
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/9218108.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Assassin's_Creed_-_All_Media_Types
  Relationship:
      Haytham_Kenway/Reader
  Character:
      Haytham_Kenway, Reader
  Additional Tags:
      can_be_read_as_underage, tw_for_manipulation, Dubcon_Kissing, Prompt
      Fill, this_is_so_bad_omfg
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-01-06 Words: 5294
****** Impropriety ******
by subjxctsixteen_(astxrwar)
Summary
     Haytham has a student, and she is perfect. He, of course, is
     endlessly infatuated.
Notes
     Prompt: Soooo... Idk how u feel abt kinky shit but I'd die for some
     daddy kink, age difference ac rogue haytham? just... i have such a
     thing for age differences and power play and i just get that feel
     from him yknow? I was thinking like... reader is his protege and
     studies under him as a templar in training and one day he finds her
     snooping around his room and like... he pretends to be mad at her
     just so that he can comfort her afterwards (because he’s manipulative
     and a Bad Man) and that leads to some dubious consent kissing which
     leads to full consent kissing and also maybe some touching and the
     reader is super unsure abt it bc… she’s a virgin but Haytham’s
     totally into it for the whole control reason, right? And there’s a
     lot of praise kink shit going on and eventually the reader calls him
     “daddy” and his reaction is to be totally into it. I just want some
     manipulative haytham and a younger reader with daddy kink and praise
     kink thrown in. Please.
     Author's Note: hoooo boy this went overboard BIG TIME i am SO SORRY
She’s his  protege . She’s his student and his success story and his good luck
charm and his  masterpiece,  really, but mostly she’s just  his.
Undoubtedly  and  wholeheartedly  his.
He finds her one evening searching through his quarters-- looking for answers,
no doubt, searching for information to fill in the gaps of what he had deigned
to tell her about Templars, about what it means to be one. And perhaps she
wants to find even a glimpse into who the Grand Master really is, beyond his
interactions with her. It’s not really disobeying; Haytham hadn’t explicitly
forbade her from doing so, and in retrospect it was only natural for her to
want to know more. That’s why she was chosen, after all-- the undying thirst to
know, to discover and learn; it was something to be cultivated.
He isn’t angry.
No, not in the slightest, but when he orders her out from his closet where she
had hidden he forces his voice to be hard and cold-- and her reaction is
instantaneous.
She  wilts.
Her face freezes with an expression of paralyzing dismay-- not at being caught,
no, but at angering her mentor-- and her eyes are wide and frightened and her
bottom lip is trembling and,  oh,  Haytham thinks, he’s slightly drunk on just
how much  power  he holds over her. Even though he shouldn’t be and even though
the fact that he  is  means that he is, in all likelihood, a bad,  bad  man.
Unfortunate,  he thinks, altogether disinterested with that train of thought.
He orders her to sit down, keeps his voice stern and slightly irritated as he
commands her to tell him what she had been doing, sees her squirm and hug her
arms to her chest before she gathers enough courage to answer.
Her explanation is as expected.
It comes tumbling out in quick, jumbled-up snippets, but Haytham quickly gets
the point-- it had been an innocent mistake, she had only wanted to find
answers, to  understand  the mess she had been dragged into. She wanted to know
what it meant to be a Templar, and what better way to get the truth than to
search for information from the Grand Master himself? And, of course, that had
led to some harmless snooping, which would explain why his desk was not as he
left it-- and then, she explains, she heard a sound from the bedroom, panicked,
and hid in the closet.
Her story finishes and he allows the silence to grow, until she’s suffocating
under the weight of it and he can see her struggling with the decision of
whether or not to speak.
“I’m --i’m sorry, sir,” she whispers, squirming in her seat under the harshness
of his gaze. “Are you-- are you angry with me?”
He looks at her a moment longer, expression impassive, watches as she struggles
to hold back what could only be tears.
He allows his expression to soften.  Finally.
