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Cloudwish is so alive it irradiates the space around her—not floral, not nurturing. Cloudwish is alive, the brutal kind—the snapping, gnashing teeth, the red-rust draw of blood through veins and opened wounds.
She's always been this way—a frenzy of energy, shouting at Thornfrost even as a child, tearing up easily whenever he wrapped his hand around the back of her tiny neck and scruffed her. Cloudwish has liked arguing ever since she learned to talk—her thick, wintery brows furrowing together, incisors bared around a mean word.
Cloudwish is alive the way alive is meant to be—survival, teeth still sharpened, claws never dulled, no matter the good life Thornfrost has always tried to give her.
She's his daughter, so he should've realized much earlier, just how ill she'd gotten.
Thornfrost hasn't heard a word out of his daughter in hours—she'd arrived home from church, uncharacteristically tired, kicking her shoes off and draping the overcoat she'd taken from him on the coat rack, turning hazy blue eyes up to him. She'd asked if she could rest, quiet and hesitant—said she had a migraine.
And Thornfrost is not a cruel man, and certainly does not relish in the idea of his daughter suffering. Cloudwish had padded into her room hours ago, and still hasn't come out—not to eat, not to ask for anything from the medicine cabinet, not to see him at all. Thornfrost tastes the regret, rolls it over in his mouth and lets it settle on his tongue acridly—it's been hours and hours, and he should've checked much earlier. It's nearing midnight, and Cloudwish's door is closed, though he's never allowed her to get a lock.
He doesn't knock—he hopes she'd be asleep anyway—but Thornfrost slides the door open, just a fraction. Just to see if Cloudwish is alright.
The first thing is the scent. Astringent, almost, lingering and intense like salt combed from the beach. The savor of heat—of sweat and slick, mulled and spiced, bedsheets drenched in it. Cloudwish isn't moving—she's curled up in her bed, nearly swallowed by her mass of pillows and plushies. Thornfrost's ears perk at the sound of her soft hiccups, mouth watering instinctively from the scent of her cunt.
He should've checked earlier; he's her father, her only caretaker. He squeezes his eyes shut, as though to limit sensory overload, before he opens them and says, "Cloudwish, sweetheart?"
Cloudwish whines. She's too weak to lift her head properly—rolls onto her side and looks at Thornfrost standing in the shadow of her doorway. She's flushed a dark, licentious red—still in her day corset and slip, her outerwear thrown uncarefully on the floor. She barely moves as Thornfrost hastens to her bedside—closer, he can see the curls of her hair sticking to her sweat-drenched cheeks, the substantial dilation of her pupils. She's keeping a hand pressed between her thighs—her head lolls slightly, watching Thornfrost cautiously.
"D-Dad…?"
"Oh, sweetheart," Thornfrost breathes out. He brushes Cloudwish's damp hair out of her face—her flush is so deep that her freckles try to hide in it, her lips chapped and red-ragged like a corpseflower. "Tell me what's going on."
Cloudwish's eyelashes are clumped together, fluttering slightly. "H-heat…it hurts, Daddy."
Thornfrost's heart stutters—it is so rare that his daughter is sweet and not snappish, and now it is only because of her heat sickness. He's a physician—it's criminal that he hasn't checked on her, hasn't been caring for her this whole time. When she'd gotten home, was she salt-drenched and feverish? Would he have tasted her pheromone-rich scent, noticed the signs of her oncoming heat?
"My poor girl," Thornfrost murmurs. Cloudwish whines as he touches her. She's scalding hot—skin irradiative, and she's still overdressed. Too fatigued to unlace her own corset, laying in bed for hours…
She squirms weakly as Thornfrost sits her up, letting her slump onto his shoulder. Cloudwish seems so small—deflated and pained, she just nuzzles into his shoulder. Her hurricane of cloudy hair is the biggest thing about her, frazzled with strands sticking up haphazardly. Soft when he cards his fingers through it. Sharp knife-points for collarbones, jutting sweetly from the oversized collar of her slip. Thornfrost thinks himself a measured man, yet he drops his face into Cloudwish's hair, kissing the top of her head and breathing in her scent. The contact makes her purr, content and reverberating.
"Sweet girl," Thornfrost murmurs, desire coating his molars. "Let me help."
"Hurts a lot," Cloudwish rasps out. She presses up into his side, needy and seeking like she hasn't been in years.
She only squirms a little when Thornfrost lifts her into his lap—he unlaces her corset for her, feels her fidget and rock her hips instinctively. Her slip is soft white chiffon, smooth under his calloused fingers, easy to pull down to expose more skin. Cloudwish is flushed down her neck, red blooming between her pretty tits—even the slopes of her shoulders are pink with fever.
