing to lull you back to sleep. He's just so close and it was easier to ignore when you're too tired to be flustered. “I wanted to give you space.”

Paul frowns, blinking his eyes open. “Don’t want space.” Then processing what he said, he offers you a timid smile before he rolls away to yawn and stretch. “Sorry, that was…” He shakes his head and doesn't bother finishing what he was going to say. He gets out of your bed with another stretch, his bones cracking and your mind flounders, rushing to think of a reason to keep him in bed— you never thought a day would come when you wanted to keep Paul near you. Your mouth moves before you can think and through and—

“Oliver says he wants a sibling.”

The moment it leaves your mouth, you're clapping a hand over your lips in pure, unfiltered embarrassment. Paul is still frozen mid stretch, his eyes wide and his cheeks completely pink and you wish a moon would come crashing into the planet and take you out in its destruction. “What?” He asks, his voice is strangely pitched. His arms drop as he turns to face you.

“Nothing.” You say and your voice is a squeak, your mortification growing. What are you? A blushing virgin maiden? You should have stood your ground, repeated what you said proudly but you're suddenly… shy. Your heart is pounding and you pull your blanket up and over your head, “Forget I said anything.”

Paul says your name and you ignore it, pulling the cover tighter and it's a sight that makes Paul's heart soar. His lady wife is shy before him, it is a welcome change that has his own heart skipping delightfully. He can't help but tease you, he says your name again as he rounds the bed, he drags it out, stretches it across his tongue and you shiver under the blanket. His hand touches your covered leg and you jump and he laughs, sitting at your side. “My love,” He starts and he says it like he's sure of it, like you are his only love. “Can you repeat that?”

“No.” You hiss and it pulls another laugh from him. He pulls the blanket from your face and he is smiling like he's never smiled before, his peachy cheeks dimpling.

“Oliver wants a sibling.” Paul repeats and you purse your lips nodding, Paul's smile only grows. “I knew that already.”

You blink. “What?”

“Oliver has always wanted a sibling.” Paul starts casually, shrugging. “But if he told you and you told me that means– you've considered it.”

Your face flushes hot and you go to pull for your blanket but Paul puts his weight on it, stopping you from covering yourself. So you deflect, your lip pulls up in a halfhearted sneer, “I was making conversation. I was trying to be polite.”

Paul hums, slow and soft. “You thought it proper to a conversation by asking me to fuck you?”

You blink rapidly, your mouth falling open in shock. “I-I wasn't– I w-wouldn't–” Paul is smiling and you swallow. “You’re teasing me.”

“A little.” He murmurs, his eyes are searching your face. His hand raises from your blanket and you brace yourself when it caresses the length of your face, his thumb dragging across your bottom lip. “I wouldn't mind.”

Your tongue follows the path of his thumb out of instinct and when it sweeps across it, you swear you see your husband’s eyes flash. “Mind what?”

“Another child.” He says. “Sleeping with you.”

You're nodding and suddenly Paul is on you, his lips on yours as he cups your face to drag you closer. You are clumsy, unsure with how you kiss him— it's been years you remind yourself but Paul is so much more confident, he kisses you and it's nothing like the ones from years ago. Those had been pecks, his lips on yours to shush your moans as he humped into you, it all felt professional— a duty he had to perform but this, Paul is kissing you. It is all tongue, teeth and lips, he's eager with his nips and how his tongue drags across yours but he goes at your pace; or at least he tries, you whimpered and the kiss quickly grew messy— wet as he wraps his tongue around yours and sucks. It's an odd feeling and it pulls a startled moan from you. It is years of programming that has you saying it, your hands clenching at the fabric of his shirt, “Husband–”

“Paul.” He urges, his voice a touch desperate as his hands begin to roam your body. He's squeezing you in places you've never been touched before, his hands tickling up your sides— pushing your nightgown up. You are bare beneath them and Paul lets out an appreciative groan at the sight of your pussy. He barely looks up when he says, “Call me Paul when I touch you like this, please.”

You swallow and nod, you have to ask. You have to know. “Paul, did you ever–” Your voice breaks and you can hear how small you sound. “Did you touch her? While we were together?”

“No.” He says it so quickly, you're blinking but his voice is serious, he doesn't falter but his hands still. “I would never do that, not even if she offered.”

You take a breath. “But you left, Paul.”

“I know.” He murmurs, “I’m sorry. Will you let me apologize?”

“You already–” Your voice catches as he bends, he kisses his way down your body, hot opened mouthed kisses, his tongue dragging across your flesh. Your stomach clenches when he lowers and presses another kiss to your mound, uncaring of the hair there. Your legs try to clamp together but he is quick to keep them apart, his eyes meeting your frantic ones, “You don't– you never–”

“I’m apologizing.” He says simply and then his mouth is on you. There is nothing shy about the way his tongue drags through your folds, he licks and licks, and licks till he's drooling— he's making a wet mess out of you, his tongue dipping in and out of your fluttering hole as moans spill from you. Your legs tremble at the side of his head and you barely catch his eye roll as he pulls your thighs close to his head. He groans when they clench around his head and he licks his way back up to your clit and sucks hard, slurping loudly. Your back arches from the bed, a shrill shriek of his name escaping from your mouth, his head bobs with each suck, his tongue dragging and swirling hard against your dripping core.

“Oh, oh-” A curse he's never heard before explodes from you and your hand is carding through his hair and pulling closer to your cunt. His nose digs into your flesh and he lets out a puff of air before he flattens his tongue and shakes his head, your hand was keeping him centered enough but it loosens when he does this, flying to your mouth instead to muffle the squeal that leaves you. He keeps his mouth on you as he looks up, taking in your teary eye expression— your eyes meet and Paul can barely hold back the smile when he teases a finger against your slit. You moan, arching down towards it and it makes his nose grind against your clit as his finger slips in easily. You're incredibly wet and you would be embarrassed if Paul wasn't the one to blame for it, you could barely tell what was your own arousal or his spit at this point.

Paul presses another finger into you and it goes just as easy as the first, his fingers gliding against your clenching, wet walls. His fingers prod and rub and when they hook against a spot that has you twisting away from him, Paul is fighting to keep your hips from bucking wildly. “That’s it.” He encourages, his voice husky. His fingers bully a spongy part inside of you, pressing and rubbing as his other hand moves, his fingers rubbing tight, hard circles against your clit. It's an awkward position but Paul doesn't seem to care, his wild eyed look is trained on your leaky cunt and the way it clenches and flutters around his fingers. You smack at his hands because something is brewing— your stomach coiling right. He rides the waves your hips rock to, a crooked smile forming on his face. “That’s fucking it, so pretty like this.”

You cum and you swear you've gone blind. You've touched yourself before, you've made yourself cum before but this— this is something completely different, your back is arching off the bed, your moans are choked to a stop as you try to force air to your lungs. Your legs clamp shut but Paul keeps pumping his fingers inside of you, he's cooing like you're something precious and he's riding your high, his hand matching the twitching of your hips. You wheeze his name, your chest heaving and it is only then Paul pulls his hand from you, his fingers wet and creamy and he slips the digits into his mouth with a soft moan.

You're blinking up at him, your breath rattling in your chest and Paul meets your gaze unabashed, his fingers leaving his mouth to rub a soothing pattern in your thigh. “Are you alright?”

You quickly realize Paul can't help but do that. In the next week, Paul pulls you into every dark corner he can find. He'd drop to his knees, his mouth finding your cunt like it was home and he'd licked you till you were quivering, creaming all over his face and pushing him away. Paul licked your cunt like a man starved and again, you quickly realize with an odd twinge of fear that he loved it. Loved your legs clamped around his head, loved his nose buried in your scent at its source. He loved it so much it took nearly another week for him to bend you over his desk and actually fuck you.

“Oh, f-fuck!”

The office is filled with the wet slap of skin on skin, the squeaking of the desk moving forward. Paul has a hand splayed over the curve of your back, keeping you bent over as he rolled his hips into you. You're moaning, cursing really and it makes him twitch inside of you. He loves when you act like anything but a Lady and when you're clenching down on him, choking his dick and soaking his thighs, he thinks he might lose his head. Still, there are guards who roam the halls outsides, servants that go about their duties and you are just so vocal— his hand slips over your mouth and though he knows the damage is done and the outside world has probably already heard your sounds, he feels possessive; he wants to keep your moans and whimpers to himself. He used the hand over your mouth to pull you up and flush against him, groaning when you clamp down on him, fucking back on him without abandon.

