"Again?" he laughs, that bright, easy laugh that made you fall for him in the first place.
Oh god oh fuck you're horny again.
Don't get him wrong, he's not complaining. He's never complaining. He loves you. He worship you. He gets off on making you cum.
But his dick is literally chafed and he's running on two hours of sleep and a protein bar he ate between round three and round four and—
You're already tugging at his belt.
His belt. Which he just buckled. Thirty seconds ago.
He's hard again.
How?
How is he hard again?
He's not twenty anymore, he's pushing thirty, his knees click when he does certain positions, he pulled a hamstring last week doing that thing you like where he folds you like a pretzel—okay, he has been slacking lately BUT it's your fault because you don't even let him leave the house—
"No, no, baby, I'm— I'm not complaining," he says, already breathless, already getting to his knees because you've got that look, with glassy eyes, and pouty lips, "I just— hah— give me five minutes? Ten? I need to rehydrate, I need to—"
"You don't want me?"
What?
The words hit him like a bullet to his chest.
No. No no no no. Don't ever say that. Don't ever think that. He wants you. He wants you so much it's ruining him. He wants you when he's asleep, wants you when he's awake, wants you when he's bleeding out on a rooftop wondering if he'll make it home in time to taste you before patrol—
He's already got his mouth on you. Already. Didn't even make a conscious decision. His body just moved because his body wants you and your pleasure, your smile, the little gasp you make when he gets it just right—
"I want you," he mumbles into your thigh, "I want you, I want you, I want you, don't ever say I don't, I'll— I'll prove it, I'll stay down here all night, I don't need sleep, sleep is for people who aren't dating a goddess, I'll just—"
You pull him up by his hair. He whimpers. He whimpers like a puppy because his girlfriend touched his scalp.
God, he's pathetic.
He loves it.
He loves you.
"You were saying something about rehydrating?" you ask, and your voice is teasing but your hand is wrapped around him and his vision goes sparkly at the edges.
"Who cares—ah fuck," he hears himself say, "I-I don't...ugh... Give a f-fuck."
And later, when he's lying on top of you, every muscle screaming, a single tear is rolling down his cheek, because fuck he's overstimulated, He press his lips to your sweaty forehead.
"You're gonna break me someday, you know that?"
You smile.
"That's the plan,"
His dick twitch again, and he'll laugh hysterically into your hair because he's the luckiest man walking in the entire goddamn world.
JASON TODD
He doesn't get it.
He doesn't fucking get it.
You— you— want him? All the time? Every second of every day? You, with your soft hands and your pretty smile and your laugh that sounds like something he doesn't deserve to hear— you want Jason Todd, the dead Robin, the black sheep, the one with blood under his fingernails and a body count longer than his book collection?
"Again, sweetheart?" he rasps, and his voice cracks, actually cracks, because his throat is raw from moaning your name, and his thighs are shaking, and there's a bruise forming on his hip from where you grabbed him too hard and he didn't even notice because he was too busy moaning like a whore.
You nod. Just nod. Like it's nothing. Like you're asking him to pass the salt.
His heart lurches.
He's scared. Not of you— never of you— but of the moment you realize you can do better. The moment you wake up and think why am I wasting my time with this broken, angry, fucked up excuse for a man when I could have someone better?
So he fucks you like his life is depended on it.
Every time. Every single time.
"Alright," he says, rolling on top of you even though his arms are jelly, even though he came so hard ten minutes ago he nearly blacked out, even though he's so tired he gonna pass out at any moment— "Alright, c'mere, I got you, I got—"
"Jay." You catch his face in your hands. "You're crying."
What? No he's not. He's not— shit.
He scrubs at his eyes, pissed, embarrassed, and you're looking at him with that soft, worried expression and he can't handle it, he can't handle this.
"I'm fine," he lies, "I'm fine, I just— I got something in my eye, it's fine, do you wanna do it from behind this time or—"
"Why are you crying, baby?"
Baby.
The word break something in his chest. Something that was already cracked. Something that's been held together with spite and rage and the desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, he's allowed to have nice things.
"I-I don't know," he chokes out, and now he's really crying, ugly sobs tearing out of his throat, "I'm just s-so overwhelmed and I-I *sob* I don't d-deserve you *sob* you should be with someone who isn't a—a—a—"
You kiss him.
You kiss him through the tears and the snot and the self loathing, and you don't pull away, and you don't look disgusted, and your hands are so gentle on his scarred skin, and he just— he just breaks down.
But it's just because he's overwhelmed by sex, okay?
He buries his face in your neck and sobs and you hold him, you hold him like he's something precious, something worth keeping, and his stupid dick is still half hard against your thigh because he doesn't know what else to do.
"I want you," you whisper into his hair, "just you, Jay. Always."
"...Promise?"
"Promise."
He pulls back, eyes red, face blotchy, looking like a mess.
And then he laughs— his cracked, broken laugh.
"Okay," he says, "okay. But if you're gonna kill me with sex, at least let me grab some water first. And maybe a snack. I'm not dying of dehydration before I make you come again."
You grin.
Yeah his girl's so pretty.
"Alright."
He's still crying a little. He's still hard. He's still certain he doesn't deserve this.
But you're here.
And you want him.
So he'll keep going until his heart gives out, because dying in your arms sounds like the best way to go.
TIM DRAKE
He has a spreadsheet.
No, wait, hear him out— it's not weird, okay? It's organized. It's practical. It's what any rational person would do when confronted with a girlfriend who wants to have sex literally all the time and he needs to make sure he's— that he's—
Meeting expectations.
Performing adequately.
Being a good boyfriend.
Column A: date. Column B: time of day. Column C: position. Column D: duration. Column E: number of times you said his name (sub column for "just Tim" vs. "oh god Tim" vs. the rare, precious "Timmy" that makes his whole body shudder). Column F: notes. (You like it when he flick his tongue. You didn't like when he tried to flip you over and almost dropped you. He needs to work on his upper body strength. He'll add more pull ups to his training regimen. Done. Noted.)
He's on his third coffee and it's 3 AM and you're asleep next to him— finally, finally asleep, worn out after four rounds and a fifth that he had to tap out of because his vision started doing that staticky thing—
And he's updating the spreadsheet.
Because he loves you. And love means making sure you're comfortable. Love means making you happy. Love means making sure he's the best possible version of himself for you, that he's anticipating your needs, that he always make you cum, that he never, ever falls short—
"What's that?"
Oh fuck him.
You're awake. You're squinting at his laptop screen. He slams it shut, but it's too late, you already saw the color coded tabs, the pie chart (yes, there's a pie chart, he was curious about the distribution of positions, sue him).
"Tim." Your voice is still sleepy and it does things to him, weird things, his body is already responding and he just finished updating a row that said he couldn't go again, scientifically, medically, his body has limits—
"It's nothing."
"Timothy Jackson Drake."
Full name. He's in trouble. He's so in trouble. His stomach flips and his dick twitches and god, why does you being like this make him harder—
"It's— a spreadsheet."
"Of our sex life."
"...Yes."
...
Why aren't you saying anything?
You're in shock aren't you? You're in so much shock you can't even talk.
Of course. You just saw your supposed normal boyfriend as the obsessive freak that he is.
"I'm sorry," he blurts, "I know it's weird, I just— I wanted to make sure I was doing a good job, that I wasn't missing anything, that you were— satisfied— because you want it so often and I thought maybe I wasn't enough and I had to do something—"
"Tim."
"—and I know it's creepy, I'm creepy, I'm a creepy insecure little bitch who can't just enjoy things—"
"Tim."
He shuts up.
You're smiling. A soft, fond, adoring smile.
"You want to know if you're doing a good job?"
He nods, throat too tight to speak.
"Come here."
He crawls into your arms and you pull him against your chest and he can hear your heartbeat and it's the most beautiful sound in the world.
"You're doing amazing," you murmur, stroking his hair, "you're perfect. You're so good to me, Tim. The best."
Best.
The words hit his bloodstream like a drug. He makes a sound— a high, needy, embarrassing sound— and presses his face into your collarbone, his whole body trembling.
"I love you," he whispers, "I love you so much, I'm sorry about the spreadsheet, I'll delete it—"
"Don't you dare. It's hot."
"...What?"
"Knowing you put that much thought into making me cum is honestly..." Your hand slides lower, and he sucks in a breath. "The sexiest thing anyone's ever done for me."
What the fuck?
"You— really?"
"Mmhmm. Now... you said that you couldn't go again, but maybe we should test that hypothesis?"
He's already kissing you before you finish the sentence.
He's going to need a new row. And a new coffee. And possibly a medical professional.
Worth it.
DAMIAN WAYNE
This is absurd.
You are absurd. Your libido is absurd. The fact that he— Damian al Ghul Wayne, heir to the League of Assassins, Robin, the son of the Batman— is currently hiding in the bathroom like a coward because his Beloved crooked her finger at him for the seventh time today is—
"Damian~"
Tt.
He clenches his jaw. His body betrays him instantly, heat pooling low in his stomach, his cock stirring traitorously against the zipper of his tailored slacks.
He is not a beast. He is not ruled by base urges. He was trained from birth to master his desires, to transcend the weakness of the flesh—
"Habibti, please, if you need release I will happily provide it, I am more than capable, but we have already—" his voice drops to a whisper, "—six times today, and I have a Wayne Enterprises board meeting in an hour—"
"And?"
And. You says and like it's nothing. Like his legacy, his reputation, his carefully constructed facade of professionalism isn't crumbling around him because of a woman who looks at him like he's a three course meal she hasn't finished.
He emerges from the bathroom.
Big mistake.
You're on the bed. His bed. Dressed in nothing but his shirt— the one with his family crest embroidered on the pocket, the one he wore the first time you fuck him— and you're looking at him with those lustful eyes—
"I missed you."
"You saw me twenty minutes ago."
"Too long."
He's already walking toward you.
Why is he walking toward you?
He should be walking away. He should be asserting dominance. He is a master of seventeen forms of martial arts and he cannot, for the life of him, make his feet move in the opposite direction of you.
"I have a meeting," he says, but his voice is pitiful, needy, and he hates how much he wants you, hates how you've turned him into this— this creature who craves your touch more than anything—
"Cancel it."
"I cannot cancel a board meeting, Beloved, there are protocols—"
"Tell them your girlfriend needed you."
"They will not accept that as a valid excuse—"
"Then make them."
Make them.
The sheer, casual authority in your voice sends a shiver down his spine.
You speak like you own him. Like he should do as you say. Like he should obey every order, as if—
He has his phone out before he can stop himself.
"Pennyworth. I will be... indisposed this afternoon. Inform the board the meeting is postponed."
"Very good, Master Damian. Shall I prepare a nutrient rich smoothie? You've been quite occupied lately."
He can hear the amusement in Alfred's voice.
Very amusing Pennyworth. Very amusing indeed.
He wants to die. He wants to crawl into a hole and never emerge. But then you're crooking your finger again and all thoughts of dignity evaporate like morning mist.
"I canceled the meeting," he says, approaching the bed, trying to maintain some shred of his pride, "I hope you are satisfied—"
You grab him by the tie and pull him onto the bed.
He yelps. He yelps. Like a startled cat. Like Titus when the vacuum cleaner turns on. And then you're straddling him, pinning him down with your body, which shouldn't be possible given his training but his muscles have apparently decided that being pinned by you is exactly what they want—
"I am never satisfied," you murmur against his lips, "not when it comes to you. You know that, right?"
His heart— his cold, closed off, carefully guarded heart— warm up a little.
"Beloved..."
"You're mine, Damian. Every inch of you. Every minute of your day. And I'm going to enjoy what's mine. Understood?"
He swallows hard.
"...Understood."
"Good boy."
His face flushes a deep, humiliating red, and his whole body trembles with the desperate need to hear those words from your lips, to know that he has pleased you, that he is worthy—
One day, he'll tell you. One day, he'll confess how much he needs your approval, your praise, your love. One day, he'll stop pretending he's above these feelings.
But not today.
Today, he'll just lie back and let his Beloved have her way with him for the seventh time, and he'll bite his lip until it bleeds to keep from begging, and when it's over he'll hold you like you're the most precious thing in the universe—
got a few requests for this, but mostly for my dear 💫 anon, whose country was literally being BOMBED and asked for a sid smau 😭 i wish you the best my dear. also id love to do a realll sid smau... if anyone wants something specific send it in,,,
he's so fucking hottt sorry if this is a bit ooc he is just so hard to get perfect
haiii!! i have had this in mind for so long omg and I can't believe I haven't made a Connor fic yet. i hope they cure whatever is wrong with his team this past year #sharksfansoimchill
a bit suggestive !
I bought nhl26 idk how it works any fans here i may be asking the general public some questions.
warning/s: kissing, fem!reader, antinous being annoying, wrote this in 20 minutes and it shows.
a/n: just watched the odyssey a couple hours ago, and I love robert pattinson.
"Well hello there my lady," Antinous' voice cut through the air as you arranged the myriad of the Queen's colored threads. You simply rolled your eyes at the sound, he always did this, and you knew exactly what he wanted.
"Not now, Antinous, I'm working," you said, not even turning to look at him, finally getting the red threads in a neat line before moving on to the orange.
"Always working," he whined, wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you close to his chest so he could whisper in your ear.
"What about me?" He asked, placing a kiss to the shell of your ear, making you almost shiver.
"Don't you have a beggar to insult," you said, not wanting to give in to him just yet.
"I told you, I'm sorry about that," he sighed, throwing his head back dramatically before resting his chin on your shoulder as you moved on to sort the yellow threads.
"I was too deep in drink," he said against you, now placing a kiss on your neck which you still ignored.
"That seems to be the case all the time," you snapped once more, yet you didn't even try to escape his hold.
"Are you still cross with me about that?" He asked, nuzzling deeper into the side of your neck.
"I'm cross with you all the time," you said.
"That is true," he relented, kissing your neck again before letting his teeth sink into your flesh ever so slightly, the action making you gasp.
"Well, I guess maybe not all the time," he chuckled as you slapped one of his hands that rested upon your waist.
"I'm working Antinous," you said again, this time finally leaning into his touch.
"You know you like it," he teased, and you slapped his hand once more.
"What about a little kiss?" He tried.
"No," you said, moving on to sort the green threads.
"I'll stop bothering you after," he offered.
"I doubt that."
"Please, my love," he now begged, using the tone he knew made you melt. It was softer than usual, more boyish in comparison to the front he put up amongst the other men in the palace. And it was reserved only for you.
You let out a sigh. "You promise to leave me to work?"
"Soldier's honor," he promised, a grin on his face, knowing that he had won.
"We both know you're no soldier Antinous," you rolled your eyes, yet still turning around and reaching out to cup his cheek.
"So handsome though," you admitted, taking in his sharp features that almost softened at your touch.
"Was that a compliment?" He asked, raising a teasing brow that matched his equally teasing grin.
"Maybe," you said, leaning into him, finally closing the gap between you in a kiss.
It was quick, just a peck, and you were already pulling away, but he pulled you toward him again by the waist.
"Antinous," you let out a gasp that turned into a chuckle as you saw his face. The so-called soldier was pouting, and as always it got to you more than you cared to admit.
"That was no kiss my lady," he said, almost whining, and before he could do so even more you rolled your eyes again and pulled him in again by his cloak, giving him a searing kiss.
Your hand had found his hair, making a mess of the curls at the base of his neck, and his arm wrapped tighter around your waist making you cave into him.
His free hand made its way to your cheek, his thumb rubbing soft circles on your now burning skin.
The kiss was a long one, one that made a mess of both your clothes, with some of the elaborately placed pins in your hair also beginning to come loose.
Yet you both continued on, pulling away every few seconds, your hot breath fanning each other's lips before you both leaned in again.
It was when he hiked your leg up to his waist you realized you had lost yourself.
You pulled away quickly, placing your hand on his chest and pushing him away, the action was met with another pout.
"That is quite enough," you said, beginning to fix your clothes, and despite his disappointment, Antinous helped you.
He straightened out the strap of your dress that now hung lower on your shoulder than intended, and gently tucked the hair that stuck to your cheeks behind your ear.
"Beautiful," he whispered, not intending for you to hear, but the proximity failed him.
"Flattery will get you nowhere," you said simply, now satisfied with your appearance.
"I must now get to work," you said, giving his chest another push so you could squeeze past him, holding up your dress so you could sprint away back to do another task.
Leaving Antinous with quite the tight strain in his trousers.
From the moment you stepped into Winterfell, you whined.
He couldn't exactly blame you. The North isn't the most welcoming environment— especially for a more Southern grown flower like you. In fact, he starts to find it amusing.
His little southern rose is too delicate for his homeland.
"Why must the castle be made of such cold stone?" You whine.
He pulls you in closer, spooning you in the bed with the furs atop the both of you. His hand is hot to the touch and large and firm against your stomach to keep you there. You have a tendency to squirm.
"'S just an evening chill. It will pass," he murmurs low in your ear.
"Every night?" You huff, emphasizing your point with a shift of your hips.
He groans lowly when your ass presses against his length. His arm wraps around you tighter until you're utterly stuck in his hold. "If you'd hold still, I could share my warmth with you. As I do every night you whine."
Truth be told, he sweats under the heavy furs every night. You had insisted on them, and he wanted to sleep with you. Small price to pay, he tells himself.
Especially when you'd finally fall asleep and unconsciously curl into his side.
"I do not whine," you proceed to whine.
You go to say more, but you hear and feel his low chuckling.
You huff, pulling his hand off of you. You make a dramatic show of scooting to the other side of the bed. It's cold. You ignore it at first. You can't show weakness.