Thornfrost recalls, early this morning, the skirmish they'd had over Cloudwish even wearing these clothes—she'd wanted her trousers and waistcoat, only acquiescing when Thornfrost lost his temper and snapped at her. She…seemed frightened after that, her shoulders tensed high, unable to meet his eyes.
Even now, Cloudwish seems shy—the heat has her eyes glassy, and she jerks forward in surprise when Thornfrost puts his hand on her thigh, the skirt of her slip warm and damp. From her sweat, perhaps her own wetness. Deliriously, he thinks of her rutting against her hand all those hours, clumsy and unsatisfied.
"I don't…I don't need help, Daddy," Cloudwish whispers—her eyes are wide, lashes sticking wetly to the soft red corners. "I can handle my own heat, I've done it before…"
Cloudwish's previous heats have always been—manageable. Even without a partner, she could manage. But this—she's so slow and disoriented, almost acting intoxicated. Heat sickness can be dangerous—if she's not given any relief, she might need to undergo hospitalization, unable to rehydrate or eat on her own. And Thornfrost can't even consider…
No. No, if there's anything he can do, then he can care for her, always.
"My lovely girl, I want to help," Thornfrost coaxes. It's a miracle she's still coherent—Cloudwish doesn't protest again, just sniffles and cuddles closer to him. Thornfrost startles when Cloudwish licks at his cheek, then his neck—her tongue is small and rasped, hot, and she purrs and nuzzles him again.
"Mm…okay, Daddy."
Cloudwish takes hold of his arm, guiding it so his hand is nudged up against the hot crease between her thighs, a habit from so many heats before. It would be unacceptable to provide anything more—but this is heat sickness, and her fever is far too hot. Thornfrost can't stand the idea that she go to someone else for relief, and there's not enough time for that anyway—and he's not having her hospitalized. He's a physician himself, he should be able to care for her. Even if he needs to stamp down his own arousal.
Cloudwish is sweet and acquiescent when Thornfrost lifts her into his arms.
"Daddy…? Where're we goin'?" she drawls out, hiding her face in his neck and licking at his skin again. Thornfrost shudders hard, letting his eyes fall closed at the touch. Focus is a slippery thing to grasp when his daughter is purring in his arms.
"My bedroom," Thornfrost says curtly. Then, "I have supplies there."
Cloudwish hums. "Medicine? To make it hurt less?"
Thornfrost feels a clench in his chest—she sounds so sweet, so innocent. Logically he knows Cloudwish is far from innocent, and yet…"Yes, sweetheart. And equipment."
Cloudwish makes an inquisitive noise, but doesn't ask further. She giggles tiredly when Thornfrost puts her on his bed—half-dressed, flushed a lovely pink, lashes fluttering in a daze. His bed is much larger—he wouldn't be able to fit in hers. Cloudwish palms at the soft sheets, opening her thighs up, bunching her slip's skirt up at her hips—reveals her pretty little cunt, soft and dark with arousal. Curls of dark gray pubic hair matted with her slick, wetness gleaming from her folds. Thornfrost swallows harshly, unable to tear his eyes away—Cloudwish just lifts her arms up in an expectant hold.
"What're you waitin' for—?" Cloudwish frowns. "You said you'd help me..."
She squeaks when Thornfrost pins her down.
"Fuck," he growls out, hunger turning his voice into a wanting, monstrous thing. "Fuck, you're so tempting."
Cloudwish blushes, almost maidenly despite the fervor she's caught in.
"T-tempting?"
"Just—sit still," Thornfrost commands, grimacing as he goes to gather the more…experimental supplies from his closet.
This is something he hasn't tried with any clients yet—the whole methodology seems far too hands-on for his tastes. But for his daughter, heat-sick and weak, hysterical at the best of times—it should do. Thornfrost doesn't mind the thought of treating Cloudwish with such tools. He wouldn't trust some stranger to take care of her appropriately.
Cloudwish is whining, high-pitched and sullen, as Thornfrost returns to the bed with a box. She pauses, squirming as he begins to take out the necessary tools—her voice is raspy but inquisitive when she says, "What's that?"
"It's a tool for relief," Thornfrost says flatly. "A heat aid, really. It can even calm your hysteria." She glares at him for that, but it shifts into curiosity as she spies the odd shape of the vibrator.
"It's too big to fit," Cloudwish says blandly, and Thornfrost chokes.