“No, no,” he says, voice gentler, as she takes in a quick, shuddering breath,
staring hard at the floor. Haytham takes her chin between his forefinger and
thumb, tilts her head up until she’s looking at him, blue eyes wide and
slightly watery. “No, of course not. Shh. I was simply worried, I didn’t mean
to frighten you. It’s all right.”
Her expression flickers from surprise to relief to gratitude in a matter of
seconds, and Haytham smiles faintly, pulls her into his arms and rests his head
by her ear. “Oh, darling girl,” he murmurs, “Why would I ever be angry with
you?”
She shivers at his voice-- a low, rumbling baritone, impossibly smooth and
impossibly sure and perhaps a  little  too sensual given the current
circumstances.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbles against his chest, “I know, sir, but I just thought-
- you seemed so--”
He pulls back just enough to look at her, and she falls silent. Haytham doesn’t
speak for several long moments, each impossibly soft and incredibly intimate,
as he watches her come to her senses and realize their closeness. A blush
floods her cheeks, the sensation it evokes in his gut heady and sweet, but he
does nothing, content to let her scramble in her thoughts, no doubt wracked
with uncertainty and perhaps even  worry--
She tries to move back, and Haytham tightens his grip on her elbows, keeps her
pressed to his chest. She squirms, not quite trying to escape-- more just
expressing how completely out of her depth she finds herself.
“Look at me,” he says, voice soft, although it’s still an order.
She bites her lip, rolls it between her teeth, and Haytham’s eyes flicker to
her mouth, cherry-red and hopelessly enticing. He finds himself wondering what
it would be like to steal a kiss, maybe two, to trap her against the wall and
have her struggle with the morality of what they were going and ultimately
submit to her mentor who knows better, who she  trusts  to treat her kindly,
even in matters like that. It wouldn’t be too difficult to take what he wants,
if he were so inclined and if he were, possibly, a worse man than he had
originally thought.
No, he wouldn’t do that. Not to her.
My darling girl,  he thinks, rather fondly.
Her eyes finally meet his, and Haytham finds himself dragged away from his
fantasy with a startling amount of force.
“I’m sorry,” he finds himself saying sweetly, even though he very much isn’t.
“I’m terribly sorry for frightening you.”
She shakes her head stubbornly. “No, it’s-- You were right, sir, I shouldn’t
have--”
“You may do whatever you please here,” he interrupts her, keeping his voice
gentle, soft, comforting, and watching her slowly relax in his grip. It’s
amazing, what he can do to her with only his words, how he can so easily undo
his earlier actions with a kind voice and the slightest praise. “I should not
have been so angry. It was no wrongdoing of yours.”
“Master Kenway--”
“I’ve told you to call me Haytham,” he says, allowing the slightest curl of a
warm smile to find him.
He watches her falter, watches her search for a response and ultimately come up
with nothing. Again, he allows the silence to stretch, and stretch, and
stretch,  but this time instead of breaking it Haytham allows it to continue
until something has to give or snap or  shatter- -
He reaches out,  tsks  quietly, and smooths the stray hairs back from her face,
tucking the loose strands behind her ear and tracing down the side of her cheek
with his thumb, watching her carefully as she shivers with a mixture of
uncertainty and confusion.
“ Master  Ken--  Haytham,”  she mumbles, breaking the silence with a plea that
sounds more like a question-- and he’s too busy damn near groaning at the way
she says his name to wonder what the question is.
“Oh, darling girl,” he breathes, and she leans into the hand cupping her cheek-
-  finally,  he thinks, inwardly victorious-- and shuffles nervously, uncertain
of whether or not to press closer or move away, whether Haytham would even
allow her to do either. “ My  darling girl.”
He leans in, pulls her closer, feels her hands press against his chest--
And the kiss, when it comes, is perfect.
Her lips are warm and soft and pliable and her body is tense but she’s not
fighting it, teetering between protest and acceptance as he slants his mouth
over hers, the action unmistakably possessive and yet still  gentle.  Her body
is small and slender against his and he can’t help the desire to wrap an arm
around her waist and pull her to him. And she lets him, moves closer when he
urges her to, trembling hands flitting across his chest like she’s unsure of
what, exactly, she should be doing--
He breaks the kiss for a second and studies her face, memorizes the surprise
and confusion and innocence there like his life depends on it.