His knees nearly buckle when you begin to set your own pace against him, one of your hands holds his hand over your mouth, your nails digging into skin as your other hand flies to your stretched cunt. You're so wet your fingers slip and mess their mark and Paul feels your frustrated groan vibrate against his hand as you try again, your fingers finding your clit and you rub furiously little circles against the sensitive nub. Faintly, Paul thinks you touch yourself a little too rough but you're tightening up on him and Paul moans, you feel so good. Better than his hand ever did and, his hips meet yours— it's almost frantic, animalistic in the way he fucks into you and when he cums, he shakes, a moan spilling from his lips as he continues to roll his hips, fucking his spend back into you and try to get you to finish.

And you do, you always do because Paul refuses to stop until you do. He could be shaking from pure overstimulation and he'd still fuck into you until you're creaming on his dick, his fingers, his face. Later, he tells you that he's glad you don't squirt. You had hit him on his shoulder, tried to hide your face from his lecherous gaze but he had cupped your pussy with a grin filled with heat, “You’d wash away all my work if you did.”

You had hissed his name in warning but Paul was already slipping his fingers back inside of you and you were mortified with how your body just accepted them.

Your recent… couplings had not gone unnoticed by the people of the Castle. While your ladies had more tact in asking you— your Father-in-law and Jessica were not. You had been tending to Oliver at dinner, trying to coax your son into eating his vegetables with Paul watching fondly at your side, his arm curled around the back of your seat.

Leto had cleared his throat, shifting in his chair as he watched the two of you warmly. He has been the more accepting of the recent change, greeting you both with a grin or a chuckle whenever you two stumbled into the room disheveled. “Would it be remiss of me to assume I'll be getting another grandchild soon?”

Paul snorts into his cup of wine, the red liquid spilling across his front and you are no better, the fork holding Oliver’s broccoli shakes and the vegetable falls on the boy who instantly whines in disgust. You are quick to clean him, apologizing in a coo as your face warms, you look anywhere but your in-laws and Paul takes charge. “Father–” He began, his voice warning but Leto showed his palms with an easy smile.

“I’m simply curious.” He amends, Jessica is deathly silent at his side, watching the conversation with an odd look in her eyes. “The castle hasn't been baby proofed since Oliver and I wanted to know if we should start–”

Oliver, hearing his name looks to his grandfather to you with excited green eyes. “There’s a baby?”

Your mouth opens, then closes, your face warm as suddenly everyone turns to look at you. “Well, yes but–”

The adults at the table all sit straighter, Paul's hand curls tighter against the back of your chair. “Yes?” He repeats a touch breathless and you risk a glance in his direction, and he has once again gone pink in the face. Your lips pinch and you look away, it is much easier to admit this to a child, your son, rather than his father.

“Yes,” You begin again, your voice strong but soft, a hand smoothing over his curly little head. “But the baby won't come for a number of months, Ollie.”

Oliver makes a face. “I’ll be five when it comes.”

Paul from your side lets out a watery laugh, his arm leaving your chair and settling on your shoulders. “Yes,” He replies, “You’ll be an older brother, Oliver.”

That has the boy smiling, he turns back to his grandfather already babbling about all the things he'll do as a big brother and Leto is smiling so widely, you think the grin might split his face. Paul uses it as an opportunity to pull you from the table and out into the hallway, his hand shaking in yours.

“Paul, I'm–”

He silences you with a kiss salted with his own tears. You return his kiss a touch confused and he lets out a puff of laughter against your lips. “Do not apologize.” He orders, leaning away, “Do not apologize for making me a father again.”

“I wanted to tell you differently.” You say, your heart pounding. “I wanted to wait another week just to be sure– wanted to surprise you.”

Paul is grinning, teary eyed and peachy faced. “I am surprised.” Then he's kissing you again.

#idk man #i feel ruined #like ohhh okay #this is what real writing looks like gooooot it got it #no fs i’ll just continue on with life absolutely

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planetallure · 3 months ago

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re-reading “homestead” and then this…god i love this kind of rafe. the one who “just wants to give you a better life”. just wants to “take care of you”. i actually don’t think i’ll ever get tired of it.

the positive reinforcement, the “rewards”…fuck

him making himself her new favorite drug, sick.

writing was delicious as per usual.

the island program | r.cameron

[warnings] dark!gray!rafe cameron x addict!reader, billionaire!rafe, obsessive rafe, pogue!reader, sober!rafe, rafe has a private island, rafe and reader with established relationship, kidnapping, descriptions of s ubstance a buse & withdrawal, praise kink, dom/sub dynamic, mental health themes, stockholm syndrome, rafe controls everything, spanking, DUBCON

a/n: I really wanted to write Rafe taking you to his private island :)

divider credit: @/h-aewo

In which the cure for your cravings is a softer life, a secluded island, and Rafe’s personal brand of discipline.

word count: 5.9k

rafe cameron masterlist

Rafe hadn’t heard from you in three weeks. He completed his important meetings, signed million-dollar contracts, and immediately tried to get in contact with you. You were always on his mind even though he was never on yours. He’d texted you about fifty times. No reply.

He’d gotten you that expensive phone so you could call if you needed help but you’d never used it when it was an actual emergency. You didn’t call him when you needed to be bailed out. You didn’t call him when you needed a ride from the bar. So stubborn. You’d walk the eight miles back to your motel room in heels. He was starting to believe you were doing this to spite him.

You did call him, however, when you needed money for drugs. Rafe went in circles with you. You’d shun him when he didn’t give in. When he offered you shelter and let you get high within the safety of his expensive condo, you stole from him.

It wasn’t always like this. At one point, you actually wanted help. That’s how you and Rafe met. A narcotics anonymous meeting in a church basement that smelled like mildew and cigarettes. It took him two years to actually get clean and that was thanks to the meetings, his sponsors, and his determination to finally fulfill his father’s wishes for his future. He relapsed about three times but now he had been clean for an entire year.

He thrived now. Without the influence of mind-altering substances, he could actually make good business deals. He could make a real future for himself. He grew up lucky but he wouldn’t waste that privilege any longer. He had crawled out of the hole and hoped you would follow behind him.

Except you didn’t grow up as lucky as Rafe. He thought he was good for you. He recognized the sadness in your eyes. He knew what it felt like when the world was against you. Rafe often took what he wanted but he took his time with you. You needed a sponsor but sponsoring someone required a lot of trust. If you were any other girl, he would’ve devoured you whole. Your soft skin. Big, beautiful, tired eyes. Plump and raspberry-colored lips. Long curls that defied gravity, never tamed by a hair tie. Your uniform usually consisted of a pair of jean shorts and a worn hoodie that swallowed your frame.

The first time he actually talked to you was outside of the Marlin Mart, after filling up his truck with gas. He wandered into the store for soda and a pack of gum but walked into a chaotic scene. The gas station owner had you by your wrist, shouting curses at you, while you tried to pull away from him, “Hey, hey, hey,” Rafe intervened quickly, “Let her go, man!”

“She’s a thief!” You twisted in his grip, eyes wild, defiant, like a cornered animal ready to bite. “Let me see what's in your pockets!”

“I don’t have anything, old perv! Let me go!” You shouted back.

“Let her go,” Rafe said again, placing a strong hand on the man’s chest, commanding, pushing him back, “Calm down, I’m paying for her.”

The man argued, of course, but Rafe talked him off the ledge. When Rafe turned back to you, he gave you a warning look. C’mon, I’m helping you not get arrested, he wanted to say. You gave in a moment later. You emptied your pockets. A bag of skittles, potato chips, and a can of Modelo. Rafe took in a breath, taking the items in his hands, and walked over to the gas station counter.

You spoke to him the first time when Rafe found you outside, leaning against a tall ice box, “You didn’t have to do that.”

Rafe gave you your items, wondering you were hungry and this was your sad excuse for a meal, “I’m Rafe, I’ve seen you at a few meetings.”

You didn’t give away whether you really recognized him or not. It didn’t matter, Rafe had already memorized the details of your face. You could brush him off but he’d find a way to talk to you again. He wanted to know you.

“Hmm,” Was all you said.

“If you want a real meal, I could take you to the Wreck. We could talk about the program, and you know, recovery.”