"It's…it's for external stimulation, sweetheart," he grits out. When did she ever learn to be so crass, really? But Cloudwish perks up a little, clambering to the headboard and sitting herself against it, opening her thighs wide. Her eyes are dilated, her tail swishing, and she chirrups sweetly. Even her ears perk up in anticipation.
"Okay, Daddy. Help me?"
She'll be the death of him one day.
Thornfrost swallows harshly, adjusting his glasses before he turns the motor on.
It's a strange little device—both electrical and magical, with a wand the width of his wrist and a vibrational bulb attached at the end, sparking to life with a low buzzing sound. Cloudwish's eyes widen, and she tilts her head.
"'S'loud," she says. She fidgets slightly, but she stretches her long legs out, watches him carefully. And Thornfrost—
He wants, of course he does. But it's not practical to ruminate on it. He wouldn't touch her, wouldn't fuck her. Just providing relief, the same way he offers his hand for her. Cloudwish begs for it, sometimes, that she needs something inside, but—but Thornfrost is a father foremost. He wouldn't.
"Spread yourself open," he instructs, and a smattering of redness rises high on Cloudwish's cheekbones.
"I…" She squirms in place, but she raises her knees to her chest and curls herself up, thighs spread obediently. Her shaking fingers hold open her pussy—parting her swollen folds and exposing the hard jut of her clit, twitchy with arousal. She's dark pink and sweet inside.
"Good girl," Thornfrost murmurs, and he presses the vibrator flush with her cunt.
Cloudwish jerks immediately—her lips part in a wail, she tries to clamp her thighs shut. Poor girl has never seen stimulation like this, a little virgin thing who constantly asked to grind aimlessly on her father's hand. Even on the lowest setting, she's shaking nonstop.
"H-hah—too much—" Cloudwish yelps when Thornfrost brings the head of the vibrator right to her clit, her eyes going wide as her whole body spasms. "Daddy, wait!"
Cloudwish tries to grab Thornfrost's wrist, but her frail grip does nothing to move him—her claws pinprick sweet agony into his veins. She hiccups, squirming as Thornfrost holds her thighs apart, her reddened lips gleaming with her own drool.
"D-Daddy—"
"It's alright," Thornfrost rasps out. "It'll help you, sweetheart."
"Too much, too much—" Her thighs jerk in reaction, starting to quiver. Thornfrost applies slightly more pressure—gets Cloudwish's voice high-pitched and heaving—and then he pulls the device away.
Cloudwish throws her head back into the sheets and wails.
"Daddy—Daddy wait I still—need it, I need it—"
"You said it was too much," Thornfrost says lightly, and Cloudwish hiccups and nods.
"Hurts," she whines. "'M empty."
Fuck, she can't—she can't say that. Cloudwish fists her hands in the sheets, her hips rocking compulsively as she sniffles.
"Do you want to try again?" Thornfrost asks, as measured as he can. Cloudwish chews on her lip, contemplative, before she nods slowly.
"Yes, please."
Cloudwish pulls her knees to her chin and spreads her thighs, holding herself open as best she can despite the tremble of her shoulders. And Thornfrost—Thornfrost can't help the sordid desire surging in his chest, the hot flush of blood pooling at the pit of his stomach. His daughter is gorgeous; he is reprehensible for his attraction. But she's also Cloudwish, and no one else can take care of her. No one else would know how.
Cloudwish's thighs are shaking, little hiccups and gasps caught on her lips, and Thornfrost idly considers devouring her whole.
He doesn't. He takes the vibrator and presses it directly against her cunt.
Cloudwish squeals, immediately thrashing her arms out—she sobs when Thornfrost catches both her wrists in his free hand, pinning them to the bed above her head. Her body is soaked with sweat, fur matted against her tummy and her inner thighs, and Thornfrost grits his teeth—he can't help his own surge of arousal. Her wrists twitch in his hand, her needy little cunt drools over the head of the toy—Thornfrost forces it against her harder, and Cloudwish thrashes and sobs.
"Daddy—Daddy, 's'too much, too much, I can't—!"
Cloudwish seizes up when she comes—her tummy clenches tight, her eyes cross slightly, and she gushes hotly over the toy, onto Thornfrost's hand. Her scent has heightened his nerves, his own instincts flaring wild, her salt flooding his senses and making his cock twitch. Thornfrost groans low in his throat, and Cloudwish wails as he continues to apply pressure, over-sensitive.
"Daddy stop, stop it's too much—"
Her voice breaks into a shattered-glass sob. Thornfrost turns the device off and sets it aside, unable to reconcile the shakiness of his own hand.