He kisses her again, just because he can, this one brief and chaste. And then
again, and again, and  again,  each time slightly longer, until finally he
pulls back and when he does--
When he pulls back she pushes up on her toes just a little, tries to chase him,
but loses the nerve or lacks the experience, although to Haytham the reason for
her faltering is, frankly, irrelevant.
He says nothing, but his eyebrows are raised and his expression is  knowing  as
he watches her blush and stammer and stare up at him with those wide,  wide
eyes--
And Haytham just hums, allows a victorious half smile to cross his features.
“What was that, darling? Would you like for me to kiss you again?” He asks,
voice surprisingly sweet, considering his intentions are anything but.
She bites her lip and worries it between her teeth as her hands form fists in
the thick woolen fabric of his overcoat.
Her response is so quiet he barely hears it.
“Master Kenway-- Haytham --” she starts. He smooths his thumb across her cheek
again, tips her chin up with his fingers, watches transfixed as even that
little bit of contact makes her hesitate and trail off-- and she looks
confused, he thinks, but also a little breathless and a little  curious , too.
He desperately wants to kiss her again, in earnest this time, but he doesn’t-
- not yet. He waits.
“Do you want me to?” He asks, smiling just a little, small and almost
predatory.
“I don’t know,” she mumbles fretfully. “We shouldn’t--”
“Did it feel good?” Haytham interrupts, still stroking the roundness of her
cheek with his thumb, the movement repetitive and obviously soothing. He lowers
his voice, lets it develop a smooth, almost smoky timbre. “Did it feel good
when I kissed you?”
She hesitates. And hesitates. And hesitates--
“Yes,” she admits shamefully. “Yes, but--”
“Did you enjoy it?”
She nods. Haytham bites back a victorious, nearly hungry smile.
“I did as well,” he murmurs, feels her shiver against him as his mouth lingers
by her ear. “Will you let me kiss you again? I’d very much like to, darling.”
She caves, and it’s delicious.
“Master Kenway,” she breathes, and it’s not an answer, not really, but it’s
what both of them need to hear, a reminder of the wrongness of the situation
and the impropriety of it all, the fact that he is and will always be her
mentor first and foremost, regardless of what will inevitably happen in this
room.
And when he kisses her the third time he hums his pleasure as he tangles his
fingers in her hair, gently tugs her closer and pushes his tongue into her
mouth-- she lets him, of course, and she tastes good, delicate and sweet, just
like he’d fantasized she would.
And it’s a beautiful thing, he thinks, an exquisite thing, the way that she
gasps into his mouth when he lifts her small body up and sits her on the edge
of his desk and places himself between her spread thighs in one fluid motion.
The bulge of his cock is nearly uncomfortably hard against his trousers by this
point, what with his restless fantasizing and his insatiable desire for her,
and he wants to make sure she can feel it, smirks at her shocked shiver when he
rocks his hips against hers shallowly.
“H-Haytham,” she mumbles, flushed and panting and looking particularly
debauched like this, leaned back on his desk with his body between her legs.
Her expression seems exposed and painfully innocent considering that she must
not have noticed his hunger for her before now. “What--”
“Shh,” he murmurs, hushing her gently, hands smoothing down the delicate curve
of her spine, movements soothing and slow. “Can you do that for me? Can you be
quiet?”
Her nod is hasty and overeager, overcome by her constant need to please him-
- and he thinks that perhaps he’s abusing his power over her, but when she
tentatively tugs his collar to bring him in for another kiss those thoughts are
all but erased from his mind. It’s delicious to have her initiate it and to
have her want him in return, especially since it all seems so  new  to her,
and it’s a feeling Haytham is completely  intoxicated  by; half-drunk on her
inexperience and the idea of being her  first.  It’s the control factor, he
thinks shrewdly, well aware of his own desire for ownership, and his
possessiveness, and his endless ambition.
It doesn’t very much matter, though, does it?