But his laughing doesn't stop. "My stubborn girl. C'mere."
But you don't move. You throw one glare his way then turn your back and pull the cold covers tight around you.
It's silence as his laughter settles. "C'mon," he finally settles on. "Don't want my southern flower wilting in the cold tonight. Come back now."
"I'm sleeping here."
He sighs, though it's full of love. "You're angry with me?"
"Yes."
"Mm. Cold?"
"Yes."
"Ah. Quite the predicament." He runs a hand over his growing stubble. "If I apologize, is that enough to make you come back over here?"
You pause. Turn to look over your shoulder at him. "Maybe."
"Forgive me then," he coos.
Even in the dark, you can see the glimmer of amusement in his hazy colored eyes. But you have no fight left in you and you're cold.
So you let him scoop you back up and drag you across the bed until you're right back where you started.
And now that you think about it, it is a lot warmer against him like this.
What were you complaining about again?
You sigh in content and close your eyes.
"'S what I thought," he says to himself.
Your eyes open. "What?"
He doesn't pretend. "Good night, my love." He kisses the side of your head. "Sleep well."
…
"Father wrote me," you chirp, inviting yourself into your husband's solar. A neat letter laid in your hand with a familiar Lannister seal broken atop it. "He told me that his lioness is expecting cubs. Isn't that wonderful?"
Cregan looked up at him you from his paperwork. He blinked once. Then twice. "'S alright," he settled on. In truth, he didn't care of the news at all.
Your face fell a bit. "Did you not hear me? Cubs."
"My love," he says carefully. "I care not for matters of those against the crown. I have permitted your father's writings but I do not have to pretend I am overjoyed to hear of more lions that will be slaughtered should a battle commence."
You take a long time to think. You look back over the letter with a more tainted viewpoint than before. "They must be killed?"
"If he brings them into battle as Lannisters have done in the past, yes."
"Well." Your eyes water. "What if he does not? What if he keeps them hidden? Safe? As pets?"
"My darling love." He reached out his hand and drawls you to sit on his desk before him. He sighs and rubs at your hips. "A lion is no pet. They are unpredictable and dangerous. It is a strong house sigil. But to own them—"
"What of your direwolf?" You cry. "It is large and intimidating."
"Dark Night is uncaged. He proves no threat to me and my house. He can read me well. A lion cannot do that."
Big tears pool in your eyes and his heart immediately thumps harder. "My girl." He wipes them as they fall. "Ease your broken heart."
"They are only cubs." You hiccup and lean into his touch. "They have done no wrong."
"It is a curse, I know," he comforts. "Lots of things happen that way. Just the wrong place and the wrong time."
"Can I write? To Father. Can I tell him not to use them?"
Cregan knows exactly how this will go: You will beg Jason. He will lie and agree to ease your poor aching heart and to make Cregan no longer suspicious of the Lannister's war efforts. Then, in battle, lions will be slain.
It would happen regardless of what you wrote to your father.
He watched another tear fall down the tracks on your face from the previous ones. And he nods.
You run off quickly to try to correct this and save the lives of innocent animals.
He knows it's truly in vain. And when he or his men must kill them, he'll make sure you never hear of it.
But he knows it's the only way your little bleeding heart can sleep tonight.
….
Dark Night lays at your feet, nuzzling against your leg every now and then to get your attention.
Cregan sits across from you. He's still looking over letters and pages, just in comfort outside of his solar.
You still don't look up by the third time the dire wolf has nuzzled you. So he nips.
You whimper. It didn't break skin or cause you tremendous pain. But it was a surprising prick.
Cregan barely looks at the thing and lets out a low growl from his throat to reprimand him.
Dark Night whines and lays down once more.
"Needy thing," he sighs with the shake of his head. "Scare you?"
You nod. "I do not like it when he does that."
"He's only playing. Is that right, boy?"
"Your Northern ideas of play are much harsher," you scoff. "I hate it."
He looks back to his letters. "You do not hate it."
"I do," you insist.
A small flicker of his eyes— swarming with mischief. "You do not hate Northern play."
You catch his meaning and flush. And he was right. This morning, you didn't seem to mind 'northern play' at all.
"You are all savages." You set your embroidery aside and stand. "Heartless and cold and… and…"
"Yes?" He grins.
"And… and I don't like it!"
You watch him do everything he can to hold back just how funny he thinks you are. He only gives a quirk of his brow. "You don't like it?"
"No," you snap. "And I don't like you! Or… your dog… or…" You look around. "Or this rug!"
"Oh?" He looks down at it— the bear skin rug from the animal he caught himself a few weeks after your wedding. "You told me you loved it."
"Well… I lied!"
He watches you storm out, knowing you didn't mean a word you were saying. That was the Southerner in you talking.
It made him want to coddle you more. Just to see what lengths you go to.
…
He let you sit and pout in your room for a while before coming to collect you.
He stood outside your closed door, sighing to himself. The things he did for love.
Opening the door, he saw you sitting on the floor in front of the hearth. You didn't look up at him. "And like that, the room is colder."
He scoffed. "Stubborn girl. C'mere and look at me."
"Why? So you can gloat?"
He stopped behind you. "You think I want to gloat?"
"No," you answer honestly. He'd never been one to think better of himself. That was one northern trait you did appreciate of him.
There's a tap of something hitting the table behind you and you turn.
There's a tray he'd just sat down. Lemon cakes and a nice glass of wine. Over the back of the settee he'd walked by was richly colored fabrics.
"What is this?"
He shrugs. "If you don't want it, I can take it back—"
"Stop!" You sit up more now. "It can… it can stay."
His brow tilts. "Can I?"
You nod.
He sits on the settee and waves his hand at you. You obey without a second thought, coming into his lap.
"Thought about you," he admits, brushing your hair from your face. "I miss you during the day. Wish you'd visit me more often."
"They told me it was unbecoming of the Lady Stark to bother you while you work."
"Who told you that?"
You sigh. "Northerners. You know, my father let me speak to him at any time of the day in Casterly Rock."
"I know it," he agrees. "'S how you became so fucking spoiled." You grow defensive, but he quickly soothes it with a brush of his hand. "So are you going to visit me more or not, little garden rose?"
You hum in thought. "I will, but I have some requirements."
"Aye, I figured. Go on then. Name your terms." He pulls you closer, having a hand on your back to keep you from pulling away. "Tell me what you want."
"Well, I want a new dress to start. A brighter one of those fabrics. The colors here are too drab."
He hums, nuzzling his nose against your neck now.
"And I want… I want a horse of my own. I want to ride like I did at Casterly Rock."
"Too cold for you to ride," he murmurs. It makes a shiver go down your spine.
"I want a northern horse and I want a heavy cloak so that I can, then."
He lays a sloppy kiss against your throat. You squirm. "You're not listening to me," you whine.
"I am." He kisses. "Dresses and a horse." Another kiss. "A heavy cloak. What else?"
Your head grows dizzy when his scruff brushes against your skin. "I want…"
"Tell me what you want, wife," he whispers then kisses again. He nips lightly then soothes it with his tongue.
"I want… I want… new perfumes."
He groans at the thought and moves a meaty paw of his up into your hair to force your face up. "You'll have it."
He works across your neck and down to the place where it meets your shoulder. When you feel teeth there, you squirm and whimper. He groans out a 'good girl' when you let him finish the hickey you know will be there for at least a week.
He pulls his face away to look up at you now. His lips are swollen but there's a victory in his eyes. "Anything else?"
When you try to reach up touch the cooling spot at your shoulder, he intercepts and keeps your wrists in his hold. He looks the spot over. And at seeing the color beginning to pull, he grins. "Looks pretty," he tells you.
"And I want you to take me seriously."
The grin pulls into a knowing smile— bright and rare. "I take you very seriously, love."
"You don't! You… You're a brute."
"Mhm." He says as he looks you over.
"You're horrid. Just horrid."
"I know." He draws you in and slips his hands under you.
You shriek when he picks you up suddenly. "And a barbarian!"
"The worst," he agrees as he carries you to the bed. "The worst I've ever seen."
"I hate the North!"
He plops you down on the furs, making you let out a small 'hmph.' Then, he knocks your knees apart with his own and leans over the bed until you feel his breath upon your face. "You don't hate the North," he purrs.
"No," you whisper back.
"You like the North very much, as barbaric as it is."
"I do."
He lays a kiss to your lips. "I know."
The horse, the dresses, all of it— yours.
He made sure you, his little sensitive southern flower, were the most spoiled thing in the Realm.
cregan stark likes to watch his spoiled, pampered wife bathe
"You are in no need of more oils, wife," Cregan mutters, grey eyes watching bedrugingly as you pour yet another vial of scented concoctions into the milky bath water you are lounging in.
He swears it must be the tenth one you added. How a woman can even breathe with so many cloying, flowery smells stinking up the bath chambers is beyond his comprehension. Cleaning oneself needs to be a simple, efficient affair, not a godforsaken parade of every single lotion and oil you own.
"If you are so slighted by it, husband," you lilt, leaning back into the water with a soft, pleased sigh, closing your eyes as you let yourself relax fully, body submerged up to your shoulders. "You may leave and allow me a moment of peace without your brooding."
"I am not—"
"But you are," you interrupt, humming, lifting a hand to thread your fingers along the surface of the water as you speak. "Every time you join me, you do nothing but stand there and brood," the sound of your tongue clicking follows, as if expressing your distaste for this odd tradition your lord husband has instilled in the moons you have been wed. "It disturbs my repose."
Cregan scoffs, having half a mind to not roll his eyes at your audacity. He should be used to it by now, seeing as you have never shied away from making it abundantly clear how much you love being indulged and enjoying your reprise without a single interruption.
And yet, he was not going to allow you to discard him with a flick of your hand and a defiant tilt of your chin whenever you wished to be undisturbed. He was your husband, and if he wanted to be in attendance at whatever ridiculous southern pompous customs you had, he would.
That's why he had asked the servants to put an armchair in your bathing chambers, close by the tub, where he shall sit every time he has the luxury of disregarding or postponing his duties for a while, just so he can watch you bathe and pamper yourself. Cregan did not care if word filtered through the walls that The Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North spent part of his pastime sitting splayed out in a chair in his wife's bath chambers, feasting on one of the most exquisite viewings in the Seven Kingdoms. Let them talk and whisper. He did not need to explain himself to anyone, least of all to gossiping servants and sycophants alike.
His wolfish gaze was shameless as it traced the damp, dewy skin of your neck and shoulders, fingers drumming onto the wooden arm of the chair, faltering in rhythm just a tad whenever you shifted, the water lapping at your curves. He swore sometimes you were moving with the intent to drive him to madness, even if it was the most minute gesture.
"Disturbs your repose," he parroted, lips twitching with amusement at your feigned disdain for his presence. "My apologies for being such a pest to my own wife," Cregan continued, "I was not aware bathing oneself required such solitude."
Your expression shifted, a scowl marring your pretty features as your chin tipped upwards, as if his words had no place even reaching you. "It always requires solitude. You are just adamant to perturb it," you complained, sighing, as if the mere thought exasperated you, which made Cregan's mouth curl further, dripping with mounting enjoyment. "You stand there watching me like some kind of lecher," you accused, scowl deepening, a scoff leaving your plush mouth. "It is unbecoming of a husband to ogle his wife so shamelessly. You northerners have no decorum."
And oh, the way your lips curled every time you mentioned his culture, tone haughty and dipped with venom at the edges, as if spitting out the very word, made his blood sing.
"Just brutes with no finesse," you finished, chin raising just a bit higher, showing him you were above such things, above him, above his culture.
Gods, he wanted to haul you out of that bath and spank you until you cried those fat, pretty tears again, cheeks flushed and voice wet from babbling at him to stop. Cregan was not a man given to punishment easily, especially with the woman he was bound to by law and vow, but he came to understand that there were few ways he could make his wife see reason, and even then, only if you wanted to give in to his whims and relent.
"If you wanted a soft southerner lord with nough but a flaccid cock and no mind of his own, wife," he spoke, lips curling into that slow, wolfish grin, the one where his canines peeked through. A wolf showing his teeth without biting, but making it clear he could if provoked further. "You wouldn't have accepted my proposal so readily, riding for Winterfell not even a fortnight after our sigils were put on parchment."
You scoffed, rolling your eyes in that infuriating way Cregan loved and hated in equal measure, as if his words were nothing but white noise you were forced to listen to. "It was in my best interest to accept," you protested, inclining a little higher, leaning back against the tub, the water lapping at the tops of your damp breasts. A muscle in Cregan's jaw twitched as his eyes followed the movement. "Why would I be the lady of some lesser lord when I can be Lady of Winterfell?" The words were accompanied by a hum, evidently pleased with the title you possessed. "I am nothing but a woman of great ambitions, as you're well aware, husband."
Cregan huffed, more amused than anything, head tilting, not taking his eyes off the way he could make out the pebbled shape of your nipples just shy of peeking above the milky, fragrant water. He knew what you were doing. This little game of yours was as old as time.
You were losing ground, not pleased with the way he was biting back at your attempts to unnerve him, and had no other alternative but to call to his most primal, animal instincts that reside as deep as the marrow of his bones. He was a man, after all, and no stranger to the cravings of the flesh, more so when it came to his infuriatingly enticing wife, bare and glistening, lounging in the tub, indulging his eyes with glimpses and flashes of your body, willing to make him falter in his resolve.
"You never cease to remind me of the fact, wife," he said, feeling his chest puff up a tad at the way you huffed at his words, clearly displeased that he was not indulging your whims still. Not yet. Cregan was enjoying this more than he wanted to admit. "No woman in the Seven Kingdoms can rival you in that regard."
"What about other regards?"
Cregan's mouth twitched again, but he reigned in his expression for now. "Other regards?" He feigned confusion, tilting his head to the side, dragging his eyes from where they traced the shape of your damp breasts, up to your narrowed, inquisitive gaze. "I fear I do not follow. Must you be so kind as to specify, wife?"
Your brows furrowed, body shifting slightly into the tub, the water lapping at your skin, wetting it anew, drawing Cregan's eyes towards every patch for a few moments, rough fingers twitching onto his armchair, but he won't be baited this time. Raising one eyebrow, he waited, grey eyes now solely focused on yours, keeping you ensnared until you gathered the words to throw back at him.
"Am I rivaled in other regards by the women of the Seven Kingdoms?" You asked, chin held high, trying to absolve yourself of the vulnerable undertone woven into the question, gaze sharp, narrowed. But the way one of your hands lifted to grip the edge of the tub, curling around it, gave you away. You needed to ground yourself for this sort of fragility, and it made Cregan's heart soften just a tad every time, melting the frost of the North around it and giving way to the ceaseless warmth you brought with you from the South.
He huffed, letting his mouth form that tender, soft curl reserved only for you, grey eyes crinkling at the edges with barely concealed fondness. "No, wife," Cregan said, tone glazed with honeyed affection, letting his eyes feast on the way your chest heaved with a soft breath, as if his words had eased an unknown burden curled beneath your breastbone. "There is no woman in all the Seven Kingdoms who could dream of besting you."
And still, you scoffed, protest ready on your tongue, bristling in the milky water, never one to cease when you wanted certainty. "If your words are baseless, you may keep them, for I have no use for-"
"Not in my eyes," Cregan interrupted you, tone lowered but firm, halting your tongue before you could descend into yet another one of your haughty deflections.
It was ever pleasing, the way you faltered in the face of his sincerity. Blinking akin to a startled doe, your expression passing from one emotion to another, offense to confusion to reluctant preening. He could see it. Your chest heaving with soft breaths, plush mouth parting, pupils dilating wide enough to encompass the color of your eyes, leaving behind pools of black. And then, the flush. That warmth spreading from the tops of your breasts and climbing up, up, up your throat, splotching over your cheekbones and reaching the tips of your ears.
Mhm, he got you good this time. Cregan might have to ride the high of such an accomplishment for the fortnight to come, if he was lucky. The Gods were ever so merciful to grant him such a gift and let him savor it, too.
"The smell of the bathing oils must've affected you a great deal, husband, to say such theatrical musings," you mumbled, not meeting his eyes for a heartbeat, two, before looking into that northern gray you preached you found so insufferable. "It makes you sound like one of those flaccid men you mentioned earlier."
Cregan could only huff, amused, watching as you tried in vain to deflect and throw whatever attempt at diffusing the meaning of his words back at him. "Sound, maybe," he said, offering you a slow, wolfish curl of his mouth, baring just enough hint of teeth to allude to a threat, but not bestow it. "But I am anything but flaccid, wife. You, of all people, should be familiar with the hardness of—"
"Silence!" You shrieked, one hand dipping beneath the water's surface and swatting upwards, sending droplets of water towards him, attempting to will him into silence. "Have you no shame, you brute? To speak of such things in the company of your wife?"
But he was not perturbed; on the contrary, his lips pulled into a smirk, pleased and smug. Making you bristle truly was the thing he favored most, aside from the feel of your body and the sound of your voice. "Should I speak of such things in the company of someone else, then?"
"Don't you dare! Gods, you're giving me a headache," you fussed, swatting water at him again, eyes narrowed as you demanded. "Help me bathe, so you may amend for your wrongs."