Cloudwish looks ruined, her pretty blue eyes blurred with tears, her thighs quivering hard, a dark stain of her own release under her hips. Her claws are digging cruelly into the sheets, the fabric bunched into her fists, and Thornfrost breaks.
"My baby," he says raggedly, taking hold of Cloudwish's hips and dragging her up to meet his own. Cloudwish whines, jerking away when he nudges her thighs open—her labia are parted, the flesh bruise-dark and needy as it gleams with her slick, curls of her pubic hair matted together and her clit jutting out enticingly. Thornfrost's mouth waters. "My baby, my sweetheart, just let me take care of you."
Cloudwish whimpers, shaking her head and keening high in her throat as Thornfrost undoes his slacks.
"Wait—no, Dad, wait—!"
"Let me help."
Thornfrost's voice is grit-rough and low now, his grip tightening on Cloudwish's thighs. Every nervous flutter of her body bunches the sheets up underneath her, and Thornfrost can't help but marvel at the sight of her—his pretty girl, his baby.
"Won't fit, wait, wait," Cloudwish babbles, but she keens as Thornfrost slots his cockhead against her, sliding back and forth across her soaked folds.
She's just so small. Thornfrost is a taller, broader man, and while Cloudwish has grown to be quite tall in stature, she's still petite and diminutive, shivering when he lays his cock across her stomach.
"You're going to be a good girl and take it."
The desire is gut-wrenching, coating Thornfrost's teeth like oil, her heat-scent tasting sticky and sweet in his throat. His voice, gravelly as it is, makes Cloudwish shudder and squirm—she flinches at the weight of his cock. The way the glans reaches her belly button, the flare of his penile spines, the hot smear of his precome on her flushed skin.
He could ruin her.
"But Daddy—Daddy, wait, your barbs—"
"Fuck," Thornfrost forces out, and he leans down and kisses her fervently.
Cloudwish keens into his mouth, shivering hard as he pulls her thighs apart and ruts against her cunt. She's slick and velvety, the delicate skin of her inner thighs so hot Thornfrost swears he can feel her pulse. He grabs hold of his cock and lines himself up with her opening—Cloudwish sobs as he presses inside her in a hunger-driven rush.
His baby, his little girl—she's so soft, blindingly hot and tight around his cock. Cloudwish squirms and clenches around him, her wetness dribbling out to her thighs and coating his cock, her lashes shining with tears. Thornfrost groans at the feeling—Cloudwish tries to tighten up, tries to kick, but she's so oversensitive and heat-high that she just slumps into the sheets with an exhausted moan.
Cloudwish breathes unevenly, each movement causing her cunt to flex too tight, a resistance that Thornfrost has to bully his way through until he's pushed as deep as he can possibly go, his cockhead kissing her cervix. Cloudwish spasms when he tweaks her clit—her eyes flutter and her back arches, her lips open in a silent scream. She's so wet, slick spilling from her cunt to his balls, easing the way for his cock and filling the room with the noises of their sex.
"Fuck," Thornfrost lets out, pressing his forehead to Cloudwish's collarbone. "Fuck, Cloudwish—my girl, my darling—"
"Hurts," Cloudwish hiccups out. Her voice is fragile, her lips parting as she mumbles pleas into his skin. "Daddy, Daddy please, I just—please—"
"No, you're alright, you take it." Even Thornfrost can hear the manic edge to his voice, punctuated with his own deep groans. "You're strong enough to take it, that's how I raised you, didn't I?"
Cloudwish sobs and presses her cheek into the mattress, her body going slack as Thornfrost continues to thrust into her at a brutal pace. He should be kinder, gentler—his baby girl—but her cunt is inviting and fever-hot, tight, he never considers how small she is in comparision to him.
She's in heat—she's pushed to the point of hysteria, she doesn't know better, Thornfrost thinks deliriously. Her cunt is soft and welcomes his thrusts, the rough drag of his spines against her insides, each scrape on the drawback making Cloudwish tense up and whine. This is what her body needs—to be fucked into and filled up, to feel his barbs dragging back and forth against her inner walls. The clinical view is this: that the action triggers a flush of oxytocin, that her body is meant to carry kits and so this calms her, and that Thornfrost is the only one who can help her.
Cloudwish's cheeks are bright red from exertion. She's crying, still, so Thornfrost kisses her cheeks, her forehead.