No, he thinks, it doesn’t, as he guides her hands to his shoulders, tugs her
hips forward until her body is flush with his, responsive to every touch, every
kiss, every word, vulnerable and open to Haytham’s desire.
“My beautiful girl,” he murmurs in between the kisses he leaves down her neck,
fights the desire to leave a messy trail of marks over her soft skin; a claim,
of sorts, proof to the rest of the world that she is  his  now, and no one
else’s. “My girl, so good. My dearest, sweet little girl, perfect for me. All
mine, ” he murmurs, and god, he wants mark her, but he doesn’t leave bruises,
not yet-- he’s careful with her. His hands on her body are gentle and his mouth
on hers is gentler yet, allowing her to explore and learn and experience,
encouraging the soft sighs she gives when he nips at her bottom lip, nearly
groaning at the noise she makes when he presses his hips against hers, when she
feels just how painfully hard she’s made him--
And Haytham  wants.
He wants to take her, right now, to bring her to his bed and strip her down and
fuck her senseless, but he doesn’t.
He is nothing if not patient.
So he allows her to continue, to grow familiar with his hands and his mouth and
the suffocating sweetness of their combined body heat--
And she slowly becomes bolder.
She returns his kisses, wraps her arms around his neck to get herself closer to
him, allows his hands to travel down to her hips, pulling her forwards until
she’s balanced on the very edge of his desk. Her gasp when he teasingly slides
his hands up beneath her shirt is gorgeous and intoxicating as she leans into
his touch, eyes half-lidded and lips kiss-stung and expression wonderfully
vulnerable--
And then--
And then.
Her hand moves down from his shoulder and trembles as it flutters across his
stomach and moves  down  towards the bulge in his trousers-- he feels like the
breath has been knocked out of his body at the sheer  unexpectedness  of it--
Her hand falters, like she’s lost her courage, and hovers just above his
waistband.
And, no, Haytham thinks, that won’t do.
He reaches down and he takes her hand and he meets her eyes-- wide and
tentative and dilated-- and he slowly, ever so slowly moves her hand  down.
She shivers, licks her lips, closes her eyes--
“Can you feel that?” Haytham whispers, and her quick intake of breath and
subsequent blush is answer enough. Her hand presses to the outline of his cock,
and he nearly groans, so painfully aware of the sensation that he feels as if
he’s been turned into a teenager again. “This is your doing, darling girl,” he
says. “You’ve made quite the mess of me.”
“I didn’t-- I didn’t mean to, Master-- Haytham, I…” she stumbles over her
words, dazed and unsure, but when he releases her wrist she doesn’t move her
hand away-- no, rather, she glances up at him as if she’s asking for direction,
and the trust in her eyes is  wonderful.
“There. Like that, good, perfect. You’ve been so good for me,” he says, smiling
smugly as the praise makes her blush and preen. Haytham urges her on with the
slightest nod, lets his eyes fall closed as she overcomes her discomfort and
uncertainty in favor of her blind faith in him, and the knowledge of that trust
stirs something low in his abdomen, makes him  ache  with the thrill of it all-
-
He inhales sharply when she touches him, and he opens his eyes, stares at her
as she feels,slowly and nervously takes the length of him in her hand through
the rough fabric of his trousers.
She sighs when he kisses her again, squirming on the edge of the desk, body
moving jerkily as if she’s torn on what she wants herself to do.
And, he thinks, she’s adapted particularly well, adjusted to his attention
until she’s content and comfortable with his kisses and his hands on her body,
but--
He needs  more.
He shouldn’t, of course, shouldn’t want to have her like this-- it’s not that
she’s too young, no, it’s that he has a responsibility to the Templar Order and
to  her,  to be a good teacher and a good mentor and a good guardian, but right
now he’s anything but, and something about that makes it  better.
“Come here,” he says, still an order, and she complies easily, slides off of
his desk and allows him to guide her backwards through the threshold into his
bedroom, too caught up in his kisses to notice where she was, now, to realize
what he intends to do--
He spins her around until her back is flush against his chest, and rests his
chin lightly on her shoulder, hands spreading over her hips.