“I don’t put out for gas station food and burgers,” When you rolled your eyes, sticking your hands in your jacket pockets, Rafe’s lips pressed into a thin line.

“I’m not – not trying to be shady. It’s just been awhile since I’ve met someone under the age of thirty who’s in recovery. Just trying to be nice. It’s on me, you don’t have to give me anything in return.”

You used to look at Rafe like he was an alien. Like no one from his side of the island had ever spoken a kind word to you. You didn’t trust him. Rafe wasn’t sure if you knew how to trust anyone. Later, the two of you talked over bowls of hot gumbo. Well, Rafe did most of the talking. He talked about how hard it’s been maintaining his sobriety, how much he’s grateful for the sponsor that practically saved his life, and how much more control he feels over his life.

Rafe always like control. It just took him so long to realize how much chaos all of the alcohol and blow were bringing to his life. He saw something spark in your eyes, a glimmer of something real, but it went away quickly.

At the end of the lunch, you leaned across the table, a wicked smile on your lips, “I bet you know where the Kooks like to party. I’ve never tried any expensive shit. Maybe we could get fucked up tonight.”

You hadn’t been listening. Not really. But he understood why. He would help you get to the other side of your problems. You were too beautiful to leave to your own demons. Rafe could save you.

He should’ve known that you’d disable your location services. It slowed him down but Rafe had prepared for this. He had informats. Other druggies that would keep eyes on you and snitch on the dealers who sold to you. Sheriff deputies that gave him a call whenever you got booked into the county jail.

He tracked you down to a motel, someone had seen you enter a room with some lowlife guy last night. They were lucky to have disappeared before Rafe arrived. Rafe couldn’t even count on two hands how many sleazy guys had to injure to the point of hospilization because he found them on top of you while you were out of it or because they had sold you something.

Rafe knew you were starting to hate him. He could take the hate. As long as you were alive.

Surprisingly, you weren’t passed out when he found you. You opened the door when he knocked. He could smell that you were newly showered, your hair freshly washed, but Rafe quickly spotted the remnants of last nights “fun” sitting on the nightstand. You were wrapped in a robe, a mascara wand in your hand, your makeup half done.

“Who paid for the room? I know it wasn’t you.”

An eye roll, of course, “I have more sugar daddies than you, Rafe.”

“I’m not–” He stopped himself from arguing, “What are you getting ready for?”

“None of your business,” You turned away, marching towards the bathroom, “You worry so much.”

Rafe followed, standing in the doorway. He watched the way your hands trembled as you tried to paint your eyelashes. The tremors were new. Things were getting bad. How were things getting worse when his leash had tightened so much?

“Y/N,” Rafe said, tired, exhausted, “I want to help you.”

“And I never asked for your fucking help,” You said although Rafe knew you didn’t mean it, “I’m going away for a while. Gonna get out of your hair.”

His fingers tightened around the wooden trim of the door frame, “With who?”

“Always with the questions,” Even now, you were beautiful. Even with bloodshot eyes and track marks on your skin, “You can’t stop me.”

“I can. I have before. I’ll tie you down to the bed and stop you from hurting yourself.”

“What if I told you I was going to get help?” You looked at him and Rafe knew you were lying. All you did was lie, “My friend knows about this new treatment program. I’ve done every program this entire state has to offer. She’s gonna drive me there.”

“And you need mascara for rehab?”

“Anyways, it’s in Florida. Gonna make it a little road trip. You should be happy for me. I’m finally listening to you.”

“If you go, you’ll probably get yourself killed in a few weeks.”

“Fuck you, Rafe.” The mascara hit the sink with a clatter. You turned, fists flying at his chest. He let you. When the hits got harder, more frantic, he caught your wrists, then your waist. You weighed less than the last time this happened. You always forgot to eat when you were using.

He sat you on the edge of the bed, pinning your thighs when you tried to kick. It was nothing. Rafe was all muscle, all control. You were all bones and smoke.

“Ugh,” you groaned, still struggling, “What do you want, huh? I can do this on my own.”

“You can’t,” Rafe said, feeling like a broken record, “Come home with me. I’ll take care of you.”

Rafe felt some of the tension in your body melt away, your shoulders sagged, and you let out a breath. You were considering it, he thought. Maybe you’d finally grown exhausted too. He loosened his grip and fixed his blue eyes on yours, “Hey, I’m serious,” He continued, “You need sleep and an actual meal. I promise there will be no hospitals, no doctors, just you and me.”

“Rafe,” You whispered weakly. He saw a glimmer of that innocent side he knew was inside of you. A little girl begging to be taken care of and loved, “I see the way you look at me…”

“What way do I look at you?” Rafe noticed it though he didn’t give it away in his eyes. Your legs parted slightly, your head tilted to the side as you looked him over. Your eyes became playful.

“Like you think I’m pretty …. even like this.”

“I do,” Rafe said, his voice deep and sure, “I think you’re beautiful, Y/N.”

“You can have me. You can have it.”

“Y/N-“

“I know you want to. I’d play nice. I know you wouldn’t hurt me.”

You smiled. Rafe’s heart was breaking in his chest.

“And you’d want something in return,” Rafe spoke knowingly. You parted your lips to argue but Rafe continued. He stood tall, towering over your figure, “You think I couldn’t have already taken that from you if that’s all I wanted? It wouldn’t be hard even if you didn’t play nice. You’re weak. You’re fucked up every time I see you. Sad thing is, you’d probably let me do it over and over again if that meant you could score.”

His voice hardened. The words landed like punches. And still, you didn’t look away.

“Stop,” That was all you managed.

“That’s not all I want, Y/N. I want all of you. I want you safe. Clean. Sober. I want you to fucking listen to me not because you’re looking for your next fix. I want you to listen because I’m the one who gives a shit. Who’s going to give you everything you need. Guidance. Structure. Love. All of it.”

You shook your head. You probably stopped listening in the middle of his rambling, “I don’t deserve that.”

“I’ll tell you what you deserve,” Rafe let out a breath. His rough hands nervously roamed over his shirt, buzzed hair, “Get your shit together. You’re not going to fucking Florida. If you don’t want me to have your friend arrested for possession then you’ll pack your shit and get in my truck.”

You stood, shoulders squared like you wanted to fight, but you were shaking again. You’d burned through whatever energy you have left. You were hollow. Empty. Rafe could see it.

“You want to own me,” you spat, but the words lacked conviction.

“I already have you, angel. That’s what I can’t get you to understand.”

That night, Rafe gave you another chance. Took you home. Let you put yourself together. Fed you until you were sick. It was routine. You relaxed, laughed a little, told him scraps of what you'd been through. You always smiled through the shame. You fell asleep against his chest during some movie neither of you were watching. He carried you upstairs. You probably hadn’t slept in three days.

The banging woke him up just after dawn. You were gone.

He moved downstairs, groggy and shirtless, drawstring pants hanging low on his hips. The banging was frantic. He opened the kitchen drawer and took out the syringe Barry gave him. He’d practiced. He was ready.

Rafe held the full syringe at his side as he approached the front door. There you were, wild and furious. “You locked me in? Open the door, Rafe! I’m serious, I can’t do this. Please,” Your eyes wandered down to his right hand, hanging by his side, “What’s that?”

Rafe slowly closed the distance between you. The rest had given you some of your strength back. Even as you scratched at his arms, Rafe kept you pinned to the door, “Rafe! Don’t! Please!” You screamed, tears in your eyes.

He shushed you as the needle finally pricked the side of your neck. Your eyes were wide and sad, “It’s okay, baby. I got you,” Your eyelids started to droop and you pushed at him weakly. Rafe caught you when your legs finally gave out, “It’s okay, just sleep. I’m gonna take care of you.”

You sat up too quickly. You were going to be sick. Your seatbelt kept you in place. You squeezed at the soft, italian-leather of your seat. You tried to get your bearings. Your lips parted. You thought you were talking but your voice came out in a moan.

You sat back, your body was weak, your head lolled to the side. A window. Clouds. A blue ocean. Your eyes fluttered until they were wide open, “Easy,” A familiar voice said.

“What did you do?” Your voice cracked. You tugged at your seat but your fine motor skills were practically useless. You were so foggy. Not in the way you usually felt when you were coming down or withdrawing. That needle. He’d knocked you out. On purpose. “What the fuck did you do?”

He was calm. Calmer than he’d ever been.