And who was Cregan to refuse such a decree from his wife?
summary: Being Rhaenyra Targaryen's heir is a difficult thing, but what happens when you also become one of the Realm's most prized posessions?
pairings: cregan stark x velaryon!reader, reader x platonic targs/velaryon
click here to join the taglist!
i. the dear daughter (2.8k) — At one-and-twenty and eight-and-ten, barely a year after their marriage, Ser Laenor Velaryon and Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen welcomed their first child, a daughter, into the world. The girl immediately became dear to the whole court, coddled and spoiled by all, but mostly by her grandsire, King Viserys I. The man saw in his granddaughter her mother, and as the girl grew to look like his late wife, Aemma Arryn, it became even clearer that he doted on her more than he did to his own children or his other grandchildren.
ii. about children and trouble (8.2k) — It is reported that in the year 121 AC, when the Realm’s Jewel was only six summers old, her hatchling Merrax was eaten by the Cannibal in a strange turn of events that found him moving from Dragonstone to the Dragonpit in King’s Landing. Princess Rhaenyra demanded to have the dragon’s head cut, but as nobody ever tried nor dared to get close to the Cannibal, it was impossible to do it. Thus, her daughter took the matters into her own hands.
iii. little big lady (5.0k) — Court whispers tell us that during her third pregnancy, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen was particularly sensitive. She managed to cover it up pretty well, apparently, but she had one weak spot: her daughter, her firstborn and heir, who later on witnessed her little brother Prince Joffrey's birth by request of her mother. Despite openly disliking the experience, it is said that the Realm’s Jewel insisted on being present to future labours in case things went downhill — and she did, attending her mother in giving birth to all her future children.
iv. dragons' scars (6.4k) — And after the events that happened during Lady Laena’s funeral at Driftmark, two dragons were left scarred.
v. you'll change your name or change your mind (and leave this fucked up place behind) (5.3k) — When the King’s Justice — the royal executioner — died, the Realm’s Jewel proposed a perfect replacement: Nādrēsy, her dragon, the infamous Cannibal. Even if many eyebrows were raised at the Small Council, the King hastily agreed, happy to have an excuse for keeping his granddaughter close to him, even if it was for only a few days every moon. Or, as it always ended up, for a bit more than that.
vi. but I'll know, I'll know (8.4k) — At the ripe age of ten, the Realm’s Jewel was nominated by her grandsire the King, despite all the protests of the Small Council, the official Royal Ambassador; thus, her voyages throughout the Seven Kingdoms started, and yet another nickname was forged for her by the Smallfolk: the Wandering Princess.
↳ interlude (tbd) — Blood stained sheets. The first thing that comes up to your mind? Burning them and fleeing, obviously.
vii. legitimacy (4.5k) — “Vaemond Velaryon’s petition holds no sense,” it is said that the Wandering Princess reiterated once she heard of her uncle’s accusations. “My late father always recognised my brothers as his trueborn sons. Whether they look like him or the Baratheon and Arryn side of the family does not matter: they are legitimate.”
viii. the future queen (7.0k) — Sources say that the Wandering Princess was downright brutal to her uncle Vaemond Velaryon during the trial for his petition, despite having shown fondness of him in the years before. When he himself made her notice that, she laughed in his face, "Oh, dear uncle, did you hope to receive a kinder treatment than the others that come in this room and demand some fleeing claim over some land just because I hold your brother dear in my heart? Then you shall know at your own expense that everyone who tries to harm my brothers harms me and, by consequence, the Throne."
ix. primadonna (tbd) — The Realm’s Jewel eighteenth nameday is still speculated to be one of the grandest events ever arranged in the Seven Kingdoms — if not the grandest event ever. Invites were sent with enough notice for all the lords and ladies of the Realm to be able to show up — even if some lords, like Lord Cregan Stark, got some… personal invites, way earlier than the others were sent out.
x. bello sai, solo tu (coi tuoi occhi belli blu) (tbd) — In 133 AC, wildlings began to swarm into Winterfell after a breakthrough on the southern part of the Wall, and waged war against the rangers of the Night’s Watch. Lord Stark, who is said to have left the celebrations for the Realm's Jewel’s nameday earlier than expected to deal with the matter, was apparently saved by the latter and her uncle, who later spent a sennight in Winterfell to help the reconstruction of Queensgate. It is unknown what exactly happened between the Princess and Lord Cregan during that time, but by the time the famous Trials for the Hand took place, the Warden of Winterfell — who, it is speculated, once rejected the Princess — became the fiercest candidate, eventually securing his place in the Royal Family.
more to come!
extras:
pinterest board | spotify playlist | ao3
beautiful fanart | another beautiful fanart (another one by the same artist) | yet another amazing fanart | chibi version of the princess!! | ethereal princess 😭 | she takes from her mama 😞 | princess and baby joff | my design for princess | sketch of the princess!!! | the princess during chap 8 | she looks so soft here 🥹
or... what happens when Rusty's boss finds him in a very.. compromising position.
warnings : suggestive!
ᐟᐟ ⟢ a/n: actually 90's brad pitt is my pretty boy ( 🏷 @callme-holly )
♱ *ೃ.⋆
It was just supposed to be a quick stop.
Danny Ocean had a new job on the table. Not a big one—nothing with flashing lights or vaults or twelve moving parts. Just a simple hit. $10,000 apiece, if they played it smart.
He needed Rusty. And there was only one place Rusty Ryan could be at 1:27 AM: The velvet-draped, hush-toned VIP bar near the Strip Club with drinks that cost more than a used car and a clientele that smelled like money, danger, or Chanel No. 5.
Danny walked in smooth as always, black-on-black suit, hands in his pockets, flashing that effortless grin to the security guy at the front.
“Evening, sweetheart,” he murmured to the hostess. “Don’t mind me—just looking for the blond disaster I pay too much to eat shrimp cocktails and drink other people’s bourbon.”
She smirked, and without a word, pointed him to the far left corner of the lounge.
And there he was.
Or at least, a golden mop of hair and a wildly inappropriate public display of affection.
Danny stopped short when he saw the scene: his partner-in-crime, his right-hand man, deeply entangled in what could only be described as an enthusiastic motorboat situation.
Rusty Ryan was half a drink past drunk, half a button past decent, and very comfortably tucked between your thighs—his face unapologetically buried in your cleavage, his hands lazily circling your waist, and yours tangled in his hair like you were trying to comfort a dying soldier.
To be fair, he was going through something emotionally significant:
A particularly strong whiskey sour and the fact that you were wearing his favorite perfume and no bra.
He hummed something against your chest. Probably your name.
Rusty Ryan. Legendary poker whisperer. Coolest man in the room, usually.
Currently half-seated on a plush velvet bench, face buried unapologetically in a your cleavage, hands wrapped possessively around your waist like he was afraid you’d evaporate if he let go.
And you?
Well. You looked like the dictionary definition of trouble.
All milky pale skin, impossibly lush blue eyes lined in kohl, and hair that looked like it had made men commit crimes just for a chance to touch it. You were in a glittery barely-there outfit designed to bring men to their knees. The thigh slit alone could’ve started wars.
Danny took exactly three seconds to commit the scene to memory, then tapped Rusty on the shoulder.
You lifted your head slowly, smirking when you saw the sharp-dressed stranger watching with mild amusement.
“Well, this looks... productive.”
Rusty jolted like he’d been caught stealing from the Vatican.
“Shit—Danny?!”
His voice came out too loud, too fast, and he practically threw himself upright, accidentally bumping your nose with his chin in the process.
You giggled.
Rusty looked like he wanted to die on the spot. Half of his shirt was untucked, your lip gloss was all over his cheek, and his hair looked like he’d just lost a fight with a tornado. Which, to be fair, he kind of had—you were the tornado.
He turned, stumbling slightly as he tried to pretend he hadn’t just been halfway to second base in public.
Danny just blinked at him, then slowly turned his gaze to you.
“Well,” he said, still smiling. “Aren’t you a surprise.”
“Danny. Uh. Hey. Hi.” Rusty cleared his throat, smoothing his shirt and sitting up straighter like that would somehow undo what had just happened.
“You forget what year it is, or are you just trying to climb back into the womb?”
You snorted—couldn’t help it. Rusty groaned under his breath. “I thought you were in Atlantic City this week.”
“I was. It's already Monday, 1:31 to be exactly.”
He gave you a once-over, not lecherous, but with the polite curiosity of a man who knows beauty when he sees it. His eyes flicked between you and Rusty, then back to you.
“And you must be the reason my guy here hasn’t answered his phone in three hours.”
“Three hours? That’s a record. I should get a bonus.” You giggled sweetly, bringing a hand to your chest as if honored.
“Please kill me.”
“You gonna introduce me, or should I guess her name?” Danny teased, raising an eyebrow.
He extended his hand before Rusty could fumble through whatever half-truth he was about to mutter.
“Danny Ocean. And you are?”
You took his hand, graceful, eyes shining. “Depends who’s asking.”
“Someone who needs to know who exactly has my work partner by the—well, chest. And whether or not he’s in good hands.”
You smiled slow and wide. “The best hands. Professionally and recreationally.”
Rusty let out a noise halfway between a choke and a wheeze.
Danny let out a surprised laugh, shaking your hand.
“Oh, I like her,” he said, shooting a pointed look at Rusty, who groaned and rubbed his face like he could disappear if he just believed hard enough.
“So, you his girlfriend?” Danny asked casually.
You and Rusty both spoke at once.
“No.”
“She’s not—”
You smirked. “But he is clingy. Especially drunk.”
“God,” Rusty muttered.
Danny, ever the composed gentleman, sipped his scotch with a sparkle in his eyes.
“And what do you do, exactly?”
“She dances,” Rusty mumbled into his hands.
You shot him a playful glare, then turned to Danny. “I strip, Mr. Ocean. Dances are just the entry fee.”
Danny gave a low whistle. “Hell of a resume.”
“And she finds people,” Rusty added suddenly—too suddenly, like he was trying to pivot before you said something worse.
Danny blinked. “Finds people?”
“She’s—uh—she’s the one that gets me contact lists you ask for.”
You gave Rusty a slow, sugary smile. “Aw. He finally admits I’m useful.”
Danny grinned wider. “So you’re the one behind all those mysterious ‘sources’ Rusty always brags about?”
Rusty shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t brag—”
“You do.” Danny cut him off with a pointed eyebrow. “Every time I ask you to find me someone—arms dealer, safecracker, dirty valet? It’s her? Well then, you've got a hell lot of connections, sweetheart”
You smiled, nodding at the man.
“You’re his supplier?”
“In more ways than one.”
“OH my god.” Rusty turned to you, expression pained. “Please. I have like two molecules of dignity left.”
“Not anymore,” you winked.
Danny leaned back, folding his arms as he looked you up and down—not like a creep, but like a man adding a puzzle piece to a bigger picture.
“You know,” he said slowly, “You might be the best thing that’s ever happened to my golden boy.”
Rusty made a noise that sounded like a dying whale.
Danny ignored him.
“Well, keep an eye on my golden boy, would you? He tends to fall into things he shouldn’t—like vaults. Or tits.”
“Okay, let’s not—can we—?”
“And Rusty?”
He sighed, already defeated.
“Don’t lose this one. You’ll never find another stripper with underworld connections, perfect boobs, and that much patience.”
“Thanks, boss,” Rusty muttered, red-faced and mumbling into his glass.
After Danny left (with a final amused look and a “Call me tomorrow, Romeo”), Rusty just sat there, still trying to will the floor to open up and swallow him whole.
You leaned closer, sliding into his lap again with ease.
“Well,” you murmured, tracing a finger down his collar. “That went well.”
He groaned. “You’re never gonna let me live this down, are you?”
You kissed his cheek. “Not a chance.”
“But you will still sleep with me tonight, right?”
Cregan Stark loves his spoiled, pampered, heavily pregnant wife
cregan stark x wife!reader
cw: (mdni+18), fluff fluff fluff, pregnancy, lactation, banter, crack, cregan is obsessed with his wife, fondling, breast play, slight dirty talk, (2.5kw).
“I curse you.”
Cregan didn’t even lift his head at the words, the only tell that he had heard his wife being the slight twitch at the corner of his lips as he continued to glide ink on paper.
He could hear you waddling, huffing, and puffing up a storm as you closed the door to his solar, making as much noise as possible to draw him to pay attention to you, no matter how much work he had to do.
And who was Cregan Stark if not a mere supplicant to all and any of his wife’s whims?
“Curse me?” He spoke, lifting his eyes towards you, the curl of his lips deepening into amusement as he observed how endearing you looked, heavily pregnant and shooting daggers his way. “To what possible end, my love? You had but seen me for the first time today.” Cregan said, lifting one bushy brow, leaning back in his mahogany chair to get a better view of his beloved treasure of the North. “What have I done to earn such a harsh punishment?”
You scowled, stepping closer, your gait more akin to a mother duck than anything else, making warmth bloom in Cregan’s chest, letting his eyes sweep over you from the soles of your feet to the top of your head, taking you in, gorging on the sight of his pretty wife, all plump and heavy with his babe. He will never cease to pray to all the Northern Gods for this blessing, dropping to his knees in front of the weirwood tree, forehead pressed to the cold ground as he thanked them profusely for letting him cast his gaze upon such divinity.
“You have done plenty,” you scoffed, scrunching your nose in his direction. The closer you got to his desk, the more the resemblance between you and a disgruntled kitten became more and more apparent, making him hum. “My feet ache, my belly is too big, I’ve eaten a dozen lemon cakes in one sitting, and I can barely walk.”
Cregan pressed his lips together to suppress a splitting grin, way too amused and enamored with his crimes that he had apparently had a hand in, unbeknownst to him. How can a man like him even dare to stand there and not be swiftly punished for such wrongdoings? Other men were beheaded for less.
“Are all those ailments my doing?” He asked, feigning innocence as he waited for you to approach, letting you decide whether you wanted him near or not right now. “How could I have been such a cruel husband, hm?” Cregan continued, fingers twitching with the need to touch, to pull, to hold, but he relented, knowing the wrong move could earn him an even grumpier wife, and that is not what he wished for at the moment.
“Utterly cruel,” you affirmed, lip curling, baring your teeth at him as you stopped next to his chair, your pregnant belly brushing his arm, making his breath hitch, the wonder of such a miracle never quite ceasing. “You brought this upon me.” Your lips pursed into a pout, indignant and fussy as you continued. “If you weren’t so relentless in giving me your seed, I would’ve never resembled a thousand-pound duckling right now.”
Thousand-pound duckling.
Cregan couldn’t stop the huff of amusement that slipped past his lips even if he tried.
Smack.
“You dare laugh?” You gasped, affronted and utterly offended that your husband was finding your grievances even remotely entertaining, hand making contact with his broad shoulder again and again.
It truly only served to heighten his grin even more, eyes crinkling at the edges for a few moments as he let you hit him to your heart’s content, the slaps no more than a kitten batting its paws at a great wolf, Cregan cataloguing them more as pets than anything that could bring any harm.
“I laugh,” he started, tone woven with amusement, but achingly fond now as he watched you, lifting one hand to clasp yours, bringing it to his mouth to press a soft kiss onto the back of it, halting your fussing. “Because my wife is being ridiculous,” and he could already sense the protest on your tongue at his words, so he was quick to preempt that by continuing, turning your palm to press his lips to the inside of it now. “And she does not look like a thousand-pound duckling, but the most beautiful woman I, and the Seven Kingdoms have ever seen.”
You huffed, your scowl lessening.
Watching you melt gradually from his words was always one of Cregan’s joys in life, chest puffing with pride in being able to will his irritable wife into mellowness, that pretty face of yours warming whenever he “had the nerve,” as you often say, to be tender to you.
“You’re only saying that to appease me,” you protested, but moved closer, nudging him with your knee, indicating that you wished to be closer, to be tended to. A silent demand that your husband knew as well as breathing.
Cregan’s chair screeched quietly onto the hard floor as he made space for you in front of him, broad thighs parting to coax you near. He patted one meaty leg with his palm, head tilting as he watched you, lips softening at the corners, amusement bleeding into fondness. “Come here, to your husband, sweetling.”
“Are you certain you can hold the weight of me, husband?” You challenged, even as you stepped into his space. “Perhaps I am too hefty, even for you.”
Utter nonsense, Cregan thought. He knew you knew how strong he was. How easy it would be for him to hold you and not break a sweat while doing so. As if he doesn’t train and work himself to the bone whenever he is allowed a moment from the droning of courtiers to hone the muscles you secretly favour. Cregan could carry you in his arms through Winterfell’s walls for a handful of hours, he wagers, before the need to stop and take a breather would catch up to him.
“Hm, you reckon?” He rumbled, his hands finding purchase on your hips, smoothing over the flowy material of your dress. Gods, he loved the garments you’ve been adorning as of late—warm colors, soft fabrics, all cascading in rivulets down your soft, lush body. He had given word for more of such dresses to the seamstresses, without your knowledge. You didn’t have to know of his plans yet. Nor were you aware of how he made sure the hearths were lit periodically in every room you frequented, so the need for more than a cloak over your soft silks, satins, and linens was not necessary. It would’ve obstructed his view of you.
You squirmed just a bit, just enough to show resistance, even when he could feel you melting like honey in his grasp as he slowly turned you around, your back to his chest, seating you right onto his lap with a pleased, content groan. The solid weight of you, of the babe you were carrying, leaning back against him, trusting him to hold it all, made something pleased and animal bloom into his chest. If he were any more wolf in anything but sigil and tradition, he was sure he would’ve purred like a content beast right now.
“There you go,” Cregan said, broad palms using their grip onto your soft hips to hike you up higher until you were flush against him from hips to shoulders. “My pretty wife,” he murmured, leaning in to nose at your throat with a satisfied sigh, inhaling the scent of your bath oils, milk and you. “Smelling like a treat here on my lap.”