“I want you to take your clothes off for me,” Haytham whispers, voice low and
greedy, “Let me watch.”
And he’s aching for her,  god,  he grinds the length of his cock up against her
backside, wanting to see and touch and possess every inch of her body-- but she
stiffens when he says it, stumbles and stalls and hesitates, and he wonders if
perhaps he’s moved too fast.
“Come, darling girl, don’t be like that,” he whispers, pressing a treacherously
sweet kiss to the exposed skin at the back of her neck. “Do it for me. I want
to see you.”
“Haytham,” she whispers, wrapping her arms around herself, trying to twist
around to face him, “Haytham, I can’t--”
“You  can,”  he urges, allowing his voice to take on a nearly desperate
undertone, one he’s not entirely sure is fake. And when she does nothing he
spins her around and kisses her again,  hard,  forces his tongue into her mouth
and runs his hands over her body until she’s eager and malleable, and then he
takes the hem of her shirt and pulls it  up,  she lifts her arms willingly for
him to take it off of her but he doesn’t.
“ Please,”  she complains, leaning against him impatiently, inhibitions worn
away and shut down and completely, utterly  gone.
“ Undress for me,” he growls, nipping at her mouth before moving down to the
base of her neck.
She moans easily when his teeth find her collarbone, and lets him guide her
hand back to his cock, and when she touches him her hesitancy is gone, replaced
by a curiosity and interest and something dangerously close to  want.
She steps back.
Haytham expresses his displeasure with a whisper of a growl that quickly dies
in his chest when she pulls up her shirt, revealing the beautiful skin of her
stomach and the curve of her ribs and the softness of her breasts--
Haytham swallows, and feels something catch in the back of his throat.
He sits down on the bed, leans back, and  stares.
She flushes under his gaze and hesitates but doesn’t stop-- the shirt moves up
further, up over her head and off completely, landing on the ground at her feet
in a puddle of plain white cotton.
“Keep going,” he urges, cocking his head to the side with a smile that’s mostly
teeth, sharp and predatory. Haytham allows himself to move his hand down to his
cock, running his palm along the length of it through his trousers-- and she
can see him, he knows, she can see him watching her and touching himself and
that knowledge is so,  so  delicious, the sight of her eyes fixated solely on
him is beautifully filthy and perfectly  wrong--
Her trousers are next.
They’re tight, black, part of the standard uniform for female trainees-- she
slips her fingers into the waistband and tugs down a little, slowly reveals a
flash of white underwear and soft, creamy skin. And  oh,  he so desperately
wants to leave marks there, bite bruises into the insides of her thighs, and
the softness of her body is practically  begging  for it and God knows his self
control is already frayed enough as it is, just by being around her. His girl
is so  pretty,  so delicious and delectable and  innocent  that it’s a
miraculous wonder that he’s been able to keep his hands to himself for so long.
“Come here,” Haytham murmurs, watching her intensely with eyes half-lidded as
she approaches, beautiful and entirely  his--  his student, his protege, his
ward,  really, because he’d be lying to himself if he said it wasn’t so. Even
that realization doesn’t spark the slightest flicker of guilt in him. He never
once imagined himself as being a good man, and feels no need to try to be.
She pauses at the edge of the bed, and Haytham stands, guides her down on it
and situates herself between her legs before she even has the chance to say
anything, and when she tries to press her thighs together he pushes them apart
again.
“Be good,” Haytham murmurs, looking up at her beseechingly. “You’re fine,
beautiful girl. You’re alright.”
“But--” she shudders as his fingers slide over her underwear, feel how wet they
are, sticky and slick and hot, and her words quickly turn into a choked-out
moan  when he rubs little soothing circles with his thumb over her clit through
the soaked fabric--
“ Daddy.”
And Haytham-- he  stops,  he stops and he groans and he feels his cock twitch
and a searing ache of heat flare through his abdomen--
“ Christ,  girl,” he growls, sinking his teeth into the soft, pale skin of her
thigh, giving into his desire and sucking a bruise there.