“It was the only way. You were hysterical yesterday. And you haven’t been in your right mind for a long time,” You shook your head, “I made a decision. And you’re gonna hate me for awhile. But this is gonna be good for you. For us, too.”

You’d really done it this time. This was your fault. Why did you have to show the most unhinged side of yourself to him?

You were so angry at him. If you were honest with yourself, it wasn’t because you were sitting on his private jet, going to a foreign place. It wasn’t even because you actually hated him. It was because you knew that Rafe wasn’t going to let your skin touch another heroin needle, let your lips taste another sip of alcohol, or let you smoke another joint to mellow your withdrawal symptoms.

Fuck, you thought. Fuck. Fuck.

Despite the warnings from his business partners about the futility of the tiny island of Isla Brisas, five hundred miles from the Ecuadorian coast, Rafe had proved them all wrong. There was no long-lost treasure, but his plan had not led to Cameron Development's bankruptcy as they had predicted. Not only had his men found gold, but there was a good chance that the parts of the island that had yet to be explored would yield similar findings.

His secret project. No one would ever disturb the two of you. No one would even be looking for you, he knew that. But he wanted you to feel like it was only the two of you in this world. No one on the island would consider helping you. The closest piece of civilization was thirty miles away on the Galapagos islands.

The villa was tucked between a grove of palm trees. The backyard stretched into the soft slope of a green hillside. The front of the house had a winding, stone path that led to an infinity pool before a five-minute walk shaded by tropical trees took you to a private beach. White sand sparkled underneath the sun, kissed by turquoise waves..

There were no fences. No barbed wire. No obvious guards. But inside there were rooms with locks that clicked shut when he pleased. Windows that let in the sun during the day but provided blackout privacy at night. Staff that were local. Silent. Loyal. Bought.

The first two weeks on the island happened in a blur. The bed was massive, the sheets always cool, even though your skin was often on fire. If you weren’t sleeping for hours at a time then you weren’t sleeping at all. You threw up everyday. Rafe was usually there, holding your hair, rubbing circles on your back. You begged him everyday to stop letting you suffer, to help you feel better.

“I am making you better,” He’d always say. The only drugs he gave you helped your sleep and nausea, they didn’t get you high, and a week into the nightmare, he starting giving you something for the depression and anxiety. The depression was probably the worst symptom.

He carried you from the bed, to the bathroom, and to the bathtub. He brushed your teeth, detangled your hair, and changed your clothes. You fought him in the ways that you could. It didn’t matter. Rafe did what he wanted. You kept trying to hate him.

One morning, you finally had the strength to pick yourself off the bed. You looked down at your hands and legs. Some of the bruising on your inner arms had started to fade, some had scarred. You could already tell there was more meat on your bones. Your stomach didn’t ache with hunger. You smoothed your hand down over your dress. The yellow night gown was light-weight, smooth and your fingers traced over the lacy floral designs that decorated it. It barely reached the middle of your thigh. And you were sure you’d never worn anything like this. You’d never worn anything this nice. Nothing so…delicate.

You wobbled towards the master bathroom. It was so big that even your steps seemed to echo. You gasped when you saw your appearance. Tentatively, you touched the skin of your face, unsure that it was really yours. You looked brighter, your eyes were no longer sunken in, the darkness under your eyes had smoothed out.

You looked away and wandered further into the bathroom. You took note of a modern soaking tub and a spacious shower with a rainfall shower head. You found the walk-in closet next, a heavy silence pressing against you. You were walking into someone else’s life, you were sure of that. It was neatly organized, large, and one side, from floor to ceiling, hung all of Rafe’s polished clothing.

On the other side was a stark contrast. Your fingers grazed over the soft fabric of a dress that was hanging at eye level. Silk, just like the one you were wearing, except this one would reach down past your knees. Soft hues of pink blush, pale golds, baby blues, and creamy whites filled the racks. More dresses. Skirts. Delicate. Frilly, even. The only pants you found were shorts and those were all silk as well. Pastel ribbons and lace.

Your fists squeezed at your side. Did he expect you to feel happy? This wasn’t yours. This was the wardrobe of some island princess. Who did he think you were? You closed your eyes tight. God, you just wanted to get high. This would all be easier if you didn’t have to feel. You could handle this. You could pretend to be what he wanted if he just let you get high.

You found Rafe on the balcony connected to the bedroom. Looking through the glass sliding door, you saw him leaning against the balcony’s railing, a phone pressed to his ear. The view behind him was dazzling. The sand was so white it was blinding. He wore board shorts and a cream-colored unbuttoned shirt. The conversation seemed tense.

This was your chance. You weren’t sure if you wanted to step forward or to run. You took a step back but just as you did, his head turned. He said something into the phone that you couldn’t hear. You turned quickly, too fast, you felt a headache coming on. You hurried to the bedroom door anyways, padding over a soft carpet, before you tried to yank at the large, mahogany doors. They didn’t budge. Of course.

You heard the glass doors slide open and the sound of crashing waves flooded your ears.

“You’re out of bed,” He said. You turned, pressing your back against the door, and mentally cursed. Rafe looked different too. He looked happy, hopeful, “Look at you… you look so good–”

“Where is this place?”

“Far, far away.”

You pressed a hand to you forehead, “God, I feel like shit.”

“I know,” Rafe spoke, eyes understanding, “It’s gonna be a process. But you - you look better than you have in so long.”

“I don’t–”

“You really do,” Rafe took a step forward. He was so handsome. Sometimes you forgot. He was tall, commanding, and he seemed to be coming into his own even more as his business became more successful. You hadn’t even seen the rest of the house but you never understood until now how successful he’d become. It made your stomach twist, “I love you like this.”

You shook your head defiantly, “At the detox clinic, they give you stuff to help with the cravings. Helps with the withdrawal. It’s too painful without. Just a small amount would help wean me off.”

“You’re not going to find a bottle of wine in this house. No pills. No stash under the sink. Best I can do is an ibuprofen.”

Your chest heaved and your eyes started to burn, “That’s not enough. You can’t just lock me up and expect me to raw dog my way through withdrawal.”

His expression didn’t change, even as your tears started to fall, “I hate to see you in pain. I’m here to take care of you but I need your cooperation. If you sit down on the bed, I’ll give you some pain medication.”

“I don’t want your fucking medicine!” Rafe’s jaw clenched, “Take me home!”

In a matter of seconds, he had you by your wrists, and was hauling you over to the bed, “You make this easier for yourself by listening. I’m done playing by your rules. I’m in control now. Do you hear me?” Rafe growled, pinning your arms above your head. His knees parted your legs and he pressed his weight onto you, “You are going to be obedient.”

“You can’t do this,” You whined, struggling beneath him, “You can’t fucking do this!”

“I can!” His deep voice rumbled across your skin, and for the first time, you were actually scared of him, “I’ve decided I’m not going to let you kill yourself. I’ve decided you’re going to live and this is the life I’m giving you. You’re going to do what I say, when I say it. You’re going to eat three meals a day, exercise, take your fucking vitamins, breathe fresh air, and you’re going to act like you’re happy until it starts to feel real.”

“Fine, okay – just let go – you’re hurting me–”

He scoffed. “Hurting you? After what you’ve done to yourself? After what you’ve let happen to you? I’m the one hurting you?”

And then his mouth was on yours. Crushing. Possessive. Final.

It felt like love. Even though all his weight was on top of you and he hadn’t asked for your permission. It felt like love because of how gentle and hot his kisses were against your lips, against your neck, and against your jaw. He squeezed you tightly but not to bruise. Not because he was getting off on your pain.

It was a warm embrace. You tried to run from it. It was so overwhelming that he fit against you like a matching puzzle piece. Strong hips rocked against yours and it made you dizzy. It was perfect. Just what you needed. Your headache was gone, all you could feel was him, hard and heavy against you.

He pushed the top of your nightgown to the side, took your nipples into his mouth, and sucked until your back was arching. “Please don’t,” You begged but the more you talked, the less you were able to hear yourself, “Rafe, I can’t.”

He sounded like an animal, a deep rumbling in this throat, vibrated against your skin. Like you’d denied him so long of his primal instincts. This was your fault.

“So fucking beautiful,” It was out of your control. He’d decided that you were ready. He got you there easily. Rocking against your hips, grinding into you, making your juices soak through your lacy yellow panties. You were so ready that when he finally pushed inside of you, he met no resistance at all, “All mine.”