Cregan knows you would taste even better, but the time for that is not now. He loves to savour you most later in the night, when he has you all pliant and drowsy next to him, bundled up in the furs and pelts from his latest hunts, huffing and whining about all the pains and aches that plague you. And it is your husband’s duty to mend them with his tongue, hands and cock, in any way his lovely wife sees fit.
“I do not feel like a treat,” comes your response, leaning your head back against his shoulder as you grumble. “And it is your doing.”
Ah, of course. Anything that ails you is always Cregan’s demerit, be it truth or fib.
“Apologies, sweet wife,” he whispers against the warm skin of your neck, nuzzling there as a hound would its owner for clemency after being scolded. “How shall I repent for my wrongs at present, pray tell? I am yours to command, as always.”
Truth be told, Cregan could provoke you, could throw your whining and complaining back at you, as he often did, but he had found himself powerless to do such a thing in the moons since you have been with child. How could he muster even a modicum of bravado against the woman who now carried their babe? His heir. His little pup, as Cregan often called them, to your dismay, even tho he knew you did not mind the moniker in the slightest, especially when he was kissing all over the taut skin of your belly in the soft light of mornings, whispering sweet nothings to your stomach, as if the babe could hear him.
"Let me, my love." His broad palms smooth up from your hips, just enough to cradle the bottom of your pregnant, heavy belly and lift, supporting some of the weight himself, holding steady and firm. “There you go.”
The relief is instant.
You melt back into him with a soft sigh, as if a great burden has been taken from you, being gifted a moment of relaxation, where your husband was bearing the heavy load of your unborn babe. He had done this countless times since the nearing of your term, only more than a moon away until you were to be surrounded by midwives and maesters.
“It is a boulder,” you fuss, but your eyes flutter in delight, the ache in your back easing the more Cregan bears the brunt of your belly. “One I shall never have to haul around again, Gods be good.”
He hums at your words, knowing them not to be entirely founded, for he knows you are quite fond of the idea of having more than one set of little legs running around Winterfell in the years to come, but he keeps the quip to himself, mindful of your repose.
“I cannot abide by having to change my garments every few hours because I’m dripping milk like cattle.”
Dripping milk.
Cregan freezes for a moment before tipping his chin onto your shoulder to peer down your chest, and truth be told, there they were, your words sounding truthful.
Pebbled nipples peeking through damp material, where milk had stained the fabric, your heavy breasts full of milk, ready to nurture the future babe.
Your husband’s breath caught at the sight, tongue unconsciously poking out to wet his lips, as if wanting to taste the patches of wet silk and suck them into his mouth so he could relish the flavour of your nourishment.
“My poor, sweet wife,” Cregan crooned, one palm still supporting your pregnant belly, while the other slowly travelled upwards, caressing the soft fabric of your dress, until he could cup one full breast, making you huff. “So full of milk already,” he continued, thumb brushing over the damp peak of your nipple through the silk, eliciting a breathier sound this time, which made him hum. “Ready to feed our babe.”
He expected you to squirm, to fuss again at him, but you arched into his touch, limbs melting onto his lap, as if his touches were the flame to melt wax onto paper, willing you pliant and malleable.
“They ache,” you complained, pushing your chest into his palm, urging him to aid you in your grievance, as any husband should. “They’re too full.”
“Too full?” came your husband’s voice, lower, more gruff, as if your words had affected him more than he wished to admit. “And no one to suckle on these pretty tits yet, isn’t it?” He said, palm shifting, covering your breast fully, fingers dimpling the clothes’ softness as he squeezed gently, fondling the lushness slowly.
Again and again and again.
You didn’t mind the rhythmic press of his palm; on the contrary, you relished it, each one accompanied by one of those sweet sighs of content that Cregan drank in like the finest Arbour gold.
With each squeeze, the material of your dress dampened, your husband drawing out more and more milk, wetting both your dress and his palm. He groaned at the feeling, fingers dimpling the flesh harder, but never enough to hurt. “Gods, sweetling, you’re leaking everywhere,” he rumbled, pupils blown wide as he watched the way the silk darkened as more and more sweetness dripped from your pebbled nipples. “Makin’ me want to suckle at it like a babe.”
You gasped, one of your hands lifting to swat at the one he had around your breast, which only made him squeeze more. “Don’t be dissolute!” You reprimanded, but did nothing else to stop his fondling, weaving your fingers through his against your heaving tit, aiding him as you continued. “Just keep going.”
Cregan groaned, tilting his head to the side to nuzzle into the crook of your neck, the scent of sweet, warm milk already permeating the air around you, making him dizzy with the need to dip his head low and mouth at you until you couldn’t resist any more. “You’re a cruel woman,” he rasped, mouth parting, tongue poking out, as if tasting the air would suffice, as if that would even come close to having your milk on his palate. “All lush and ripe like a summer peach, sitting on my lap, dripping all over me,” he growled, feeling his palm dampen more with each squeeze. “And not letting me put my mouth on you.”
It was torture to sit there and not take what he wanted, but he knew that you’d give in soon. Only a matter of time until Cregan would crawl over you, tugging down at your neckline to slobber and mouth at your milk-heavy tits until he was drunk on the taste and you were pliant and lax under him, mewling and squirming.
And probably offering him your other breast to suckle at as well, if you were in good spirits, and he prayed dutifully to the Gods that day.
summary: sent to oldtown as a ward beneath your cousin lord ormund hightower's protection, you learn there are some vows that are easier to preach than to keep.
pairing: ormund hightower x targtower!reader
content/warnings: 18+ (mdni), icky guardian/ward relationship, canon-typical incest (cousins), age gap (~20 years), grooming, religious abuse and religious guilt, emotional manipulation, coercive control, possessiveness, severe power imbalance, forced declarations of affection, physical intimidation/rough handling, parental abandonment, references to childhood neglect, implied sexualized ritual, canon-typical misogyny, canon divergent, no use of y/n
word count: 6.8k
A/N: i need psychological help for how badly i need this man fr. originally had this planned as a oneshot, but i kept writing more...and more...and more...and felt like i was going to rush through the material if i tried to fit it all in one, so now we have a three-part series that i am very excited for you all to read :) hope you guys enjoy this freak of a man AND to see how freaked out i make these two hehehe! and excited for you all to see what ormund means when he reminds reader it is the seventh day...hmm...wonder what he has in store... also, fun drinking game: take a shot every time reader says "yes, my lord"
MASTERLIST
next chapter → (COMING 7/24)
The other side of the bed was empty when you awoke, though the sheets remained warm and rumpled. Eyes still heavy from the lingering seeds of sleep, your hand reached across the mattress, patting until it found the warm hollow of where his body had lain. Ormund was almost always up before dawn.
“Idleness is as plain a sin as vanity or greed,” he liked to say. “It begets indulgence, indulgence begets excess, and excess begets unfaithfulness.”
Unfaithfulness, of course, was inexcusable.
The bedchamber was still dim, with only the first suggestion of morning creeping beneath the shutters. Beyond the walls of the Hightower, you could hear the bells of the Citadel begin their first tolls.
Ormund, as expected, was already kneeling before the small altar in the corner of the room. He wore only his linen sleeping shirt and breeches, and though his back was turned to you, you could see one hand slowly turning the pages of his weathered copy of The Seven-Pointed Star and hear the low murmur of passages he had committed to memory.
In all the years you had lived in Oldtown, never once had Ormund deviated from this morning ritual. You remember the first time you had seen it. You had been a small child then, prone to wandering from your own chambers in the middle of the night into this one, back when it had belonged to the late Lady Hightower as much as it did her husband. She had always been kind to you. Like a true mother, when your own was so far away.
Whenever sleep would not come, or the young Hightower boys had filled your head with tales of monsters lurking beneath the floor, you would creep from your bed and patter barefoot down the stone passage. You would ease open the heavy, creaking door and stand silently at the foot of the canopied bed until Lady Hightower stirred. She would always lift the blankets for you. From his side of the bed, Ormund would grumble some half-hearted objection about indulgence and the necessity of teaching you independence, but Lady Hightower paid him little mind. She would draw you into the warmth between them and promise that no monster in Oldtown would dare pass through their chamber door.
Even after she died, you did not cease coming.
It hurt, at first. To lie in the bed where she had once held you, the space now empty without her. Ormund never objected to your staying. Though he remained stoic and stony throughout his own grief, perhaps there was comfort for him, too, in not being left to sleep alone. When you wept silently into her old pillow, he would smooth your hair back from your face and say nothing.
The habit endured long after your tears had dried and the black mourning clothes had been packed away. Some nights, you would attempt an honest effort at remaining in your own chambers, only to find yourself once again padding down the candlelit passage towards his.
Ormund never turned you away. Now it was his hand that lifted the blankets for you to crawl beneath. Now it was his arm that pulled you in, wrapped around your waist in the night, his face that pressed into your hair, his body whose warmth you sought beneath the covers.
The servants of the Hightower knew that your own chambers were little more than a formality, so seldom occupied that dust gathered upon the bed. You slept in your cousin Ormund’s chambers, you bathed there, you dressed there. Nearly every trace of your daily life had migrated into his rooms, until there was little left in your own to suggest they had ever belonged to you.
It was only natural. After Lady Hightower’s death, the keeping of the household had fallen into your hands. It was you who approved the servants’ schedules, arranged the seating at feasts, and received the wives and daughters of visiting noble houses. Some might have found it strange that Ormund’s ward should occupy so much of his late wife’s place while remaining neither wed nor formally mistress of his household. Stranger still, perhaps, that if anyone entered Lord Ormund’s chambers before the sunrise, they would find him curled around his ward– Queen Alicent’s youngest daughter– his body arranged in the shape a husband’s would make.
If they did find it strange, no one within Oldtown had the courage to remark upon it.
“You’re awake.”
You propped yourself up on your elbows to watch as Ormund closed the prayer book and rose from the altar.
“Yes,” you answered as he crossed the chamber to the washstand. He dipped his hands into the porcelain basin and brought the water to his face. “I heard you praying.”
Ormund hummed as he dried himself with the folded linen cloth laid fresh each morning beside the ewer. “It would serve you well to join me in morning prayer.”
You ducked your head. “Yes, my lord.”
“I think only of your soul. One burdened by the sins of your…Targaryen…forefathers should labor all the more harder to absolve herself of them.”
“Yes, my lord.”
You waited for him to chide you further, or launch into one of his soliloquies on how faithfulness did not sleep merely because the sun had yet to rise. Ormund did none of that.
Instead, he made his way to the bed and lowered himself onto the edge beside you, his weight dipping the mattress. Ormund lifted one hand to cup your cheek and ran his thumb gently beneath your eye. You nuzzled into his touch without a thought.
“We will have visitors from the Reach in the Hightower later today. In particular, Lord Godric Ashford will call upon me this morning in my solar,” he said, as casually as if he were discussing the day’s weather.
Your brows rose. You knew that several noble houses from across the Reach were expected at the Hightower in the coming days for discussions of taxes, grain, and the season’s feasts. Hosting them was hardly unusual. Nor was it unusual for one of their unmarried sons to request a private audience with your guardian. “Lord Robert’s son?”
“Yes, unfortunately,” Ormund mused, seemingly more occupied with gently stroking his thumb back and forth over your cheekbone. “I assume he intends to ask for your hand in marriage.”
Your stomach twisted in a mixture of dread and excitement. Lowering your eyes, you worried at a stray thread in the coverlet. “Do you…do you think he might be suitable?”
The thumb on your cheek stopped. Ormund’s face tightened slightly, as though some rancid smell had entered the room. “That, my dear, remains to be seen.”
He stood from the bed, and you instantly missed the warmth of his touch. You watched him cross to the wardrobe and pull open the carved doors, retrieving his clothes for the day.
“But you will still hear him, yes?”
“That is what I have agreed to,” Ormund answered with obvious reluctance, stepping into his breeches. “And I suppose I must keep my word. I will hear his presentation, just as I have heard the others before him.”
He slipped his arms into the doublet, turning to you as he began buttoning it. “You will not concern yourself with the meeting. You were entrusted to me for good reason. Namely, my rectitude and discernment in such matters. You would not want to be betrothed to some ignorant oaf, would you?”
“No, my lord.”
“And you know that I have only your best interests at heart, including the question of what sort of man you should be given to. Correct?”
“Yes, my lord.”
Ormund smiled affectionately. “Good girl.”
Your heart squeezed at the praise. It had always been that way with Ormund, desperately seeking any type of reassurance that you were saved. That you were obedient. That you were wanted. That you were good.
The sound of light footsteps and swishing skirts echoed under the chamber’s door. Your servants, no doubt, waiting to be beckoned in by the Lord Hightower to serve upon his ward.
Ormund made his way back over to you, but this time stayed standing, looking down upon you. “You will attend the sept this morning. When Lord Ashford has finished his proposition, you will come to me in the solar. This evening, we will receive our guests for supper in the Great Hall.”
You bowed your head obediently, just as he taught you. “Yes, my lord.”
Ormund turned to the door as if he meant to call the servants in, and then paused. He slowly turned back to you, his blue eyes swimming with a feeling you had become quite familiar with. Determination, and something weightier under it. Something you had never been able to name, but knew intimately.
“It is the seventh day,” he stated, his voice low. You knew that. You knew by now not to recognize the day by name, but by its count. “You will come straight to this chamber after supper. Bathe first.”
Silently, you nodded. His face twisted in disapproval. “Your words, please.”
“Y-yes, my lord.”
He exhaled, a small measure of satisfaction returning to his face. “Good. Very good.”
Ormund laid one hand over yours where it rested atop the coverlet, looking suddenly very serious. “And do tell your women never use to that horrid citrus oil on you again like they did last week. It taints you.”
“I will.”
He squeezed your hand in appreciation, then straightened himself and turned towards the door. “You may enter.”
The door opened at once, like your women had been waiting. They filed into the chamber with lowered eyes, none appearing surprised to find you sitting in Lord Ormund’s bed. He did not bother to look at them, his gaze fixed on you as he spoke.
“See that she is properly dressed to receive visitors.”
The girls spoke in unison, eyes still fixed on the ground. “Yes, Lord Hightower.”
Ormund nodded at you once. An unspoken acknowledgement passed between the two of you. The seventh day. What the night would hold. Then he departed, leaving the chamber door open behind him.
Your women moved quickly and efficiently, drawing back the blankets and settling a robe over your shoulders as they began the familiar work of preparing you for the day. There was no time to dally. Before long, your hair had been pinned, your gown laced tightly in Hightower green, and your throat and wrists adorned with jewels Ormund had gifted you on namedays and holy days.
One of the girls uncorked the vial of citrus oil and reached for your neck. You grabbed her hand, stopping her.
“Lord Ormund,” was all you had to say.
She bowed her head in immediate understanding and exchanged it for another perfumed oil he had shipped from Lys for you.
Soon, you looked as a proper Hightower woman ought to look. And by the next tolling of the bells, you had entered the sept of the Citadel.
The seven-walled chamber appeared much as it had when you first arrived in Oldtown– or, at least, as it had in your earliest memories once you had gone from a crawling babe to a waddling child. Damp clung to the stone floors. At the center stood an altar crowded with pools of hardened wax and burning candles, while bejeweled likenesses of the Seven watched from alcoves set into each wall. Your attendants lingered behind you like silent shadows as you moved through the sept, a veil drawn over your hair.
You walked as Ormund had always instructed you to walk: head bowed, hands clasped, each step quiet. The very picture of piety in a woman.
Stopping at the Maiden, you thought once more of the late Lady Hightower. You often served as her little companion to the sept on mornings like this, following closely behind as she knelt and prayed before each altar. You could feel the memory clearly: the whisper of her skirts against the stone, the warmth of her hand around your smaller one, the patient way she corrected your prayers when your childish tongue stumbled over the words.
The truth was that you had no memories before ones such as these, ones of Oldtown.
You were just a babe when your father, King Viserys, sent you south to be fostered among your Hightower kin. Ormund had always said that, for all the sins of your parents, they had at least possessed the wisdom to recognize Oldtown was where you belonged.
The explanation for your immediate exile from King’s Landing had always been a convoluted one.
On some days, you had been sent away because court was dangerous. On others, because King’s Landing was steeped in pride and your father wished for you to be raised in the piety of your mother’s kin. Lady Hightower had longed for a daughter. Your health was fragile as a babe, Oldtown’s air was better for a delicate infant. Alicent had a difficult birth and needed time to rest. The reasons always shifted depending upon who offered them.
The clearest explanation, though it was the one that had always gone unspoken, was that you had simply not been wanted.
At first glance, there was nothing about you that suggested descent from Old Valyria. You possessed neither silver hair nor amethyst eyes. Beautiful, certainly, but not plainly Targaryen. You bore none of the unmistakable marks of your father’s house.
More importantly, you had no dragon.
Ormund refused to speak of that last matter. You did not know whether an egg had been placed in your cradle according to custom, whether it had failed to hatch, whether the hatchling had died, or whether no egg had ever been given to you at all. Whatever the circumstances, it seemed the Seven had determined that you were not to be a Targaryen, but a Hightower.
“A blessing,” Ormund often called it, standing behind you, watching intently as you brushed your hair in the evenings. “That your appearance was not marred by the stain of inbreeding. You should be grateful the gods favored you enough to preserve your beauty from such impurity.”
What he really meant was, “You should be grateful the gods gave you to me”.
And you were. Your childhood in Oldtown had been a happy one. Ormund and Lady Hightower’s sons took to you as a true sister, including you in their games no matter how often you ran weeping to their mother after they shoved you into the mud. You received the finest education the Citadel’s maesters could provide and were thoroughly instructed in histories, languages, scripture, and the workings of court. Ormund instilled in you the virtues expected of a holy and pious woman. Lady Hightower taught you kindness. You wanted for nothing. You were cared for completely.