“Oh, God, I’m-- I’m sorry, I didn’t mean--” she gasps, and Haytham hushes her
with a kiss, aggressive and needy, all sharp teeth and wet tongues and the
aching weight of his desire.
“You  did  mean it,” he says. “Don’t lie to me. Say it again.”
He yanks her panties down and off, tosses them away, and spreads her thighs
until they’re hitched over his shoulders and he looks up at her from between
her legs with a dark,  dark  stare. “ Again.”
“I don’t--” she begins, but he licks a long, wet stripe up one thigh, sucks and
nibbles at her skin, and her words dissolve into a soft, fragile keen-- she
can’t speak, she looks lost, eyes glossy and body taut and lips red-raw from
his kisses. She shudders when he moves to the other side, nips and kisses up
from her knee to the wet apex of her thighs, breath ghosting hot across her
cunt, dripping and wet and warm, beautifully exposed for him.
“Say it,” he orders, as his mouth descends over her, hungry and demanding and
perhaps even  devouring,  and soon he has one finger inside of her, making her
shudder in surprise and rock her hips towards him for more. He stops her just
to establish that he’s still in charge, holds her hips down and teases her,
alters between broad, flat strokes of his tongue and impossibly light circles
around her clit. He adds another finger, begins moving in, out, curling them to
find the right spot-- and she’s so  tight,  god, he can’t begin to imagine how
good she’ll feel around his cock--
Her breath hitches when he crooks his fingers just right, and the broken moan
she releases is  gorgeous  and the way her hips jolt against his hand is
perfect , perfectly innocent and perfectly debauched and perfectly  his,  his
good girl, his sweet, sweet girl--
“Please,” she whines, as his gentle hand slides up and down her ribcage; a
steady touch, patient and soothing, but it only makes her more restless.
“You know what I want to hear,” Haytham murmurs, looking up at her wickedly.
“Go on, pretty girl, use your words.”
“H-Haytham,” she says, shuddering, rocking her hips up, “Please-- more.”
She’s beautiful like this, trying to fuck herself on his fingers and grinding
her hips up towards his hands and his mouth and the tantalizing offer of
pleasure--
“Not enough, I’m afraid,” Haytham says, smirking, confident now that he has her
so easily caught in his trap. “Say it.”
He presses gentle, encouraging kisses down between her thighs, feels her tense
for a second before relaxing into it as his tongue darts over her clit,
swirling up and around over and over and over, utterly  devouring  until she’s
squirming, his hands tight on her spread thighs to hold her still--
“It’s too much,” she whines, struggling, lips parted and jaw slack and eyes
screwed shut. “Too much, Daddy, please--”
And there it is again. Haytham groans at the word and he presses a final,
sloppy kiss to her skin before sitting up, studying the mess he’d made of her,
the dark red flush spreading across her heaving chest, her half-lidded eyes and
reddened mouth, lips parted and breathing shallow--
He takes off his overcoat, starts on the buttons of his uniform and works it
off his chest, tugs his belt through his trousers with a rasp of leather
against cotton. It falls to the floor, and the sound of the metal buckle
clinking is strangely loud in the waiting silence of the room.
He meets her eyes.
“Do you want something, darling girl?” He asks quietly, smile selfish and
possessive, his trousers slung low on his hips as she watches him with a
neediness that stretches his patience to the very limit until it takes all of
his energy to stop himself from fucking her--
“Please,” she keens, looking up at him with wide-open eyes, “Please, Daddy.
Want you.”
Haytham curses lowly under his breath and rids himself of his trousers, kicks
them to the floor in quick, efficient movements, and moves back onto the bed,
kneels in front of her and takes hold of her hips and angles them up--
“ Please,  Daddy,” she urges again, slightly louder.
Haytham inhales, exhales, digs his fingers into her hips--
He pushes in slowly, body trembling with the force and the effort of
restraining himself as his eyes screw shut and his lips part and his jaw goes
slack.
“ Oh, ” he groans, savoring the feeling of her, tight and hot and  wet.