Your head tilted back just as a strong hand wrapped around your throat. You screamed but he didn’t stop. He went faster, thrusted deeper, “Look at you,” He spoke in a low rasp, “You’re gonna come already, aren’t you?”

You gritted your teeth. It was painful. You tried to push the pleasure away. He noticed and became relentless. You screamed again, “Fucking feel it,” he commanded, “Fuck, you’re fucking perfect. Made for me. You can take it. Fucking take it.”

Clenching around him, your body betrayed your mind. Reisting had made it worse. You convulsed around him and he tightened his grip around your throat. You expected a break, some sort of relief, when Rafe finally pulled out of you. Your muscles were still twitching, squeezing, your walls ached. You felt empty.

He flipped your body easily. Your fingers clenched the sheets as he pulled your underwear down to your ankles. A series of spanks against your bare ass made you yelp but you kept still. He pressed his weight down on you again, sliding into your welcoming hole from behind. At this angle, he could go even deeper. He kissed above your ear, “Good girl,” Your lips formed a permanent “o”, “Stay like that. My good girl.”

You came again. This time because of the voice in your ear. It put you in a daze. You didn't know if you wanted to cry or to beg him to stop, but the words didn’t come. Only the sound of his praise, "Good girl," "You're perfect", each word tightening its hold on you, sinking deeper inside. Finally he softly said an, “I love you so much”. You hadn’t ever felt anything like this. Consumed and cared for. Used and loved. It was everything, all at once.

Rafe didn’t sugar-coat his intentions. He was training you. You made the mistake of showing him that he could give you pleasure. That your mind melted when he was fucking you. He could make you chase after the orgasms. It was the only high he provided you.

You ate all three meals provided to you and he’d bury his face between your legs on top of the kitchen table. You went out to the pool and swam with him instead of throwing vases, he fucked you hard against a lounge chair. You went a whole week without asking him for drugs and he’d fingered you until you lost your voice. You wore a bow in your hair, a pink mini dress he picked out, and sat in his lap while he worked in his office and you came for the first time with his finger in your ass.

You’d replaced one addiction with another. You still thought about your old life almost every hour of every day but the pleasure took the edge off.

The first time you’d seen another person other than a cleaning lady was when Barry, Rafe’s business partner, came to visit. He warned you to be on your best behavior. You saw it as a chance to be on Rafe’s good side for a long time. Maybe that meant you would be able to get away with more. Maybe that meant he’d do that thing again where he tied you down to the bed, put a vibrator on your clit, and made you cum over and over.

They were out together, surveying whatever Rafe’s secret project was. He still kept all his business under wraps. All you knew was that there was gold involved. And you’d only heard that when you were eavesdropping on one of his calls.

When they returned at dinnertime, you had dinner and a dessert ready. Grilled mahi-mahi and sweet potatoes for the entree and chocolate cake for dessert. You started early, knowing you might burn your first attempt. Luckily, you perfected the recipe on the second attempt.

You chose a floral, white dress, one that was low-cut and showed off your ever developing breasts. You were slightly insecure about them but Rafe complimented your blossoming figure consisting.

Rafe eyed you cautiously but Barry was more than impressed. You hugged Barry to greet him and you felt the man’s hands linger on your waist for a moment too long.

You made conversation easily. Your tone was light, almost fake, but this was how Rafe wanted you. You smiled until it felt real. Barry thought all of his jokes were funny. You laughed politely.

You served them both chocolate cake, leaning over each of them as you scooped a slice on to each of their plates. Rafe eyed you again, “After dessert, should we all get in the pool?” You asked, your eyes flirty and on Barry. He smiled, gold-tooth flashing.

“That sounds–”

Rafe interrupted him, “You want a beer, Barry?”

Your heart pounded. Your lips parted, “A beer?”

“Uh, yeah, sure,” Barry responded, unaware of the tension between you and Rafe.

“Angel, could you get two beers for me and Barry from the fridge in the pantry? I had some flown in the other day,” You hid your hands behind your back, to hide how bad they’d started shaking.

You hadn’t noticed any beers. Then again, you hadn’t looked in that fridge in awhile. What was he doing? Without another word, you turned on your heels and made your way to the pantry. To your surprise, and likely, your downfall, there was a pack of beers in the fridge.

Shaking you picked up two. Just two. You stared down at them, cold, condensation dripping down the glasses. Fuck. You hadn’t chosen this. Rafe chose this. It was just beer. It wasn’t a hard drug. He didn’t have the right to do this. He was testing you.

It took everything in you to walk back to the table and set them in front of each of the men, “Thanks, sweet thing.”

Still trembling, you sat back down in your seat. You were sweating. You watched both of them. Rafe’s strong hands twisted open his bottle. You sat eerily still as the men enjoyed their dessert and the alcohol. The conversation continued without you.

You tuned back in when you heard Rafe say, “Why don’t you head out there, Barry, and we’ll join you in a second.”

Barry’s eyes flicked between you and Rafe, suspicious, before he said, “Sure.”

When the coast was clear, Rafe asked, “What are you trying to do?”

“What?” You asked though your attention was fixed on his glass.

“You’re trying to get something,” Rafe said. Of course you were. All addicts do is use other people to get what they want.

You didn’t move your eyes from the glass.

“Hey, look at me,” And you did. It had become second nature. Do as your told, “You’re strong. You’ve been doing so good.”

“I’m not,” You disagreed.

Rafe tilted his head back, taking a sip, “You’re my good girl, right?”

“Yes,” You said quickly, “I’m trying. Maybe if I could just have a sip–”

“I know what you really want, Y/N, and you know I can’t give you that,” Rafe continued, voice steady, “You know what I can give you though.”

You nodded, “Okay,” You rubbed your hands nervously over your dress. Your palms were sweaty, “Can I have your cock, please? Can you make me cum?”

“Stand up, lift up your dress and bend over the table,” You did so quickly. You even made sure to pull down your panties. You were already wet. He didn’t need to warm you up. Sometimes you liked it better when he skipped the foreplay and went straight for what he wanted. You liked it. You had a purpose. You had love.

He didn’t move immediately. He watched you. He took his time, finished his beer.

“All this was because you wanted a reward, huh?”

“Yes, Rafe.”

His chair scraped against the marble floor as he stood. God, you were soaked. If he could just touch you –“You trying to manipulate me now? Use my friend to get what you want?”

“N-No–”

He spanked you so hard you screamed, one of your legs kicking up as you tried to fight through the pain, “Y-Yes, I-I’m sorry!”

“I know when you’re lying. I’ve always fucking known. You’re bad at it.”

“I’m sorry,” Another spank. You winced.

“You’re not gonna have a sip of beer. You’re not gonna cum either, okay?”

“Rafe, please, I’ll be–” Five hard spanks.

“Shut up, angel,” Five more spanks, “This is what this has all been about. Discipline. Not giving into temptation. You’re so close to getting it.”

Shame. You used to run from it. You were so ashamed of your life and your decisions that you wanted to feel nothing. With Rafe, you felt everything. Shame. Depression. Happiness. Pleasure. All of it. He didn’t let you run from it.

He kept going until you were sobbing and your thighs were glistening with the need that had dripped down from your aching center.

When he was done, he was out of breath. You were sorry. So sorry. He was right. You just needed more discipline, “Thank you,” You whispered, pulling your body from the table. Your body had grown stronger but you were still so much weaker than him. Part of you liked that, “Thank you, Rafe.”

You got down to you knees, “For what, angel?”

“For caring,” Your voice was so weak. You hugged his leg, rested your head against his knee, “Thank you for caring.”

He bent down, brushing a hand through your hair before trailing his fingers gently along your cheek. You leaned into his touch instinctively, eyes fluttering closed.

“I want you to go upstairs,” he murmured, “put on your swimsuit—the one-piece with the sunflowers. Then grab one of my belts and lay it on the bed and come back down.”

“I’m going to spank you again tonight,” he continued, almost reverent. “And I want you to thank me again. Just like this. Just as perfect as you are right now.”

Your body obeyed before your mind could catch up. Trembling legs brought you up the stairs. You’d never felt like this before. You wanted Rafe to be proud of you.