Being cared for, however, was not the same as being wanted.
One by one, the boys grew into men. They departed to serve in other courts, took wives, and established households of their own. You remained behind. After Lady Hightower’s death, the question of where you belonged began to trouble you even more.
You searched everywhere for some reflection of yourself. In histories and poems. In portraits, tapestries, and family trees. You studied every face and name, hoping one might reveal why you had been born in the first place.
Though Ormund preferred that you remain ignorant to the fact, you knew you were a Targaryen.
He contradicted himself often in that regard. He insisted that you were a Hightower whenever you longed for King’s Landing, yet invoked the sins of your Valyrian predecessors whenever you displeased him. As a child, the inconsistency had deeply confused you. Now, though, you knew better to question it.
The histories did not speak of Targaryens as aliens deserving only shame. On the contrary, they praised them. Aegon the Conqueror had crossed the Narrow Sea and conquered Westeros, his lineage sitting upon the Iron Throne from then until the end of time. They had bound themselves to mighty beasts that would bow to no other riders. Why should you not wish to be one of them? Why should you be ashamed?
Perhaps that was why, during one of your rare visits to King’s Landing, you became determined to find some way of securing your place within your own bloodline. Ormund had permitted you, after much begging on your part and great reluctance on his, to attend the wedding of your brother Aegon to your sister Helaena. You had still been young enough to think yourself a girl, though womanhood waited only just around the corner, and through that haze of youth the wedding had seemed beautiful.
Now, of course, memory revealed what you had been too young to recognize then: the discomfort across Helaena’s face, the uninterested ambivalence with which Aegon accepted the ceremony, the celebration disguising a union neither seemed to really desire. But that morning, surrounded by jewels and music and flowers, by feasts and speeches proclaiming the strength of their union, you had understood only one thing.
If your appearance could not prove you a Targaryen, perhaps marriage could.
When you returned to Oldtown, full of courtly notions and girlish fancy, you announced to Ormund that you would marry your brother Aemond– who had scarcely looked your way throughout the entire visit. Ormund had been seated behind the desk in his solar, writing upon a sheet of parchment. At your declaration, the quill froze between his fingers.
With deliberate care, he set the quill aside and lifted his eyes to you with a dreadful stillness. “You will do no such thing.”
Your smile slowly faded. “But…Aegon married Helaena. That is what Targaryens do.”
Ormund rose suddenly from behind the desk, his chair scraping harshly across the stone floor. You remembered how the sound had frightened you.
“The Targaryens– your father’s family– are incestuous barbarians,” he had declared. “Their minds are so corrupted by generations of inbreeding that they no longer possess the sense to recognize depravity. Your mother whored herself to a Targaryen. I will not give you to your own brother. I will not allow you to repeat her sins and bring further shame upon the Hightower name.”
By then, he had crossed the solar and taken your chin firmly in his hand, his fingers dimpling the skin of your cheeks. You had begun to cry, though you could not tell whether it was from fear, shame, or the sudden loneliness of knowing you might never truly belong anywhere.
“But then I could live with Father and Mother,” you whispered, tears slipping down your cheeks. “I could go home.”
Ormund bent until his face was close to yours, his breath hot against your skin. His grip tightened beneath your chin. “This is your home.”
The memory faded as you reached for a candle from the basket beneath the Maiden’s altar. You held its wick to one of the burning flames and watched a bead of wax gather at the tip before slipping towards your fingers.
Aemond had been the first man Ormund refused you. He had not been the last.
Among Ormund’s duties as your guardian was the arrangement of your eventual betrothal. Ormund approached that responsibility as he approached all others: with severe discretion, particular judgment, and standards so high that no man alive seemed capable of meeting them.
There had never been a shortage of suitors. You were young, unmarried, and beautiful– and whatever Ormund might say of your father’s house, the hand of a Targaryen princess remained a prize few sensible men would dismiss.
As you grew older, the procession became a lengthy one.
The first man to formally inquire after you had been Ser Joldwin Mormont. You remembered him quite clearly. He had been nearer Ormund’s age than your own, tall and broad as most Northmen seemed to be, with a rough face that was not altogether unpleasant. He was steady in temperament and remained remarkably calm beneath Ormund’s inquisitions. He had even brought you a gift: a beautiful velvet cloak trimmed in bear fur. You had thought he resembled the carved likenesses of the Warrior found in the sept. He would make a good husband, you had decided.
Ormund had not agreed.
He had no shortage of qualms. Men of the North were ignorant, uncivilized, and hardly better than an illiterate barbarian dragging around a club in Ormund’s opinion. Bear Island was remote, bitterly cold, and impoverished. Worst of all, the Mormonts possessed a peculiar habit of treating their women as though they were equals.
It was not a place, he decided, where you belonged.
Ormund had declared Joldwin entirely unsuitable, and forced you to toss the beautiful cloak into the fireplace of the Great Hall. He said it smelt of bear shit.
After that, the list of suitors started to blend together.
There was a Martell, handsome enough to make you blush with warm brown eyes, who winked at you across the hall. Ormund reacted as though the man had attempted to bed you in the middle of the Hightower. The Dornish were lecherous and tried to “fuck anything that walked”, he told you.
There was a young Rowan who stuttered frequently and spoke so softly that you had to lean closer to hear him. Ormund dismissed him as weak and unfit for a wife.
A ruddy-cheeked and quite cheerful Redwyne heir sent you summerwine and a song composed in praise of your beauty. Ormund called him frivolous.
One man lived too far from Oldtown. Another lived so near that Ormund questioned whether he sought your hand only to gain influence within the city. One possessed too many ambitions. Another had none. One was too young to govern you properly, while another was so old that Ormund expressed outrage at the very notion of subjecting you to him.
There was always some defect. Too proud. Too timid. Too wealthy. Too poor. Too worldly. Too sheltered. Too handsome. Too plain.
Ormund’s standards contradicted one another so thoroughly that, had all his preferences been gathered together, the perfect husband would have needed to be commanding without controlling you, gentle without indulging you, wealthy without greed, devout without presumption, and situated near enough that you might never truly leave the Hightower.
Such a man had yet to present himself.
Perhaps, you thought as you placed your candle down before the Maiden’s altar and bowed your head, Lord Godric Ashford would be different. Perhaps today would finally be the day Ormund found a suitable match for you. Perhaps today was the day you would understand what fate had intended for your life. Perhaps you would finally be chosen.
You set your candle upon the Maiden’s altar and prayed for love, for a fruitful marriage, and for a husband who chose you with a pure heart. You tried to imagine such a life with Godric, though you did not yet know his face.
You hoped he was strong, like Ormund. Tall, like Ormund. Handsome, like Ormund.
You hoped that he might be enough like Ormund to earn his approval. You hoped, without really understanding why, that he was like Ormund.
By the time you returned to the Hightower, Lord Ashford had already been shown into Ormund’s solar and begun his proposition.
Ormund had never permitted you to be present for such conversations, of course. Serious matters, he insisted, were to be muddled by girlish sentiment. Over the years, you had therefore found other ways to learn what decisions were being made about your future without you. Some time ago, you had discovered a narrow passage running behind the rear wall of Ormund’s solar– an old servants’ entrance, long forgotten, its doorway boarded over and concealed behind a heavy tapestry.
And so, upon returning to the Hightower, you dismissed your ladies with the excuse that you wished to pray alone in your chambers (surely the gods would forgive the lie, given the good reason for it). Once they had gone, you slipped behind the tapestry and crept down the cobwebbed corridor until you reached the boarded door. Pressing your ear to the weathered planks, you heard the low murmur of men’s voices.
“...and I would never seek to separate her from Oldtown, Lord Hightower,” an unfamiliar voice spoke. You leaned closer. It was firm but polite, young but not imprudent. Lord Godric Ashford. He sounded kind. “I understand the princess is quite close with you, and I would ensure she could visit the Hightower as often as she wished. Family is of the utmost importance to me.”
You heard Ormund’s chair squeak. You could imagine he had leaned back in it, hands clasped in front of him, assessing Lord Ashford as he did all things brought before his judgement. “That seems to me an indulgence. She would be your wife, would she not? You would not want her with you in Ashford?”
“Of course, my lord. But I would not be so cruel as to forbid her from visiting the man that raised her. My own mother was a Caswell, and she visited my grandsire at Bitterbridge at every turning of the season.”
“And if she wished to visit more often than you considered appropriate?”
There was a brief pause. “I would speak with her, as husband and wife should.”
“Hmm. And if speaking did not bring her around to your judgement?”
There was another lull, longer this time, before Lord Godric gave an uneasy chuckle. “Well, I would hope my wife did not need to be disciplined as a child would.”
“Hopes are not the same as reality,” Ormund replied easily. “Particularly where Targaryen blood is concerned. They are a willful and proud people. Very resistant to correction.”
“I-I have heard no such things of the princess, my lord.”
“No? Then what have you heard of her?”
“Every account has described her as the very image of what a noblewoman ought to be: beautiful, gracious, and demure. I’ve been told she is quite pious, as well.”
A thoughtful silence settled over the solar. You wished desperately you could see Ormund’s face. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet.
“She is.”
Your heart swelled and instinctively, you pressed yourself closer to the boards. You were a good girl.
“But do not mistake her nurture for nature, Lord Godric. She did not arrive in Oldtown so.”
“My lord, I did not mean to suggest–”
“Every virtue you have heard praised in her was cultivated beneath my hand. Her modesty, her devotion. The weeds of Targaryen pride had to be pulled, one by one. A garden does not become handsome just because a flower has good intentions. It becomes handsome because a gardener has the discipline to attend to it every single day and cut away what ought not grow.”
Lord Godric hesitated in his answer. “And…you believe a husband must continue that work? Pull the weeds from her?”
“I believe,” Ormund answered slowly, “that any man who means to take her from me must be capable of preserving what I have made.”
What he had made.
You drew a shaky breath, your fingernails pressing into the weathered boards.
Perhaps it was true. Ormund had spent years teaching you the faults of your father’s house. They were blasphemous, unnatural. Incestuous and violent. An abomination before the Seven. His lessons were so ingrained within you that even the faintest reminder of your Valyrian blood could fill you with shame.
You had not chosen that blood. You had not asked to be born into it. You had only ever wanted to be good. And if Targaryens were innately wicked, perhaps you truly did owe everything virtuous within you to Ormund.
As a child, you had often wondered what sort of creature you might have become without his guidance. If he were true, which he often was, you would be a terrible creature malformed by sin. The thought frightened you still. But another more terrible one followed suit: without his guidance, you would not have had him.
No arms around your waist in the night. No hand smoothing your hair. No voice telling you what was right, what was wrong, what was safe. A life without Ormund. You tried to imagine it and found only emptiness. Would such a life truly be worth living?
And yet…you wanted to be chosen.
Your own mother and father had decided they had no need of you in King’s Landing, though they kept their other children close. You had been sent to Oldtown, where you doubted Ormund and Lady Hightower had been given much choice in whether they would receive you. No one had ever truly chosen you.
That was what made the suitors difficult to dismiss. They came before Ormund willingly, they asked for your hand because they wanted you. You liked that more than you wished to admit.
And though the thought of leaving Ormund filled your stomach with dread, it had become increasingly difficult not to resent him for refusing every man who tried to choose you.
“I believe I have heard all I need,” Ormund said suddenly, his voice decisive. Your heart faltered. You knew what that meant.
“...My lord?” You could hear Godric shift closer to the desk. “I hope I have not caused offense of any sort. I only meant that, should the princess become my wife, I would do all within my power to–”
“I said I have heard enough.” Something heavy was placed on the desk with a thud. A wine cup, presumably.
You wanted desperately for Godric to protest. You wanted him to declare his love to you, though he had never once seen your face. You wanted him to insist that perhaps the choice of whom you married ought to belong, at least in part, to you. You wanted him to accuse Ormund of cruelty for denying you the right to a husband.
The last thought filled you with immediate shame. You whispered a hurried prayer under your breath to the Father, begging forgiveness for having judged the man who had only ever sought to protect you.
Godric did none of that. Instead, he simply uttered with cool restraint, “As you will, Lord Hightower.”
A chair scraped across the floor and heavy footsteps crossed the solar, followed by the opening and closing of its main door. You withdrew from the boarded door slowly, blinking as tears began to brim at your eyes.
Usually, disappointment was all you felt when another suitor was refused. A dull ache in your heart followed by the acceptance that Ormund must have seen some defect you had overlooked. He knew the nature of men and the dangers of the world in ways you did not.
This time felt…different.
Godric had spoken respectfully. He had promised not to sever you from Oldtown. He had regarded your devotion and gentleness, and when Ormund questioned whether he could govern you, Godric had not boasted of cruelty or correction. His only failure had been suggesting that you ought to be treated as a wife rather than a child.
By the time you emerged from behind the tapestry, Lord Ashford was gone. The corridor stood empty, save for the guard outside the solar, offering no glimpse of the man who had come to ask for your hand and been dismissed before you could even see his face.
Ormund had instructed you to come to him once the proposition concluded. Usually, you obeyed quickly. Now, though, you lingered outside the solar door with your hand raised to knock, struggling to understand the feelings swimming in your mind. Confusion, disappointment. And something dangerously close to anger.
You knocked anyways.
“You may enter,” Ormund called.
You opened the door and stepped inside, carefully pulling it shut behind you. Ormund had moved from the desk to the window and stood peering down at the city below. The shutters had been opened. He turned at the sound of the door closing, looked you over once, and– apparently finding no objections with your appearance– gestured towards the carved chairs near his desk.
“Sit.”
You did.
Ormund remained beside the window and drew a long breath through his nose. His face tightened with mild disgust. “Lord Ashford seems, from his smell, to possess a great fondness for horses.”
You sniffed discreetly. There was nothing in the air besides parchment and the dried florals Ormund preferred to keep throughout his rooms. “Perhaps he rode in this morning.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps the men of Ashford prefer to sleep in stables.” Ormund reached into the pocket of his breeches and withdrew the ornate pomander he carried. He held it beneath his nose and inhaled deeply. Only once he appeared satisfied that every trace of Lord Ashford had been driven from his nostrils did he return it to his pocket. Then he turned to you, settling against the window ledge with his hands clasped before him. “You attended the sept this morning?”
You stared down at your hands, folded in your lap. “Yes, my lord.”
“And for whom did you light a candle for today?”
You chewed on your lower lip. “The Maiden.”
Ormund nodded in consideration, crossing his arms over his chest. “And why did you choose the Maiden today?”
“I…I wanted to pray for your meeting with Lord Ashford to go well.”
“You prayed for Lord Ashford?”
Your palms had begun to feel sweaty. “Y-yes, my lord.”
“You prayed to marry him?"
“...yes, my lord.”
The muscle under Ormund’s eye twitched. He pushed himself away from the window and approached you slowly. Rounding the corner of the desk, he stopped beside your chair. Then, tugging at the fabric of his breeches over his thighs, he lowered himself until he was kneeling at eye level with you. You kept your gaze fixed on your lap.
“You wish to leave Oldtown so badly,” he said softly, so quietly it was barely a whisper, “that you would pray to marry a man who you have never met?”
“M-my lord, I did not–”
“Look at me.”
Trembling, you raised your gaze to meet his. Ormund’s face had gone still, though the blue of his eyes had turned icy. Your stomach lurched.
“I have risked much to raise you,” Ormund began, leaning in closer to you. “I have shielded you from those at court who question why King Viserys cast his youngest daughter out of King’s Landing. I have protected you from men who would use your blood and name for their own advancement. I have purged you of the evils of Valyria and shaped you into a proper woman. And now, now you hate me enough that would you leave my bed for a stranger?”
Heat burned at your cheeks, hearing Ormund speak like that. Like your shared bed was something…you could not finish the thought. “No, Ormund, please, I don’t–”
“You hate me enough that you would question my judgement?” he pressed, voice lowering to a gravelly hum. “You believe you know better than I? That I am ignorant?”
Hot tears had begun to spill over, wetting your lashes and blurring your vision. “I don’t, my lord, I don’t know b-better than you, I only wanted–”
“Tell me, then.” Ormund seized your face in one hand, his rings digging into your cheeks as he forced your chin upward. “Tell me that you do not wish to leave me.”
“I-I do not wish to leave you, my lord,” you choked, sobbing fully now.
“Tell me that no man could care for you as I have.”
“No man could c-care for me as you have!”
His hand tightened enough around your chin that your cheeks squished together. His face, though, had shifted, a diseased softness bleeding into it. “Now, you must tell me what you have forgotten to say.”
Shame and something hotter burned low in your gut. He always made you say the words like this. When you had no option but to force the truth out of you.
“I…” your breath shuddered. “I love you.”
Ormund’s grip refused to loosen. “Again, please.”
The words caught in your throat, scraping like sand. “I love you, Ormund.”
Finally, his face eased, and so did his hold.
“There,” he murmured, sickeningly tender as he wiped his thumb across your cheek, catching one of your stray tears. “Was that so difficult to say?”
You shook your head quickly. You did not trust your voice.
Seemingly satisfied, Ormund rose from where he was crouched, dusting off his breeches. The matter was finished. He returned to his desk, lowering himself in his chair, no trace of the man who had just seconds ago demanded the sick truth of your devotion. You remained frozen, unable to move, cheeks wet and burning. You suddenly were conscious of how horrible you must look, swollen eyes and shaking hands.
Ormund glanced up from his papers. “You will go and ready yourself for the evening’s feast now.”