When he bottoms out, she shivers, warm and flushed all over, looks up at him
like she needs to be grounded or needs something to keep herself from being
completely overwhelmed by the sensation of being full and filled and
stretched--
“You’re all right, aren’t you?” Haytham asks, pressing a chaste kiss to the
corner of her mouth. “My pretty girl. You’re fine.”
“Fine,” she repeats, dazed, not quite a complete answer but as close to one as
she seems to be able to manage right now, as she rocks her hips forward and
squirms on his cock. “Fine, Daddy, please, I need--”
“I know,” Haytham soothes, running his hands down her arms, touch soft and
comforting, and the sound she makes when he begins to move sends a searing
flare of heat through his abdomen as she clenches around him, rolling her hips
in time with his thrusts, shallow and painfully slow.
“Faster,” she calls out,  and Haytham chuckles at her neediness, leans over her
to trail kisses down the curve of her neck. She’s begging, and it’s so pretty,
he thinks, something he wants to hear over and over and over again, a constant
litany of  please Daddy feels so good, want more more  more,  faster, please,
need it, Daddy, need you--
It’s a beautiful sound, and he’s never been one to deny his girl what she
wants.
And when Haytham begins to fuck her in earnest she chokes on a broken,
shattered moan, whimpers in time with his thrusts, and the rest of the world
seems to become a faint, colorless hum in the background, her attention focused
solely on him and the feeling of his cock inside of her as she moves her hips
to meet his, fucking herself more deeply on his cock with shuddered, trembling
moans--
Haytham leans down over her and balances his weight on his forearms and the
angle changes, the head of his cock is catching on something soft and hot
inside of her and her back arches, she throws her head back at the sensation,
hips bucking towards him for more.
“Beautiful girl,” Haytham is murmuring, not quite sure she’s coherent enough to
respond. He doesn’t think she’s even processing much at all but she still
shivers at his words, flushes at the praise, “You’re mine, aren’t you? Always
mine. My darling girl, my plaything, dearest, sweet girl, so good, taking my
cock so well.”
“Yes,” she says brokenly, as his hips snap forwards harder, until the sound of
skin against skin is filthy and loud in the surrounding silence and Haytham
begins to lose track of how long she’s been crying out for him, how long she’s
been begging,  more, more, Daddy, please, need more, feels so good, keep going-
-
But he gives her what she wants, fucks her with a recklessness he hasn’t felt
in a long time, until every rock of his hips into her is drawing out a hapless,
hopeless moan from her mouth and she looks like she’s struggling not to fall
apart, the slight sheen of sweat on her forehead and tears pricking hotly at
the corners of her eyes; and when she comes it’s beautiful, with a gasp and a
shudder and a moan that sounds suspiciously like a sob.
“So good,” Haytham grunts as he fucks her through it, pleasure building as she
tightens around him and gasps out little “ah”s with every thrust, unable to do
much more than cry out for him now, overstimulated and well-fucked as his
movements become rough and jerky and his nails dig into her hips. “So perfect.
Did so well, so good, my beautiful girl, my pretty little darling girl always
so good for me--”
“Yes,” she moans, spent and used and pliant beneath him-- “Yes, Daddy. Yours.
Your darling girl, a good girl.”
And Haytham knows this is true-- because she is still young and the world is
large and scary to her and with him she is safe, and he wishes he could keep
her here like this in this perfect moment forever, where she is beautiful and
his.
“Mine,” he whispers, fucks into her once, twice, stills with a groan and a hiss
through gritted teeth as his orgasm is wrenched from him, the sensation
powerful and all-consuming. “Always mine.”
“Always,” she responds, heavy-eyed and hypersensitive beneath him. “Always.”
There is a warmth afterwards, something Haytham is not used to, as he grabs
something to wipe the both of them off-- the sheets are ruined, he knows, but
he is too tired to bother. His girl is weary, and when he lies down next to her
she turns until her face is pressed into his side, arm slung over his chest,
seemingly drawn to his body heat and the comfort of his touch.
He allows it. He wants it.
It’s good, and while she may not always be his, she is in this moment, and
Haytham finds himself perfectly content with that.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