Reblogs w/ your thoughts are the best way to support me! Please message me with drabble ideas for this au if you have any :)

#— lari's fic recs #dark fic #obx rafe cameron #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron #rafe cameron x black!reader #black!reader #outer banks smut #rafe outer banks #rafe cameron fanfiction

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planetallure · 3 months ago

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best friends dad!jj kissing you for the first time

classes were done, meaning it was another summer spent primarily at the maybank house. it's been this way since you were in 1st grade when you and reed maybank became friends. for years you've gone back and forth between her house and yours, experiencing all the growing pains of becoming young women.

the primary pain being unfortunately boys. every weekend it seems like you were forced to hear her recount some sordid affair with a new guy, and here you were, still a virgin, feeling like a desperate loser every time guys came up to talk to her and ignore you. you didn't want to feel resentful but you did. you were just as pretty as her, just as funny, you were just shy is all. but still, you played the dutiful friend giggling and exclaiming accordingly as she bragged about some frat boys reaction to her ass.

the entire time you fought back tears as she asked why you don't go on dates and when you were finally gonna just fuck someone.

apparently "because no one asks" isnt a sufficient enough answer, which led to a 5 minute grill session that left you feeling worse by the end of it.

you were glad when she finally went to sleep, it gave you time to cry a little undisturbed.

by the time you finished it was 2am and you were dehydrated, so you padded your way into the kitchen, the cool floors giving you some relief in the humid air.

it would have been fine, cry a bit, you get some juice then you cry a bit more. but here lies jj maybank, the object of your affection for most of your formative years--and your best friends dad.

you were so focused on your own misery you didn't even notice him shirtless. any other night that would have lifted your spirits. instead you were trying to hide your puffy, wet eyes.

"see you're midnight marauding too huh kiddo." he gives you a tired smile before it quickly morphs into one of slight concern, "you aight? you're normally a stinker but never a crybaby."

there's truth in that, you were sort of the cynic in your friend group, a little more melancholy than the other vibrant girls. growing up jj said he could always depend on you to keep it real amongst the others. maybe that was the problem.

for the first time in forever you feel uncomfortable around him, "mmm...bad night"

jj shifts, "wanna talk?"

"not really."

"well. want a shot?"

you snort, letting out a laugh despite yourself, "sure why not, already got a headache."

with a wink he grabs the whiskey and a glass, pouring you both a full shot before clinking glasses and knocking them back--him with barely a twitch while you gag at the burn.

"jesus christ what is this gasoline?" pushing past him you go for the fridge, reaching for the juice as you take several swigs to get rid of the taste. despite it, you do feel more relaxed.

so relaxed in fact you dont notice him behind you until you see his arm reach around, taking the bottle from you so he can drink himself.

"hope you feel a little better at least?" jj looks smug looking down at you in a way you haven't seen before.

he's looking at you the way guys look at reed.

"not really..."

"why?" fuck you thought he was past all that.

you can feel the heat crawling up your throat, eyes welling with tears as you stumble, "uh-umm. just. i don't think people like me."

the air hangs heavy and you're scared to look at him, to see the pity on his face as he absorbs what you said.

"well i like you kiddo."

"i don't think...guys like me."

there's no pause this time, "i like you. kid"

finally you look, and you see his brows furrowed as he gazes down at you and it's so intense you look away, moving back towards the counter to put some distance between you.

you choose to focus on the snarling dog covering his left hand and wrist, "you know that tattoo used to terrify me as a kid."

he follows your gaze, flexing his hand, "yeah?"

"gave me nightmares. had one about it jumping off and eating me whole."

jj gives you a proper laugh, stretching his hand so it covered your face, "still could if you aint careful." he tweaks your nose, just to make you laugh, but his finger trails, running across your lips before slipping inbetween.

on instinct you suck, eyes fluttering at the salty taste of the pads of his fingers. heart pounding as he lets himself loose and pulls you closer.

your heart feels like its throbbing in your throat, and you barely squeak out a word before his lips are on yours, the acrid taste of booze underlying fruit punch. all it takes in one gasp and his tongue is in your mouth, moving against yours in expert strokes. you clumsily try to keep up, kissing him back with fervor as he pulls you closer.

he's hard against your stomach, twitching slightly when he brings a hand up to thumb your hard nipple through your shirt.

that makes you pull back, the sudden jolt of arousal his touch gives you, and your panting, not wanting to break the string of saliva stil connecting your lips together.

jj does it for you, giving you one more closed mouth kiss against your wet lips before he mumbles, "told you kid, i like you. now go get some sleep."

you expect him to just let you go, but instead he walks you back, watching to make sure you're back in bed before leaving. and you're left there, still brimming with it all while your best friend sleeps beside you.

#*sigh*#pass me the black and mild

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planetallure · 3 months ago

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im cooking wait. bc ur already the weirdo of your friends. labeled the crybaby (because they pick with you more than anyone else) and honestly you should fuck her dad. the amount of times you came over and she “accidentally” left you when her and the other girls neglected to tell you they were leaving early

the amount of times youve just stayed over and jj had the break the news to you they they ditched you. so he would order pizza let you buy a movie and sit with you the whole time telling you youre a nice girl and you didnt deserve it and he never minds spending the night with you and hes sorry his daughter can be a bit of a bitch.

its a miracle you didnt fuck him earlier.

#mrowww

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planetallure · 3 months ago

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planetallure · 3 months ago

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*scrapes the floor as i pull out my soapbox*

*sigh* i’ve been waiting for this.

i’ve been here since the beginning, since “rise”. i remember everything and everyone. sayyed, millie, nuha, bear, kai, and ofc micah and rafe. i remember everything that the reader went through from the moment they found out about the world ended on the side of the road, to the very end where she fought for the end of her suffering, and all the horrible things rafe did to her in between.

i remember the finale and how i read it in my room in complete darkness under my blanket. i remember being shocked and devastated and having to take days away to gather myself and my thoughts.

i also recall it being said that chapter 8 would be the reveal and just like then i had to step away after finding out.

i mean…ofc. it had to be him. he had to “lose” to be “punished” to “suffer” and reader had to be free of hers. after everything, she deserved to be free of him one way or another. his punishment was life without her and everyone he ever knew. no longer the big bad monster. he was nothing, to no one, all at one. it helps me sleep at night to think that sayyed was waiting for her on the other side.

as for our current reader…lord. it was jarring seeing him flip the switch so fast on her. even though it was to be expected. seeing him switch back and forth…men really are great until the gotta be. mask? off. like this man is different kind of sick. he didn’t have lackies, he killed his entire family on. his. own.

and unlike our previous reader, she’s completely isolated, right from the start. everyone she knew is gone.

i genuinely don’t know what to expect next. for reader or for rafe. the way i see it, they’re both in grave danger. i have a feeling he’ll try to overstay his welcome though. he might even try to get at reader and make her his new victim or maybe just be too friendly and talkative with her for ransoms liking. either way i don’t see him lasting too long. this is ransom’s story after all. but who knows. i’ve been gagged and gooped before lol.

it really is such a gift to be able to read your work.

Summit : Chapter Eight

A Ransom Drysdale Series

[THIS STORY WILL CONTAIN THEMES OF NON-CON/DUB-CON, MENTAL-EMOTIONAL-PHYSICAL ABUSE, ETC. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK. 18+. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT]

WC: 3.7k

Dividers provided by @firefly-graphics

CHAPTER SEVEN | MASTERLIST | CHAPTER NINE

It was an hour before dawn when you scared yourself awake, nearly falling off a loveseat in the sitting room. You rubbed at your eyes but glanced around worriedly. You couldn’t recall the dream, rather nightmare, you were just having, but it left goosebumps caked across your skin. Gathering your sanity, you reached down to touch your ankle that rested on a pillow. You had found some painkillers stashed away after your bath so when you touched your ankle, you felt almost nothing.

You tested the limits of your ankle by standing up. It was still dull & uncomfortable but you could manage walking. You had to.

The storm had passed & glancing out the windows proved that it was calm outside then. You couldn’t waste a moment longer. Ransom could be back at any minute. You needed to have the right questions before you accused him of anything.

Rushing as quickly as possible towards the back, you swung open the back door & half-walked, half-limped to the greenhouse. Your gear was still in there but you’d move it back later. Right now, what you needed to find was a shovel. Fortunately, you found one very quickly & used it as a cane as you began trekking through the forest to find the horrifying discovery you made the previous night.

It took you about fifteen minutes thanks to your swollen ankle, but you eventually found it. Again, once you spotted the exposed bones, you hesitated walking towards it, fearful of what you’d unbury, of who. But you swallowed your discomfort & forced yourself onwards.