"Sweetheart, I'm trying to help," he tells her. Except that's not entirely true, is it? Thornfrost is a reserved man, including in his matters with his daughter, but he's overcome by sheer need. Sheer desire, and it's selfish. A part of him seeks her forgiveness in every languid kiss he presses to her flushed skin, her chapped lips, her sweat-soaked hair. Thornfrost thinks, uncritically, that she was made for him.
But she's so pitiful, shivering and sniffling, so Thornfrost circles her clit with his fingers, rubbing insistently until Cloudwish moans, her voice rough with pleasure. She must be so oversensitive still, so raw.
"Dad," she lets out. His gorgeous girl, her wild hair is spread across the sheets, curling at her temples with sweat.
"You're a good girl," Thornfrost rasps out, watching Cloudwish shiver. "You're perfect, darling, for letting me help you like this."
Cloudwish hits her ankle against his lower back, thrashes her elbows into the mattress when she orgasms again—she squirts hard, soaking his hand as she flutters around his cock, and Thornfrost finally breaks.
His thrusts are unmeasured, his pleasure coiling up in his stomach and blazing hot in his chest, his head. Thornfrost comes hard, grinding his in hips into hers, his hand pressing wicked bruises into Cloudwish's thigh as he holds her open. He spills inside her as deep as he can—feeling her soft, battered cunt spasm continuously, filling her insides with his own seed so that she can finally have reprieve from her heat.
As he comes down, Thornfrost kisses Cloudwish. She whimpers but kisses back, her lips moving sloppily against his, her body slumping in exhaustion. Their breaths are loud in the stagnant air of the room, and Thornfrost hisses under his breath as he slowly, gingerly pulls out. Cloudwish still sniffles at the action, her thighs spread to allow him view of her bruised, tender cunt, fucked open and leaking his come.
"Daddy," Cloudwish croaks. She claws at the sheets, unthinking. "I wan' water."
"Oh, darling."
Thornfrost, still a bit shaky in his knees, lifts himself from the bed to grab at the bottle of water at his nightstand. Cloudwish drinks hungrily, sitting up without much help, and when she's finished she collapses into Thornfrost's chest.
"You're okay, sweetheart?" Thornfrost asks—a bit weary. He was awfully rough with her.
Cloudwish hums incoherently. Thornfrost gathers her up—no use to leave her on filthy sheets, though he supposes he didn't think this through before taking her from her room to his.
His brain is still cloudy, still buzzed on pleasure. He allows Cloudwish her childish habit of chewing at his collarbone, her teeth sharp but her tongue rasped as she licks at his neck sloppily. It gives her something to do as he hefts her up into his hold, keeps her secure with one arm as he warms the water in the bath basin. She's happy to sit in his lap as they bathe, though she puts her chin on his chest and blinks up at him through sleepy lashes.
"'M sore," she drawls out, still a little heat-high. "Sleepy."
Thornfrost kisses her forehead. In the warm bath, in his lap, Cloudwish finally purrs, soft and quiet. Thornfrost joins her in turn, enjoying the way her tension drips away from her body, the scent of lavender soap in her hair soothing his over-run senses.
His head clearer, Thornfrost can understand he was too cruel, too selfish. But Cloudwish is purring and warm in his lap, half-asleep. She's so utterly exhausted, her soft hips bruised, her thighs mottled with impressions of his fingers. The heat hasn't entirely quelled, but this should hold off any intense resurgence, should put her body back in balance. It's still in her scent—sharp like the air before a lightning strike, alongside ambient sweetness. But that too is fading.
Thornfrost assumes Cloudwish is asleep—it would be only right. He sets her down on the loveseat in his bedroom as he quickly strips and replaces the sheets from the bed. When he picks her up again—like a child, almost, supporting her thighs while she wraps her arms around him and slots her nose against his neck.
She's so exhausted. Cloudwish's voice is ragged and slurred as Thornfrost finally pulls her into bed, into clean fresh sheets and warm blankets.
"You hurt me," she says quietly. There's an unbearable sadness to her voice. "Dad…"
Thornfrost holds her tight, holds her close.
"I'm sorry, sweetheart. It will stop hurting."
Cloudwish is quiet; Thornfrost realizes that she's asleep, her eyes shut and her lips slightly parted with slow, even breaths.
Thornfrost continues to run his hand up and down Cloudwish's back, feeling the divots of her spine, the soft dimples in her lower back. Her sleep is not fitful or feverish, though perhaps she's too worn out for that.
He was rough with her. He knows that. He chased his own pleasure. He knows that. But Thornfrost—he takes care of his daughter, first and foremost. Isn't she clean, isn't she safe now? Isn't she soothed, her hysteria at bay?
He takes care of her. It will stop hurting in time.