Numb, you stared at him. He raised one brow in question. Ormund did not like to repeat himself.
“Y-yes, my lord,” you stuttered.
“Wear the blue silk. The one with the square neckline,” he dipped his quill into the ink, already moved on from the excitement and back to his usual self. He glanced up once more, eyes moving across your face. “And…have the women repair your face. It would be quite unbecoming to our guests to see you have upset yourself.”
You were thoroughly humiliated. “Yes, my lord.”
Legs shaking slightly, you rose and smoothed your skirts.
“And, one more thing,” Ormund spoke, though he continued reading the parchment he held. “You will not speak with Lord Ashford this evening.”
You paused. Was this a trap? “Would it…would it not appear discourteous if I refused to–”
“The matter has already been decided, my girl. You have no need to encourage him further.”
“I…I understand.” You bowed, trying not to trip over your still unsteady feet, and then turned towards the door. You had just put your hand on the latch when Ormund spoke again.
“Have you forgotten something?”
You paused, and then looked back in the solar. Ormund had finally lifted his eyes from the parchment and was leaning back in his seat. He tapped one finger against his cheek.
Your cheeks grew hotter, though you had done this hundreds of times before. Thousands, perhaps. You crossed the solar to where Ormund sat, his expression completely neutral. Heart beating in your throat, you bent carefully and pressed your lips briefly to his cheek. He caught your wrist before you could retreat.
“Once more, properly this time,” he commanded.
You swallowed and kissed him again, lingering this time until you felt the faint scrape of where he had shaved that morning and breathed in the familiar fragrance of his pomander.
Ormund released his grip on you, mouth curled in a smile. “Good girl. You may go now.”
You bowed, lower this time, and left the solar with the warm and humiliating feeling you had become accustomed to now living in the very place Ormund had hollowed out inside you over years and years.
As you walked down the halls of Hightower, face lowered so any passerbys would not catch a glimpse of your reddened cheeks and puffy eyes, you wondered why you felt the way you did.
Lord Ashford would be at the feast that evening, and though Ormund had forbidden you from speaking to him, you knew that you would search for him among the gathered faces. For what, you could not say. To prove something, perhaps. But what, exactly?
That Ormund was right? Or that he was wrong?
And afterward…no matter the excitement from the day, you had not forgotten Ormund’s reminder that morning.
“It is the seventh day.”
You dreaded the fact, but not for the ritual that awaited you, but rather the shameful fact it made you excited.
It seemed this was to be a day of contradictions.
You wanted Lord Ashford to see you, and you hoped he never appeared so that you might obey Ormund without temptation. You wanted Ormund to loosen his hold upon you, and you wanted him to swear that he would never allow you to belong to anyone else.
How could both desires live in the same body? The same heart? You did not know.
You knew only that, by the end of the night, Ormund would decide which desire you were permitted to keep.
Sean Rafferty x Guinness!reader - House of Guinness (2025)
Summary: You knew it couldn’t stay secret forever. A few weeks of stolen hours, a few moments of carelessness, and now your world tilts on its axis. There are things respectable women aren’t meant to do, and men like him aren’t meant to touch.
Warnings: 16+ SUGGESTIVE, scandal and secrecy, pregnancy(!!), illness + nasuea (hint hint), family arguments (Arthur raises his voice exactly as much as you’d expect), class divide, ref to sex, tenderness in the middle of all that, Mr Rafferty being far too calm for anyone’s liking, everyone else losing their minds about it.
A/N: I feel like people will love or hate this, because the trope is basically pregnancy, and a pregnancy as a result of an affair (shock horror). There's no smut (yall proud of me??) but still a couple very spicy moments, and like... she's pregnant...so it's very implied and discussed.
MASTERLIST - REQUESTS
WC: 7.6k (apparently I'm incapable of writing short fics for this man)
The Guinness house is all noise tonight. Glass and laughter, the thin cry of a fiddle from somewhere in the drawing room, heavy men’s boots knocking the parquet in uneven rhythm. You’re meant to be smiling, meant to be gracious, meant to stand near your brothers and look like the family’s good fortune is a thing that belongs to you.
But it’s difficult to breathe when you know he’s here.
Sean Rafferty doesn’t belong in the middle of this kind of evening, and yet he does. You spot him once across the room, talking to one of the men from the yard, coat still on, hair damp from the rain outside. He’s on duty tonight, of course he is. There are too many guests, too many wagging tongues, too much silver on display.
You try not to look again, but you do.
He’s listening to someone, expression stone calm, hands behind his back, the picture of professionalism. You know that stance; you’ve seen it before, when he’s waiting for instructions or weighing how much trouble something, or someone, will cause.
Someone at your elbow says your name and you turn too quickly, smiling like a child caught misbehaving. A man is offering a drink, typical. You only accept it because it’s easier than refusing.
The night goes on.
Music, smoke, the sound of Arthur laughing somewhere down the hall. It should be easy to disappear into it all. You do your rounds, you say what you’re meant to say, and yet every time you cross a threshold or pass a servant carrying a tray, you feel his presence shift. Close, then gone, like a change in the weather.
When it happens, it’s almost nothing.
You’re near the long table of candles, discussing one of the family estates with one of your father’s old business partners. It's a small thing really, you reach for a dropped napkin, and a hand steadies the edge of the table at the same time. The gentlest touch. He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t move. But you can feel the warmth of it through your glove, through everything you’ve been pretending to be tonight.
You let go first. He steps back, quiet, invisible again.
Later, after the music has softened and the guests have begun to thin, you find yourself walking the quieter hall that leads toward the back of the house. The air here smells of wax and cold marble, the distant scent of tobacco.
You tell yourself you’re only taking a break from the relentless noise of the party, that you just need some quiet.
Then you hear it, the low scrape of a boot sole against the floor.
He’s there, half in shadow, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, waistcoat undone. His gaze meets yours.
“Miss Guinness,” he says, quiet enough that it sounds like a secret.
"Mr Rafferty."
He nods, stepping aside to let you pass, but he doesn’t move far enough. The space between you narrows.
You could walk on. You should.
Instead you stop. The candlelight flickers across his face, catching the pale line of a scar you’ve never asked about. He looks down at you, steady and unreadable, and there’s that pause again, that breath where everything familiar rearranges itself.
He doesn’t touch you, not really. Just the brush of his knuckles against your sleeve, the faintest move as if to make sure you’re real. It’s nothing anyone else would see, nothing that should matter, and yet it makes the world tilt slightly on its axis.
Somewhere down the corridor, someone laughs; a door closes. The sound is enough to make you step back. His hand drops.
“You should go back,” he says.
You nod, but don’t move. Neither does he.
He shifts first, just enough that the space between you changes shape. You tell yourself you’re not going to fall into him again, not now, but when he takes that slow step forward, you can feel the heat of him through the air itself.
“Your brothers will notice you’re gone,” he says. His voice has that rough edge it gets when he’s forcing it to stay low.
“I only stepped out for a moment.” You try for lightness, but the sound of it betrays you.
He looks at you then, really looks.
You should move, you should laugh, but the words die in your throat. He leans a fraction nearer, one hand braced against the wall beside your shoulder, the other at his side, still and careful.
He looks from your eyes down to your lips, lingering a second too long before flicking back up again. Then his hand is at your waist, body crowding you back toward the wall. For each big step he takes, you take two smaller ones, stumbling.
The wall catches your back an instant before his lips do, the impact of both stealing your breath.
“Someone might see,” you whisper, breaking away from his lips.
“Don't care”, he answers, kissing you again. It's slower this time, teasing, but it deepens in an instant, his fingers grabbing your waist tighter, pulling you flush against his firm body. You run your hand over his chest, feeling the muscles working beneath his shirt.
A soft sound escapes you, and his restraint snaps. His hand slides down, fingertips pressing into your thigh as he shifts against you, lips trailing lower, over your throat, as if worshipping every inch of skin he can reach.
“You shouldn’t make a habit of meeting me in corridors,” he says between kisses.
“I wasn’t meeting you.”
“No?” His mouth turns slightly, smiling against your skin. “Could have fooled me.”
His breath is rough now, uneven. You feel it ghost across your collarbone as he stills, as if realising all at once how close you’ve gotten, how little space is left to pretend.
The moment stretches, heat flickering between you. His hand loosens at your waist, his back straightening. He's not pulling away entirely, just… easing. The air cools where his mouth had been.
The music from the front rooms sounds miles away, muffled by stone and distance. You can hear his breath, the faint tick of his watch chain when he shifts his weight.
Then his tone softens, just enough to break something open inside you. “You keep walking into places where I can’t think straight,” he says.
He leans down, slow enough that you could turn away if you meant to. You don’t. His lips touch your cheek, light as a promise, nothing anyone could accuse him of. The smallest breath of warmth, gone before you can name it.
When he draws back, his expression is unreadable again. “Go back to the party,” he murmurs.
You nod, but he doesn’t move immediately.
Before you turn to leave, he grabs your wrist, pulls you back for one last, deep kiss.
“Leave your door unlocked tonight.”
Then he’s gone, footsteps fading down the corridor, and you’re left with the echo of his voice and the steady hammer of your own heart.
Morning comes late, or it feels that way. The house has the muted quiet of a place that hosted too much laughter the night before. Downstairs, someone’s polishing the silver; you can hear the rhythmic scrape of it through the floorboards.
You lie awake for a long while before you move. The room smells of candle wax and faint perfume, the air heavy from the fire that burned low in the night. Somewhere out in the yard a horse stamps, the sound dull through the rain.
He’s gone, of course. He always is before the servants stir.
The room looks untouched; no coat, no cufflinks out of place. But the sheets tell on him, creased and warm where he’d been. A button glints near the foot of the bed, and when you move, the faintest trace of his cologne rises from your skin, a secret no one else knows.
It’s been weeks now. You don’t count the days, but your body does—every missed breath, every night you wake still tasting him on your skin. You’ve grown used to the quiet hours, the half-open doors, the way he leaves without a sound but never soon enough.
You pour water from the jug into the basin, splash your face. The mirror shows the same expression you’ve been practising since this began. Calm, composed, belonging to a Guinness who has nothing to hide.
And yet there’s a heaviness beneath your eyes that wasn’t there a month ago.
You press the towel to your face and tell yourself it’s nothing. The evenings have been long, the air damp. You have been sleeping less, after all.
Still, when you straighten, the room tips slightly. A dull throb gathers at your temples, slow and persistent. You sit on the edge of the bed until it passes.
From the courtyard comes a burst of voices, then his among them; distinct even when he’s keeping it low. Giving orders, probably. You can picture him easily, coat collar turned up, hat pulled low, the small nod he gives when a job’s done right.
The sound steadies you more than you’d like to admit.
You finish dressing, push the pins into your hair, and try to remember how it felt to move through a day without the weight of a secret. Breakfast will be served soon, and you’ll take your place, and Arthur will talk about business, and no one will see anything but what they expect to see.
By the time you make it downstairs, the house has settled into its morning rhythm. Arthur is already at the head of the table, newspaper open but unread, while Edward and Anne speak quietly over a plate of toast between them.
You pause in the doorway long enough to fix your expression. Arthur looks up first, nods. “You’re late.”
“I hardly slept.” You take your seat at his right, smooth your napkin, avoid the glance Anne gives you.
“You’re not the only one,” Edward says, half-smiling. “The whole city was at our door last night.”
Arthur folds the paper, signalling to one of the servants. “Rafferty, join us for a moment.”
The name lands before you can prepare for it. A rustle of movement follows, and then he’s there; hat in hand, sleeves rolled to the wrist, the trace of rain darkening his hair. He nods to each of them, last of all to you.
“Sir?”
Arthur gestures to the chair on your other side. “Sit. We’ve a matter to discuss before you go to the yard.”
You feel the pull in your chest as he lowers himself into the seat. He’s careful, as always, the picture of respect. But the space between your chairs is narrow, and the fabric of his coat brushes against your sleeve when he reaches for the cup that the butler sets before him.
Arthur begins talking, something about deliveries, a shipment delayed at the docks. You try to listen, you really do, but your pulse has found a new rhythm.
Rafferty answers each question in that steady way of his. “Aye, Mr Guinness. I’ll see to it by noon.” “No, sir, no trouble expected.” Each word is correct, measured. Only when he passes you the sugar bowl does his hand graze yours. An accident, of course, though the faint current it leaves behind feels anything but.
Anne notices the silence you’ve fallen into. “You look pale this morning,” she says, mild but observant. “You’re not ill, are you?”
You summon a smile. “Just tired.”
Arthur doesn’t look up from his cup. “You’d best take a walk after breakfast. Air will do you good.”
Rafferty’s gaze flicks toward you, so quick you might have imagined it. “The gardens are quiet today,” he offers, voice neutral.
Arthur nods, accepting it as simple courtesy. “There you are, then. Take the air.”
Breakfast continues in fragments. Talk of business, weather, the city’s constant unrest. You keep your hands folded in your lap, the headache whispering behind your eyes. When at last Arthur pushes back his chair and stands, the others follow suit.
Rafferty waits a beat before rising. The movement brings him close enough that his sleeve brushes yours again, deliberate this time, hidden by the scrape of chairs.
“Miss Guinness,” he says softly, just enough for you to hear. “Don’t stay indoors.”
You glance up, managing a faint nod. His expression gives nothing away, but when he turns to follow Arthur out, his hand brushes the back of your chair.
The week unfolds in small, uneven hours.
Each morning you wake with the same dull ache behind your eyes, the same heaviness in your limbs. By Wednesday the house feels too bright, too loud, every sound like a needle. You tell yourself it’s nothing.
Anne notices first. She doesn’t say much, only watches you across the drawing-room with that keen, sisterly look that sees more than you want her to. When you try to read, the words blur. When you stand, the room sways.
By the fifth evening you’re avoiding mirrors.
You spend more time in your rooms, curtains drawn against the thin spring light. Below, the yard carries on as it always has; men shouting to one another, horses clattering past the gates.
On the sixth night there’s a knock at your door. It's soft, deliberate. You almost don’t answer, but you know that rhythm.
He closes the door behind him, keeping his voice low. “You’ve been quiet.”
“I’m fine.” The lie sounds smaller than you meant it to.
He studies you for a long moment, eyes searching your face. “You don’t look it.”
“I told you, it’s nothing.”
“You’re shaking.”
You look down, you are. Only a little, but enough that he notices. He crosses to the hearth, pours water from the jug into a glass, and hands it to you without comment. The firelight paints his features in that deep amber glow, softening the lines you know too well.
When you try to drink, your hand wavers. He steadies the glass with his own.
“Let me send for Mrs O’Neill,” he says after a moment. “She’s nursed half the house at one time or another. She’ll know what to do.”
You shake your head. “If anyone sees her come here-”
“I’ll tell them it’s for the servants’ wing. They’ll believe it.”
You want to argue, but the effort it would take feels impossible. Instead you sit there, staring at the fire until your breathing slows.
He doesn’t speak again until you do.
“I hate feeling like this,” you admit.
“I know.” He crouches beside the chair, elbows resting on his knees, watching the flames. He reaches out, hesitant, and takes your hand. The gesture is small, careful, meant only to reassure; the warmth of it anchors you.
“I’ll send for her in the morning,” he says.
You nod, too tired to argue.
He gives your hand a small squeeze before letting go. “Get some rest. You’ll feel better once she’s had a look at you.”
You don’t trust yourself to answer. He stands, straightens his coat, and pauses at the door.
“Try to sleep,” he says. Then, softer, “You don’t have to face everything on your own.”
When the door clicks shut, the room feels larger, quieter. You sit there a long time, staring at the fire, his words turning over in your mind.
Mrs O’Neill arrives the next morning, shawl pulled tight against the rain, her basket clutched like a shield. She’s been in the family’s service longer than you’ve been alive, trusted by everyone from the scullery to Arthur. She greets you the way she always has, gentle, brisk, that kind of motherly authority.
“Mr Rafferty said you were a bit off your feed,” she says, setting her basket on the table. “Let’s have a look, shall we?”
You try to sound dismissive. “It’s only fatigue.”
“Fatigue doesn’t make a young lady’s hands shake.” She takes your wrist lightly, counting the pulse beneath her thumb. “How long have you been feeling this way?”
You think about it. The days blur. “A week…perhaps more.”
“And before that? You’d been well?”
“Yes. Perfectly.”
She hums, half to herself, and begins unpacking bottles. Tonics, smelling salts, small jars neatly labelled in her cramped script. The faint smell of lavender fills the room.
“What else then? Headaches? Dizziness?”
“All of that.”
“Any sickness, mornings or otherwise?”
You hesitate. “Once or twice.”
She nods slowly. “And when was your last monthly, miss?”
The question startles you. “I don’t see how that’s relevant.”
Her eyes meet yours, calm and knowing. “It’s always relevant.”
You open your mouth, close it again. The fire pops softly in the grate.
“I…I’m not sure,” you manage. “It’s been some time, but I’ve been so busy-”
“How long, would you say?”
You try to count backward. The parties, the deliveries, the endless days of rain. You go back week by week until the numbers stop adding up.
Mrs O’Neill waits. Finally you whisper, “Nearly two months.”
She nods once, as if she already knew. “You’re certain of that?”
The world seems to tilt a little. “I think so.”
She takes a seat opposite you, hands folded neatly in her lap. “Miss Guinness, forgive me for being plain. But you’ve been with a man, haven’t you?”
Your chair scrapes back before you realise you’ve moved. “That’s none of your- how could you even-”
She doesn’t flinch. “Because if you haven’t, then it’s an illness, and we’ll treat it. But if you have, then it’s something else entirely, and you need to know it before anyone else does.”