The heavy rain had softened the earth so you had little need for the shovel as you dug at the dirt around the finger with your hands. Mud caked your fingers & palms but you kept going, determined to uncover the truth. Bile rose in your throat as you uncovered the space around the finger, surely leading to more fingers, a hand, a wrist, & so on. Part of you questioned whether or not you should keep going. Perhaps you should just leave. Pack your things & go. Ransom will likely search for you, but you could have a head start.

But you couldn’t just leave. You had to know.

Pressing your lips together, you kept on. Your hands & fingers ached but you eventually managed to expose the first face. You brought your hands to your mouth as you stared at the face buried in dirt before you.

It was Meg. You recognized her from the family photos. Her eyes were squeezed shut, but her mouth open, covered in dirt. It had been her finger protruding through the earth. You fell backwards, your thoughts racing.

This was wrong. Everything about it.

Everything Ransom told you… it was a lie?

You knew it had to be as you reasoned with what was before you. Her flesh was still on her bones. That wouldn’t have been the case if she died over a year ago. And her mouth was open… her finger exposed. She had been alive, trying to claw her way out.

Oh, my god. You felt tears prick at your eyes.

Ransom…

You didn’t want to believe it. How could you? But you knew better. This is what your father trained you for years for. The dangers of humanity.

Trying to ignore looking at her face, you continued to uncover the space around her. You switched to the shovel, wanting to move faster. The painkillers were beginning to wear off but you couldn’t stop. Your adrenaline & pursuit of truth was stronger.

The shovel hit against something soft but also dense. It was another body. You fell to your knees & dug quickly at the ground like a starving wolf.

Another face. It was one of the aunt’s.

You finished exposing the rest of the body. She was completely intact.

You recalled what Ransom had said about his aunts & how they died…

‘There was nothing left of Joni & Donna after he got his hands on them. They looked like fish food.’

She wasn’t torn up, but she was murdered. A bullet hole was centered on her forehead.

Unable to contain your disgust, you collapsed sideways of the gravesite & vomited. Little came out, mostly stomach acid, but you kept vomiting. When it had finally subsided, you willed yourself to continue.

You had to have been out there for another hour or so, enough time for the sky to lighten. By the time you finished uncovering the whole truth, you stood above the bodies, staring hopelessly down at them.

The uncles were there, the cousin, Jacob—who Ransom said never made it back to the mansion when they left for Worcester.

A couple of them had decomposed more so than others but they were all still relatively fresh. Meaning they hadn’t been dead long.

And nothing, absolutely nothing that Ransom told you had been the truth.

You had to leave. Now.

Fate worked against you as you found your way back to the estate & ran inside. Your ankle wailed but you pushed yourself as you climbed the stairs to your bedroom on the second floor.

You didn’t want to confront Ransom. There was nothing he could say or do to ever make you trust him again. All you needed to do was get out unscathed, & fast.

But just as you began shoving your things into your backpack, you heard the engine of a truck grow closer to the mansion.

No.

Rushing out of the bedroom, you ran into a spare room across the hall & pressed your face against the window. It was Ransom. In the bed of the truck was a generator. At least that had been true. But no matter, you had to hurry.

Returning back to your room, you zipped up your backpack & spun around to leave. You were still missing a few items but you didn’t care. Your flight instinct had kicked in & you needed to leave immediately.

But just as you made a few steps down the stairs, you spotted Ransom through the window by the front door. He had yet to see you. You attempted to move faster down the stairs, hoping you’d be out of sight before he ever swung the door open, but your ankle croaked in pain & you felt your legs slip out from under you.

Pain erupted through your body as you fell down the stairs, knocking your limbs every which way along the way. Then a hot white flash pierced your mind as you smacked the back of your head on the wooden floor.

Stars blanketed your vision & you groaned, trying to get up, but none of your limbs would work.

You heard the front door open, followed by a concerned voice before Ransom’s face appeared in your line of sight.

He frowned down at you as he reached for you.

You tried to fight him off, mouthing ‘no’ over & over again. But soon your vision darkened & the world you knew disappeared.

When you came to, you winced. But it was muffled & you wriggled your head to wake yourself. As you did, you found yourself sitting at one end of the dining room table. You felt a cloth wrapped your face, covering your mouth. When you made to remove it, you realized your arms had been tied behind you to the chair you sat in.

Glancing down, panic soaring through you, you were horrified to see yourself in another vintage style dress. Your knees were exposed & you noted the bruises on them.

Your memory came rushing back to you as you recalled your last moments. Finding the gravesite, learning the truth about Ransom, trying to escape before slipping down the stairs. But now you were tied up, unable to defend yourself.

Frightened, you began pulling at your restraints but to no vain. They had been secured tightly. Tears pricked at your eyes.

A whistling sounded from the kitchen & you felt your heart nearly stop.

The whistling grew closer & then Ransom appeared in the threshold from the kitchen, carrying two plates of food. His eyes landed on yours & he smiled solemnly.

“Good. You’re awake.” His tone was light but there a coldness to it, a disconnect.

You watched him as he circled around to your end of the table before placing a dish before you.

“Took quite a fall, kiddo.” He shared before sitting down in the chair to the right of you.

“Was gonna let you rest on the couch but then…” He sighed, staring blankly at the wall across from him, “I saw what you did.”

His eyes flashed to yours & there was a darkness lying there.

“Why, _____?” He almost sounded… heartbroken. “Why’d you have to go out there? I specifically told you not to leave the house.”

A dark chuckle sounded from the depths of his chest as he shook his head, “But I should’ve known better. You are just a kid, after all. You don’t listen.”

You struggled against the restraints once more & his eyes peeked a glance at your attempts. He took a sip from a glass of wine before him, sucking his teeth before speaking, “Wouldn’t bother if I were you. Only way you’ll get out of them is if I let you.”

His proclamation made you struggle harder.

He took a bite of his food, chewing thoughtfully as you whined behind your lips & felt your skin burning from the ropes. He hummed lightly to himself, likely enjoying your pitiful attempts.

A fit of frustration could be heard behind your muffled covered mouth. Ransom stared at you, his face expressionless.

“I know you’re probably thinking the mouth cover is pointless given your choice to be mute—” Actually, I’m thinking you’re a psychotic. “But it’s meaningful to me. Symbolic, if you will.”

Ransom reached out to brush his knuckles against your cheek & you jolted away. Anger graced his features.

“Ungrateful shit.” He seethed, “Only reason you’re alive is because of me.”

Inhaling deeply, he appeared to calm himself down, his nostrils flaring, before he returned his eyes to yours.

“I’m sure you have questions, & I’m willing to answer them.” He reached out again & this time you were unable to avoid his touch. He grasped your chin harshly, forcing you to face him, “For a price, of course.”

You narrowed your eyes at him in defiance. Whatever it was, you would not do it.

“As always, I only ask for your voice. Want answers? Then ask them.” He squeezed, making you wince, “Properly.”

As he let go, he swiftly tore the covering from your mouth, leaving a wake of stinging pain along your mouth. It had been tape.

“So.” He swirled his glass of wine before leaning back in his chair, “Ask away.”

But you pursed your lips, gathering what little saliva you could conjure up, & spit at him.

Your assault landed directly on his face, right in the crevice of one of his nostrils.

Ransom fluttered his eyes closed, his teeth baring only slightly. He reached for a cloth napkin & wiped at his face before eyeing the spit. Then his eyes flashed to yours.

Before you could brace yourself, he backhanded you. Your cheek erupted with a scorching heat & his assault had hit you so hard your chair had slightly lifted.

A small, quiet gasp escaped you & you tasted blood on your tongue as the corner of your mouth seeped.

He was quick to stabilize your chair before practically shoving his face into yours, “One more time like that & I’ll bury you with the rest of them.”

Then he kicked his own chair out from beneath him. Swiftly, he grabbed his plate of food & threw it across the room. The sound of glass shattering made you jump slightly. Ransom’s chest was heaving before he braced both closed fists on top of the table.

“Great.” He laughed half-heartedly, “Waste of food.”

He stood straight, cracking his neck both ways before his eyes fell to you. You stared up at him wide-eyed.

“We could have been happy.” Ransom fell to a single knee before he rested both his hands on your thighs, “We can still be happy. What you saw out there… that’s not me. You don’t know the full story. But I’ll tell you everything. I’ll answer all your questions, just—” He squeezed your thighs tightly, making your muscles tense at the action, “Talk to me.”