The words hang between you, solid and impossible.
You can hear the rain against the windows, the tick of the mantel clock. You try to think of anything else, the smell of polish downstairs, Arthur’s voice in the study, the sound of horses in the yard.
Anything but this.
Mrs O’Neill’s tone softens. “I’m not here to judge, miss. Only to make sure you’re safe.”
You sit again, slowly, your hands cold. The arithmetic begins itself, the nights he was here, the days that followed, the strange exhaustion. It all lines up too neatly.
“No,” you say, shaking your head. “That can’t-”
But it can. The thought settles like a weight behind your ribs.
She reaches across the table, covers your hand with her own. “You’ll have to be careful now. Rest as much as you can. And think about who you trust to tell. I'm assuming you know the father?"
You stare at her hand on yours, nodding. “You’re sure?”
“I’ve seen it a hundred times. I’m sure.”
The fire crackles, and for the first time you feel properly cold. The room seems smaller, the air thinner. Somewhere outside, the yard bell rings, sharp and distant.
Mrs O’Neill gathers her things, her face composed. “I’ll fetch you something for the sickness. Drink plenty of water. And…don’t lose your head over it yet, miss. There’ll be time to decide what’s to be done.”
When the door closes behind her, the silence is unbearable. You sit there, trying to breathe, your mind spinning through every moment that led here.
Two months. The number repeats itself until it becomes a drumbeat.
You press your palms against the table, willing the room to steady. Outside, the rain has stopped, leaving the air too still.
The knock comes after dark, and you know it’s him before you even open the door.
He steps inside, shutting the door behind him with the same quiet precision he brings to everything. For a second he looks as though he means to speak, but the sight of your face stops him.
“What did she say?” His voice is rougher than usual. “Mrs O’Neill. You’ve been white as a sheet since she left.”
You open your mouth, but the words won’t come. All the sentences you rehearsed vanish, replaced by a single, impossible fact.
“Sit down,” he says, gentler now. “You’re shaking again.”
You stay standing. “You should probably sit.”
He blinks. “Pardon?”
“Just- sit, Sean. Please.”
That’s what does it. He sits, slow and wary, watching you as if one wrong word might make the floor give way.
You pace once, twice, your hands twisting together before you force them still. The fire cracks.
“She said-” Your throat feels raw. “She said I’m not ill.”
He exhales, the smallest flicker of relief crossing his face. “That’s good then, isn’t it?”
“No. No, it’s not.”
He frowns, confused. “Then what-”
“Sean.” You take a step closer. “Do you remember last month, when we were in my room after supper?” You wait, but he only frowns, trying to follow. “When you said we should be careful, and then we weren’t?”
He blinks. “Careful how?”
You stare at him, incredulous. “Careful about what we were doing, Sean. In the bed. Together.” You gesture between you, the space that’s carried too much heat for too many nights.
He’s still watching you, the line of his mouth tightening. “I don’t... what are you trying to tell me?”
You press your palms to your temples, laugh once, quietly, because there’s no graceful way to say it. “God, you really don’t see it, do you?”
He stands, moves closer, tentative, like he’s afraid you’ll flinch. “You're scaring me a little, love.”
You shake your head, a breath leaving you that feels like surrender. “She thinks I’m-” You can’t finish. The word won’t form.
He reaches for you, his hands finding your arms, steadying you. “She thinks you’re what?”
You lift your gaze to his, and finally, finally say it.
“She thinks I’m with child.”
Silence.
For a long heartbeat he doesn’t move at all. His expression goes blank, shock turned to stillness. Flat-mouthed, wide-eyed, completely frozen.
Then, as if a clock restarts somewhere behind his ribs, he inhales sharply. “Are you sure?” The words scrape out quieter than before, not disbelief so much as hope dressed up as doubt.
“She is. And when I counted… Two months.”
He looks at the floor, then at you, then back again, as if arithmetic might undo the truth. “Two months,” he repeats under his breath. “That’d be after-”
“Yes.”
“Ah.” A pause. “Right.”
You almost smile at the absurdity of it. “You were going to argue the calendar with me?”
He rubs a hand across his jaw, the motion sharp and restless. “Just making certain I remembered the date correctly.”
Another pause. You can see the gears turning, too fast, too loud.
He mutters, half to himself, “That can’t be right. The week after the gala, I was gone three days. And before that-”
“You weren’t gone then,” you remind him.
His eyes flick up. “No, but- didn’t we... wait, that was the night the storm blew in?”
“Yes.”
He points vaguely, counting on his fingers. “But I remember, we stopped, didn’t we?”
You give him a look. “You said we should stop.”
He winces, the corner of his mouth twitching like he might laugh if it weren’t quite so disastrous. “God. All right.”
He exhales, raking a hand through his hair, finally letting the disbelief crack into something closer to awe, or panic. “So one night in weeks, and it’s the one I didn’t-” He cuts himself off, glances toward the ceiling, then back at you. “We have truly terrible timing.”
He stops again, softer now. “I didn’t think this could happen. Not to us.”
You open your mouth to argue again, but he reaches for you, careful, just a hand resting lightly on your shoulder until you let him draw you in.
He says nothing for a while, just keeps his arms around you, then, “You’ve every right to be angry. It’s a mess, and it’s mine as much as yours.”
“It’s not just a mess,” you say into his coat. “It’s ruin.”
“Maybe not.”
“You think Arthur will see it that way? Edward?”
His sigh rumbles against you. “They’ll see what they want to see. But we’ll face it.”
You pull back enough to look at him. “You sound very calm for someone who just found out he’s, well-”
“Terrified,” he admits. “I’m just better at hiding it.”
That wins a laugh from you, shaky but real. “Men. Always pretending you’ve got it handled.”
“Occupational hazard.” His mouth twitches. “But you can call it what you like.”
For the first time all day, you breathe.
He doesn’t leave.
You think he might, for a moment. He glances toward the door, runs a hand through his hair, the movement of a man about to shoulder his coat and face the night. But when he looks back at you, sitting small and pale on the edge of the bed, his decision changes.
“I’ll stay,” he says simply.
You shake your head. “You can’t. If someone sees-”
“No one will.” His tone is final, the one that ends an argument before it begins. “You’re in no state to be alone.”
You’re too tired to fight him, too wrung out to do anything but nod.
He pulls a chair close, sits there with his hands clasped, watching the fire sink to embers. You can hear the faint tick of his pocket watch, the occasional creak of the floorboards beneath his boots. He looks like he’s bracing for something, maybe for you to speak, maybe for what he already knows and can’t fix.
When he finally moves, it’s without hesitation. He rises, crosses the short distance to the bed, and sits beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight.
For a moment neither of you speak. Then he reaches for you, quiet but sure, his hand finding your shoulder, then your waist, drawing you in until your forehead rests against his chest. There’s no pretence of asking this time, no polite distance, just the kind of closeness that comes from running out of things to say.
You breathe him in; smoke, soap, the faint metallic scent of his watch chain. His arm tightens around you, his thumb tracing slow circles against your sleeve. “All right?” he murmurs.
You nod, though you’re not sure you mean it.
He doesn’t press. Just stays there, holding you like he could steady the world by sheer will. At some point his lips find your hair, then your temple, a fleeting kiss that’s more reflex than thought.
Your eyes grow heavy. The panic that’s been thrumming through you since morning fades to a low hum.
He doesn’t move when you edge closer, when your hand slips to his shirtfront, fingers curling loosely in the fabric. His own breathing evens out, slow and steady against your ear, until the quiet between you feels almost safe.
“Go on,” he says softly. “Sleep. I’ll be here.”
You should object, but the words die before they form. You let your eyes close, and for the first time in days, you sleep without dreaming.
When you wake, the room is washed in the thin grey light of dawn. Your throat feels dry; your eyes sting. For a moment you think you’re alone, but then you hear the quiet scrape of a chair leg.
He's is still there, elbows on his knees, looking at the fire he’s just rebuilt. He glances up when you stir.
“Morning,” he says, voice low.
You manage a half-smile. “You stayed.”
“I said I would.” He stands, stretching the stiffness from his shoulders. “You were shaking half the night.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He hesitates, then adds, “I’ve had worse company.”
The ghost of humour between you is fragile but welcome. For a few minutes neither of you speaks. Then, inevitably, reality reasserts itself.
“So,” he says, carefully neutral, “we’re going to have to tell your brothers.”
You groan into your hands. “Don’t remind me.”
He sits beside you on the bed, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him. “Sooner’s better. If it comes from us, we have a chance to control it.”
You look at him, incredulous. “Control it? You think Arthur Guinness can be controlled?”
“Not easily,” he admits. “But I’ve managed worse negotiations.”
You laugh, brief and breathless. “Negotiations. You make it sound like business.”
“It is, in a way.” He glances down at your joined hands; you hadn’t even realised you’d reached for him until then. “Just one with higher stakes.”
The laughter fades, replaced by the quiet enormity of it all. You study his face, the calm mask he wears out of habit, and for a moment you see the crack beneath it.
You whisper, “We’re going to be parents.”
He exhales through his nose, a sound somewhere between disbelief and awe. “Aye.”
Eventually you make it downstairs, and the dining room is already half full.
And at the far end, standing near the sideboard, is Sean. He’s pouring something dark into a glass, talking low to one of the footmen. He looks up when you enter. He doesn’t smile. He never does here. But there's a shared understanding of exactly how dangerous this breakfast could become.
“Ah, there she is!” Arthur’s voice booms, jolting the room back into motion. “Thought you’d decided to sleep through the day, little sister.”
You try to laugh, the sound thinner than you’d like. “Wouldn’t dream of missing your riveting company.”
“I’ll pretend that was sincere.” Arthur gestures to the empty chair beside him. “Sit. Eat. You look pale.”
Edward looks up from his cup, frowning slightly. “You do, actually.”
“Thank you both,” you mutter. “That’s exactly what every woman wants to hear before breakfast.”
Anne smirks behind her teacup. “Ignore them. They’re men. They think observation counts as charm.”
Arthur grins, unoffended. “Observation keeps us alive, Annie. Right, Rafferty?”
Sean’s voice, when it comes, is smooth and perfectly neutral. “Usually, sir.”
“Would you care for some tea, Miss Guinness?” he asks, as though you’ve never spoken a word to each other outside these walls.
Your pulse stumbles. “Please.”
Anne catches your expression and arches a brow. You shake your head quickly, pretending to focus on your plate.
Across the table, Edward is still watching you. He’s subtler than Arthur, sharper too. You can practically see the calculations forming behind his eyes.
“You all right, love?” he asks, too casually.
“I’m fine,” you say too quickly.
“She’s fine,” Arthur repeats, not looking up from the paper. “Probably still tired from whatever nonsense Anne dragged her to the other day.”
“I dragged her? You insisted on attending that dreadful reception.”
“It was business.”
“It was dull,” Anne retorts.
You almost thank her for the distraction. The siblings’ squabble fills the room, the kind of harmless, habitual noise that’s ruled this house for years. You take a shaky sip of tea and pray your hands don’t betray you.
Edward leans back in his chair, still studying you. “You’ve barely touched your food.”
“Not hungry.”
“Since when?”
“Edward,” Anne warns, “let her be.”
He doesn’t. “I’m only asking. You’ve been...off, lately.”
Arthur looks up at that, finally sensing a tone he can’t quite name. “Off how?”
Edward shrugs, still watching you. “Just different.”
You open your mouth, ready to snap something back, when Sean speaks; smooth, professional, cutting off the question like a blade.
“She’s been unwell,” he says. “The weather’s turned colder."
Arthur nods, satisfied, already back to the paper. “Aye, half the house has the chill. We should send for more coal.”
The rest of the meal drags. Arthur talks of business, Anne about some charity function, Edward stays quiet, and you focus on not spilling your tea or fainting into your porridge.
When the plates are cleared and the servants retreat, the air shifts. Sean stands first, adjusting his cuffs.
“Mr Guinness,” he says, addressing Arthur with formal deference, “if I might have a word. Privately.”
Arthur glances up, eyebrows raised. “Business?”
“Yes, sir.”
Edward looks between you and Sean again, suspicion sharpening. “We’ll both hear it, I assume?”
Sean hesitates, just long enough for you to see the flicker of nerves he hides so well. Then he nods. “Of course, sir.”
Arthur stands, cheerful as ever. “Right then. Study in ten minutes. I’ll fetch the ledgers.”
As he strides out, Edward lingers. He gives you one last look before following his brother.
You let out a breath you didn’t realise you’d been holding. “Sean,” you whisper, his name soft in your mouth, “what are we going to do?”
He looks at you finally, properly. There’s no mask now, just the man who stayed the night to keep you from falling apart.
The study feels smaller than it ever has.
The lamps are lit despite the daylight. Arthur stands by the window, broad-shouldered and impatient, rifling through papers that have nothing to do with why you’re all here. Edward leans against the mantel, arms crossed, watching Sean with the weary suspicion of a man who already knows the news will be bad.
And Sean stands straight by the desk, hat in his hands, gaze fixed somewhere just past Arthur’s shoulder.
You sit because he told you to. He said, It’ll look less like a confession if you’re sitting. It doesn’t feel that way. It feels like being on trial.
Arthur finally looks up. “Right then. What’s all this about, Rafferty? Business matter?”
Sean’s voice is steady, professional. “Not business, sir. Personal.”
That earns him a look. “Personal?”
Edward’s brow furrows. “You don’t bring personal to this room unless it concerns the family.”
“It does,” Sean says.
Arthur frowns. “You’ve lost me.”
Sean glances at you. The look lasts only a second, but it’s enough. Edward notices. Of course he does. His gaze flicks between you both, sharp as a blade.
“What is this?” he asks slowly.
You open your mouth, but Sean speaks first. “Miss Guinness-” He stops, clears his throat. “She’s… been unwell.”
Edward leans back, studying him. “So you said.”
“More than unwell,” Sean continues, choosing his words with care that only makes them sound worse. “There’s been… a sort of development.”
Arthur looks up from his papers. “What kind of development?”
You can feel your pulse climb, hot and quick. “Arthur, please-”
“Let him finish,” Edward says quietly, though his gaze never leaves you.
Sean swallows. “It’s, well, it’s not precisely an illness. Not something she’s caught.”
Arthur frowns. “Then what in God’s name is it?”
Sean’s hands tighten by his side. “A condition, you might say. A change in… circumstance.”
Edward’s brows draw together, his tone turning cool. “A change in circumstance.”
“Yes,” Sean says quickly, nodding once. “The sort of thing that, ah, can arise between- well, not between, exactly, but as a result of-”
Arthur’s expression hardens. “Mr Rafferty.”
Sean exhales. “It’s delicate.”
Edward’s voice sharpens. “Delicate?”
Sean hesitates. “Personal.”
“Personal,” Edward repeats, the word cutting cleanly through the air. A beat passes. His eyes flick to you again, then back to Sean.
“Good God.” He takes a step forward, the realisation dawning, terrible and clear.
“She’s with child, isn’t she.”
Sean’s mouth opens, but there’s nothing left to say.
Arthur stares between you both. “What?”
Edward exhales through his nose, a sound more like a sigh than surprise. “God help us.”
Arthur turns to him. “What are you on about?”
Edward’s mouth tightens. “You heard him.”
Arthur’s laugh is sharp, incredulous. “Don’t be absurd. She- no.” His eyes swing to you, searching for confirmation, for a single word to make it untrue. But your silence says everything.
The laugh dies in his throat. “You?”
You nod once, barely.
He stares, as if he hasn’t understood, as if maybe the meaning will rearrange itself if he blinks enough times. Then his jaw sets. “And who’s the father?”
No one answers. The question hangs, heavy and ridiculous in the quiet.
Arthur’s voice grows harder. “Well? Who is it?” He looks between you and Edward, desperate for the answer to come from anywhere else. “Some clerk? A servant? You’ll tell me his name, I’ll see him gone.”
But Arthur barrels on. “Not Rafferty,” he says too quickly, almost tripping over the name in his haste. “Christ, no, not him.” He gives a hollow, strained laugh. “Go on, tell me it isn’t.”
Sean doesn’t move.
Arthur’s composure begins to fracture, voice rising. “Tell me it isn’t you, Rafferty!”
Sean’s eyes meet his. There’s no challenge in them, no apology either, just grim acknowledgement.
Edward steps forward, a hand half-raised. “Arthur-”
Arthur ignores him, fury breaking through the denial at last. “You were meant to protect this family, not- God, not this.”
Arthur’s hand slams against the desk, the sound sharp enough to make you flinch. “Don’t you dare speak to me like that. You’ve taken advantage-”
“I haven’t.” It’s quiet, but it cuts through the shouting like a blade. “It wasn’t like that.”
Arthur rounds on him, trembling with disbelief. “Then what was it like?”
You find your voice, trembling but clear. “It was my choice.”
Arthur turns to you as if struck, staring like he’s seeing someone he doesn’t recognise. “Your choice? Do you have any idea-”
“Arthur,” Edward warns again, sharper now. “Stop shouting.”
Arthur rounds on him next. “You knew?”
“No,” Edward says. “But I saw enough to guess.”
The silence that follows is heavy enough to choke on. You can feel Sean’s steady presence beside you, but it doesn’t stop the tremor in your hands.
Arthur paces to the window and back, jaw tight, breath hard. “This-this ruins us. Do you understand? The name, the family-”
“We’ll manage it. We always do.” Edward says, with an edge in his tone.
Arthur laughs, short and bitter. “Manage it? You think you can manage a scandal like this?”
Sean finally speaks again, calm but unyielding. “Whatever comes of it, I’ll answer for it.”