A shudder parted your lips & Ransom must’ve mistook it for you attempting to talk.

“C’mon, you can do it, I know you can. You did before you passed out.”

What? You frowned at him, confused.

“You told me ‘no’.” He grinned like a love-sick puppy, “I heard it. It was breathy, but you spoke. So I know you can talk.”

You remembered saying ‘no’ internally, perhaps mouthing it, but you didn’t actually say the words. Did you?

“One word, that’s it. Just ask me ‘why’. One word & I’ll tell you everything, I’ll let you go, & we can keep going. I don’t want to hurt you.” His eyes softened before one of his hands slipped in between your thighs. It didn’t move any further beyond that & you were grateful, but you were still at the mercy of that monster.

“But I will if I have to.”

And you believed him. You’d be an idiot not to. You were an idiot in the first place for ever believing a word he said, for even staying at the estate, for letting him help you. You should’ve left the first time. Walked away & never known the horrors that lied buried beneath the property.

Ultimately, you knew you needed to survive. Dying wasn’t an option. You fucked up one time by choosing to trust in Ransom, you would not make the mistake again. But you did need him to trust you. Only then could you succeed in escaping his clutches.

Nodding once, you felt a single tear escape.

“Yeah?” Ransom appeared overjoyed before reaching behind him to drag his chair closer. He sat down, his knees brushing against yours as he waited for you to speak.

“Wh—” You swallowed, your mouth dry. It sounded only like air passing through your lips, but Ransom’s eyes widened with hope.

It had been a long time since you spoke, you forgot what your own voice sounded like, you weren’t sure you’d recognize it anymore. Clearing your throat, you jutted your chin towards his wine. Ransom pieced together what you were asking & quickly brought the rim of the glass to your lips. You took a healthy sip, wetting your lips & soothing your dry throat.

“Wh—” It was cut short by the sound of pounding at the front door.

Both you & Ransom froze, your eyes connecting.

Did you hear that right? It sounded like someone was---

Another set of pounding knocks sounded through the mansion.

It was real!

Before you could use what little sound you could produce to scream, Ransom slapped a hand over your mouth.

“Shut your mouth, shut up!” He gritted out. You whined behind his palm, attempting to bite at it, but he was quick to replace his hand with the cloth napkin he used to wipe your spit off his face. He stuffed it deep into your mouth & you choked, trying to turn your head away.

“I need help! Please!” A muffled voice sounded from near the front.

It was a man’s voice & he sounded like he was panicking.

Ransom disappeared into the kitchen. You took the opportunity to try & scoot your chair away from the table. You’d never make it to the door in time, especially given the state & position you were in, but if you could make yourself fall over just as Ransom opened the door, you could draw the strangers attention.

But alas, Ransom reappeared in the dining room, this time carrying a gun. It wasn’t a hunting rifle either, but an actual handgun.

No!

You couldn’t let him kill another person.

Ransom was about to surpass you, stomping towards the hallway, but you forced yourself to muffle words from behind the cloth. He stopped in his tracks, his eyes falling to yours. Immediately, he rushed over to you & removed the cloth, “What, what is it? What’d you say?”

You shook your head, tears falling yet again, “Do—don’t.”

A euphoric expression birthed on his face as he stared at you in adoration.

“There it is.” He closed the distance & pressed his lips to yours. You whined into the kiss, trying to remove yourself from it but he kept a hand at the back of your head to keep you in place.

“Hello?!” The voice sounded again, “I know you’re there! Please, I’m bleeding bad.”

Ransom pulled away from you, his eyes glancing to the hallway before they returned to you.

“You don’t want me to kill him?” He asked as if it was wildest request you could ask of him.

You shook your head fast, begging him with your eyes. Forcing yourself into his favor, your rested your forehead against his own.

Ransom released a breath of air, nodding once, “Okay.”

He cupped your cheek, to which you leant into it, “But no promises.”

With that, Ransom left you in the dining room but not before stuffing your mouth with the cloth yet again.

Tears blurred your vision but you remained still to listen.

You heard the door swing open, followed by a dull thud.

“Thank you, thank you.” The man voiced, “I fuckin’ fell in the dark. I think I broke my arm.”

You had yet to hear Ransom speak which only worried you.

Silence followed for some time & you felt your nerves begin to skyrocket. What was going on?

But not a moment later, did you hear footfalls sound behind you. You glanced over your shoulder & spotted Ransom just as he re-entered the dining room.

“Guy needs help. We’ll help him then he’ll leave.” Ransom announced quietly to you.

We?

Just as the thought passed through your head, Ransom produced a pocketknife from his pocket before cutting at your restraints. Immediately, you brought your arms to your front, rubbing away the pain from the ropes digging into your skin. But Ransom was quick to yank you to your feet, capturing your chin in his hands, “One word to him & I’ll kill you both. Understand?”

You nodded, knowing it to be true. But this was your chance. If you somehow got the stranger to help you, you could overpower Ransom.

Ransom dragged you along as he entered the kitchen, pulling out medical supplies from one of your survival kits. You felt yourself shaking but accepted whatever he handed you. Once Ransom had everything, he led you towards the sitting room.

Upon entering the room, your eyes landed on a young man, probably not much older than you, as he sat in one of the chairs. The shirt he wore was torn at the hem & dirtied from however long he had been wearing it for. His hair was longer, past his ears, & he had a short, scruffy beard. His eyes raised to yours, widening slightly, likely not expecting there to be another person.

Ransom grunted to the man for him to move his arm & rest it on the table.

“I’m going to set it, she’s going to wrap it.”

“Yeah, alright.” He responded, his eyes meeting yours once more.

You lowered your eyes & got to your knees beside Ransom.

“Need something to bite on?” Ransom questioned, none-so-gently grabbing the strangers arm.

“Just fuckin’ get it over with.” The man contorted his face, preparing for the pain.

“On three.” Ransom glanced between the two of you.

“One—” Then he snapped the strangers bone back into place.

“Fuck!” The man yelled, immediately trying to jolt backwards, but Ransom was quick to keep his stable so you could quickly wrap the arm. You had been too distracted by the stranger & trying to convey your problems with your eyes you had missed the bone sticking out of his arm. The open wound gushed with blood & Ransom quickly reached for a bottle of liquor to pour over the wound.

The man hissed, cursing under his breath. You worked as fast & steadily as you could given the circumstances as you wrapped his arm. Once you finished, Ransom stood up, stepping over you, “I’ll get you something for the pain.”

You watched as Ransom left the room. The second he disappeared from sight, you spun back towards the man. He was resting his back against one of the cushioned chairs, holding his arm in his other hand with his eyes closed as he focused on his breathing.

“A—” It was only a small sound but enough for him to open his eyes.

He gave you a strange look, his brows furrowing, “Thanks.”

You moved your mouth again, unable to find words.

“Hel—”

“Sorry ‘bout her.” Ransom appeared, making you jump, “She’s mute.”

The stranger’s eyes rose from yours to Ransom.

“Seems like she’s trying to say something.”

“That so?” Ransom grinned wryly, his eyes falling to yours. You glanced back at him, shaking your head once.

“She tries sometimes, but it comes out garbled. Best to ignore her than entertain her.”

“Right.” The man said, tossing you a confused look.

“Your arm should be fine now.” Ransom shared, “We’ll give it a night but come morning you’re outta here.”

The man scoffed, narrowing his eyes, “Very hospitable.”

Ransom didn’t appreciate the challenge masked behind sarcasm, “I could rebreak it & send you on your way instead.”

The stranger chuckled lightly but raised his uninjured arm in surrender, “I’m good.”

Ransom then handed the man a few pills with a glass of water.

“Name’s Ransom.”

“The fuck kind of name is that?” The man questioned as he downed the pills & chugged the water.

Ransom cocked his head, “This is _____.”

“Right, Ransom & _____, the mute.”

“That’s right. And yours?”

The man wiped at his mouth, his eyes dancing between the two of you, “Rafe. My name is Rafe Cameron.”

teehee! i know it's been a hot minute but hopefully this juicy chapter makes up for it!

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#dark!ransom drysdale #ransom drysdale #ransom drysdale x reader #dark!ransom drysdale x reader #ransom drysdale fanfiction #dark!fic #dark!fanfiction #non con fic #dark!fics #non con fiction

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