Arthur’s eyes flash. “You’ll answer for it, aye. You can count on that.”
Edward’s voice cuts across before the temperature can climb higher. “Arthur. Enough.”
Arthur doesn’t move, just stands there, glaring at Sean as if staring could undo the last five minutes.
You rise then, slowly, your chair scraping against the floor. “Please,” you say, voice breaking. “Don’t-”
Arthur’s expression softens for half a breath before the anger rushes back. “You don’t understand, love. You can’t.”
“She understands better than any of us,” Edward says.
That silences him. For a moment, no one speaks.
The clock on the mantel ticks, loud as a heartbeat.
Arthur rubs a hand over his face, eyes closing, and when he opens them again, the fury has cooled into something colder, more dangerous. “Leave us,” he says to you without looking.
You freeze. “Arthur-”
“Now.”
Edward mutters under his breath, “God give me patience.” Then he turns to you. “Go upstairs for now, love. We’ll sort this.”
You hesitate. “You’ll talk?”
“We’ll talk,” he promises. “That’s all for now.”
Sean looks at you once, then you go, the door closing behind you with a soft, final click. Then the voices start again, low at first, then rising. You don’t mean to linger outside the study, but your legs refuse to move.
Inside, Arthur’s voice breaks the silence. Muffled, but unmistakable. “My sister, Rafferty- under my roof.” The emphasis lands like a hammer.
You flinch.
Sean’s reply is lower, steady but firm. “I know where we stand, sir. I didn’t come here to make excuses.”
Arthur’s answer comes like a growl through the door. “You came here to tell me you’ve been taking liberties with my family, and you think there’s an excuse for that?”
A pause. The creak of a floorboard. Sean again, “It wasn’t a liberty. It was-”
“You think the word changes what you’ve done?”
Edward’s voice now, low and measured. “Arthur. Let him speak.”
You can picture it; Arthur pacing, Edward standing between them, Sean rooted to the spot, every muscle drawn tight. You press your back against the wall, your palms cold.
“I love her.”
Silence.
You can almost feel it, how that word hangs in the room. Then Arthur scoffs, “Love her? You think that makes it better? You think that’s what she needs from you?”
You don’t hear what Sean says next. The sound drops back to a muffled rumble, and the weight of it sends you moving at last.
Down the hall, the light softens. You find the sitting room empty, the hearth gone cold.
You sit on the edge of the sofa, fingers tangled together, staring at the pattern in the carpet until it blurs. The headache you’ve been ignoring pulses behind your eyes.
You press your hands to your temples. The house feels both too small and too vast, every sound echoing in its bones.
For the first time, the fear creeps in, not of what’s already happened, but of what comes next. Of decisions being made behind closed doors, voices you love pulling in opposite directions.
You lean forward, elbows on your knees, breathing slow, willing the room to stay still.
When the door finally opens down the corridor and footsteps start toward you, you already know what it means.
Edward rounds the corner, "Come on."
Sean is the only one who moves when you enter again. He’s already on his feet, stepping aside to pull out the chair for you, his palm light at your back as you sit.
“Right,” Arthur says, as though the word itself could make this situation tidy. “We’ve discussed matters.”
You swallow. “Matters.”
Edward glances at his brother, then at you. “What’s done is done,” he says carefully, “and we’ll manage it as best we can. But this doesn’t leave the house. Not until-”
He hesitates.
Arthur cuts in. “Until everything’s put to rights.”
You look between them. “And how exactly are we putting things to rights?”
Arthur’s mouth tightens. “You’ll be married.”
The words fall with the weight of a final blow.
Sean’s hands settle on your shoulders then, solid and steady. Not possessive. Protective. You don’t have to look up to know what his face looks like, calm but with that muscle in his jaw ticking the way it does when he’s thinking too much.
Arthur presses on. “We’ll need to make arrangements quickly. Quietly.”
“Quickly?” you echo.
Edward sighs. “The sooner the better. You know how people talk.”
“I do,” you say, sharper than you mean to. “But what’s the rush? It’s not as though anyone-”
Arthur clears his throat so loudly it almost echoes. “It’s the appearance of things, that’s all.”
“The appearance?” you repeat, frowning. “Whose appearance?”
Edward exhales slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose like he’s bracing for impact. “Yours, primarily.”
Sean, standing just behind him, adds helpfully, “And mine, apparently.”
Arthur shoots him a look sharp enough to cut glass. “Rafferty.”
“What?” Sean’s tone is all injured innocence, but there’s a glint in his eye that gives him away. “We did speak of this. Which night it might be.”
Arthur goes very still. “Which night?”
Sean blinks. “Well, there wasn’t just the one-”
“There were multiple nights?” Arthur’s voice jumps an octave, nearly cracking on the word.
You wince. “Arthur-”
He throws up a hand. “Don’t Arthur me, I’m trying to comprehend the scale of...of whatever this is!”
Edward rubs a hand over his face. “Oh, good lord.”
Arthur rounds on Sean. “You mean to tell me this wasn’t a single lapse in judgment, it was- what, a standing arrangement?”
Sean opens his mouth, probably to make it worse, and you cut in quickly. “It wasn’t- look, it just happened.”
Arthur lets out a sound halfway between disbelief and despair. “Just happened? More than once?”
Sean shrugs, maddeningly calm. “More than a few, if we’re being exact.”
“Stop talking,” Edward mutters through his hand.
Arthur looks like he might combust. “And all this time, under my roof- while I-” He breaks off, clearly trying not to finish the sentence. “How long?”
You hesitate. “Since… before Christmas?”
Arthur blinks at you, horrified. “Before Christmas?”
Sean, utterly unhelpful, adds, “Could’ve been after. Bit of a blur, that week.”
Arthur slams a hand on the desk. “Enough! I don’t need a calendar, Rafferty, I need a priest!”
You and Sean exchange a look as Edward mutters under his breath, “I need a drink.” He then clears his throat, trying and failing to sound composed. “What we mean is, before we all lose our dignity entirely, is that the sooner the marriage takes place, the fewer questions will be asked.”
You stare at them all, half in disbelief. “You three have been conspiring about this?”
Arthur folds his arms. “Coordinating.”
Sean smirks. “More like negotiating terms.”
Edward mutters, “And none of them favourable to my peace of mind.”
Behind you, you feel Sean’s hand tighten, a warning and a comfort in one.
Arthur exhales hard through his nose. “Point is, we’ll move swiftly. No sense in letting tongues wag.”
You can’t help it. “God forbid the tongues wag.”
Edward’s lips twitch before he catches himself. Arthur does not find it amusing.
“Do you understand what’s being asked of you?” Arthur says, more quietly now, and for a moment you see the strain under all that bluster, the genuine fear for the family name, for you.
You nod. Slowly. “I do.”
The room goes still again.
You glance down at your hands in your lap, then up at Edward, whose expression has gentled, and finally at Arthur.
“Well,” you say, because someone has to. “That sounds simple enough.”
For the first time all morning, Arthur almost laughs. A short, disbelieving sound.
Edward exhales. “Simple, yes. Let’s hope it stays that way.”
This req really threw me because for some reason, i forgot that affairs sometimes = babies, but I also really enjoyed writing it because imagining all of these men panicking was quite fun.
Summary: Tyler Durden is a disaster. He comes to you bruised, bleeding, and half-delirious after a fight, and you’re the one left to clean him up, patch him. But Tyler’s not content with antiseptics and bandages; he wants your hands and attention.
Warnings: 18+ SMUT, shower sex but make it medical-adjacent, Tyler being a whiny manchild, injuries + blood mention, antiseptic sting scene aka the real pain, him begging like a dog in heat, handjob in the shower, messy lazy bed sex, cocky banter even when he’s half-delirious, aftercare but only by accident, reader calling him pathetic (accurate), him kind of loving it actually, damp sheets sorry not sorry <3
A/N: I rewatched Fight Club a couple days ago and so had to write a Tyler fic. Also, I recently started watching House of Guinness and I wanna write some fics for it, I'm not gonna stop writing Brad Pitt fics; they just might be a little slower, so I'm closing reqs for now 🫶
MASTERLIST - REQUESTS
WC: 5.2k
The door bangs open so hard it nearly rips off the hinges.
You hear them before you see them. Heavy boots stumbling up the porch steps, voices too loud for this hour, a chorus of half-drunken, half-exhilarated laughter. Then the door slams open against the wall, and in they come.
Two of Tyler’s disciples, each hooked under one of his arms like he’s the goddamn heavyweight champion being carried out of the ring.
Except the champion looks like shit.
His shirt is torn, chest smeared in sweat and blood, head tilted back with that manic grin stretched across his busted lip. A bruise already blooms purple under his eye, and there’s a streak of dried crimson down his temple.
“Christ,” you mutter, already on your feet, already reaching for the pile of half-clean rags on the chair. “What the hell did he do this time?”
“He won,” one of them says dryly. The other snorts like it’s half a joke, half a warning.
Tyler lifts his head with effort, blinking at you through half-closed eyes, and slurs, “Hey, baby.”
You step forward, pressing your hands to his chest automatically as the guys manoeuvre him inside. He’s a furnace under your palms, skin hot. The second they let go, his weight drops heavy against you, nearly knocking you backwards.
“Hey, shit- ” You brace, teeth grit, and glare over his shoulder at the two of them. “You can’t just dump him on me like a bag of laundry. He needs, he-”
“He’s in better hands with you than with us,” one says, already edging toward the door. The other gives you a look equal parts sympathy and amusement, like good luck, sweetheart.
Tyler tips his head toward you, cheek pressed into your hair now that he’s collapsed half across your shoulder. “You love it,” he murmurs, and then louder, “She loves it, don’t you? Little Florence Nightingale with a temper.”
You shove at his chest, ignoring the way his laugh rumbles like gravel. “You’re disgusting. Get him into bed, at least, before he bleeds out on the floor.”
But the guys just shrug, mutter their goodbyes, and disappear, boots clattering down the steps, door slamming shut.
For a moment you just stand there, holding up the dead weight of him, breathing through your nose. His arm drapes heavy over your shoulders, fingers twitching like he thinks he’s still in the ring.
“Tyler,” you snap.
“Mmm?”
“You’re not charming right now.”
“Not right now,” he agrees, voice slurred into your neck, “but usually. Usually very charming. Devastating, even. People talk about it.”
“Shut up.”
You half-drag, half-coax him across the room toward the busted-up couch. Every step is a fight. He lurches too far to the side, leans his full weight on you just to make you stumble. Somewhere in there he starts humming tunelessly under his breath, like this is a game.
By the time you get him down onto the couch, your back aches and your patience is fraying. He sprawls there like a cat in a sunbeam, arms flung wide, head tilted back. Blood still seeps slow and steady from the cut above his eyebrow, dripping into his hairline.
You grab the rag and press it hard to the wound.
“Fuck-” He hisses, eyes squeezing shut. Then he peeks at you through one half-opened lid, grin creeping back. “You’re supposed to kiss it better.”
“Tyler.”
“Yeahhh, sweetheart?”
“Shut. Up.”
His laugh is lazy, low, wrecked. He winces when you move the rag, but he doesn’t stop smiling. “God, you’re bossy when I’m injured. It’s hot. Keep going.”
You ignore him, pressing firmer until the bleeding slows. He makes a whining noise, half real pain and half theatre, then lets his head loll to the side so he can keep his gaze fixed on you.
“You mad at me?” he asks, like a kid testing the water.
“I should be.”
“But you’re not.”
You glare at him, the weight of his eyes a heat crawling across your skin.
“You’re not,” he repeats softly, sing-song, before closing his eyes entirely, body sinking deeper into the couch cushions. “You’d patch me up even if you hated me. That’s how I know you love me.”
You freeze, rag still pressed to his temple, heart beating too fast in your throat.
Then you snap, “You’re delirious.”
He grins without opening his eyes, a crooked stretch of blood-slick lips. You drop the rag back in the bowl of cloudy water and reach for the hem of his pants.
“Up,” you say.
Tyler cracks one eye at you, grin lopsided. “Buy me dinner first.”
You shove his shoulder. “Shirt, idiot.”
“Ohhh.” He drags the syllable out, mocking. “Knew that.” But he doesn’t move, just slouches further into the couch, arms spread like he’s nailed to it. “Gonna have to help me. I’m delicate right now.”
You roll your eyes but get your hands under his arms anyway, wrestling him upright. Warm, unyielding muscle under skin slick with sweat. He’s grinning down at you the whole time, breath hot on your temple.
“See? You love manhandling me.”
You tug the fabric up over his head, which is harder than it should be; he’s laughing through the whole thing, twisting like a brat until you nearly elbow him in the ribs.
“Hold still, Tyler.”
The shirt finally comes free, sticking to his skin as you peel it off. You toss it aside and step back to take in the damage.
It’s worse than you thought. Bruises already blooming purple over his ribs, a split across his shoulder, scrapes like he tried to wrestle the pavement and lost.
“Jesus Christ,” you mutter, reaching for another rag.
“You like what you see?”
“I see a dumbass who’s going to get sepsis.”
“Sexy sepsis.” He tips his head back against the couch. “Has a ring to it.”
You crouch between his knees, bowl balanced on the table beside you. The rag drips warm water as you wring it out and start scrubbing at the blood streaked down his chest. He hisses, then laughs through it.
“Gentle hands, baby.”
“You don’t deserve gentle.”
“Rude.”
He’s watching you through slitted eyes, lashes clumped with sweat. Every time you swipe at a cut, he makes some noise to keep your attention. When you press harder against the scrape on his ribs, he groans low in his throat, then immediately smirks when your eyes flick up.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” you mutter, scrubbing harder.
“Too late. Already did.”
You drop the rag in the bowl and grab gauze, pressing it against his side. He hisses again, twisting.
“Hold still, Tyler.”
“You’re mean when you’re worried. It’s cute.”
“I’m not worried.”
“You’re worried.” He taps a finger to your forehead, smearing damp blood against your skin. “Wrinkles right here. Stress lines.”
You smack his hand away. You shove the rag back against his ribs, maybe a little harder than necessary. He groans again, but this time it’s definitely on purpose, drawn-out and obscene.
“God, you’re- ” you start, but can’t even finish the sentence.
He tilts his head toward you, eyes bright and sly despite the exhaustion dragging at his face. “Hot? Irresistible? Really good at making you mad?”
“Annoying,” you bite out. “You’re annoying.”
“Gonna tell everyone you abused me,” he murmurs. “Poor Tyler, beaten by his sweet little nurse.”
“You don’t pay me enough to put up with this.”
“I don’t pay you at all.”
“Exactly.”
You wring out the rag again, but the bowl’s already gone murky, water tinged pink with blood. No matter how much you scrub, he’s still streaked with sweat and dirt, the faint reek of beer and rust clinging to his skin. You sit back on your heels, glaring up at him.
“This isn’t working.”
“Sure it is. I feel better already.” He winks, though it’s ruined by the way his head tips sideways like he’s about to fall asleep sitting up.
You swipe a hand down your face. “You need a shower.”
His eyes snap open, suddenly bright. “Shower? With you?”
“Don’t start.” You stand, wiping your hands on your jeans. “Come on. Before you infect every surface in this house.”
For once, miraculously, he actually gets to his feet under his own power. He sways, smirks when you instinctively grab his elbow, then leans on you harder than necessary just to make you stumble.
“Tyler-”
“Relaaax, I’m fine.” He straightens, shoulders rolling, cocky as if he hasn’t just been half-dead on the couch. “See? Walking. Hot and upright. Mostly upright.”
You shove him toward the hall, and he goes, dragging his feet in exaggerated steps. “March,” you snap.
“Yes, ma’am.” He salutes with two fingers, grin spreading wider the more annoyed you look.
The shower hisses to life, steam starting to curl up the cracked tile. You test the water with your fingers, adjust the handle until it’s hot enough to sting, then glance over your shoulder.
Tyler hasn’t moved.
He’s still leaning against the doorframe like he owns the place, one arm braced high, the other hanging loose at his side.
“Well?” you demand.
“Well what?” His voice is lazy, slurred at the edges but annoyingly smug.
“Get in.”
He blinks at the steam, then at you, then back at the shower like it’s a trap. “Mmm. Nah.”
You straighten, rag still clutched in your fist. “What do you mean, ‘nah’?”
“I don’t feel like it.” He shrugs, immediately winces as the movement pulls at the bruise blooming across his ribs. He covers it with a lopsided smile. “Water’s probably too hot. You’re into scalding. Kinky, but not my thing.”
“Tyler.”
“Yes baby?”
“Get in the damn shower.”
He tips his head, studying you, then says with the solemnity of a priest, “Not unless you do.”
Your mouth falls open. “You’re kidding.”
He shakes his head, curls damp with sweat, grin widening. “Nope. Dealbreaker. Either both of us, or neither of us. Solidarity.”
“You’re filthy.”
“You’re bossy.”
“You are covered in blood.”
“You love it.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose, willing yourself not to scream. “Tyler, I can't do this right now.”
“Mmhm,” he hums, eyes bright. “And you’re already thinking about it. Which means I win.”
You throw the rag at his chest. He doesn’t even flinch, just lets it slap wetly against his skin and slide down to the floor. “You’re not getting out of this,” you warn.
“Neither are you.”
He straightens from the doorframe, wobbles a little, then recovers with a dramatic flourish of his hands. “C’mon, baby. Bonding experience. Shower sex, shower therapy, shower- what do you call it? Hydrotherapy. Very healing.”
“You need disinfectant, not hydrotherapy.”
“You volunteer as tribute.” His grin is pure shit-eating, and you realise with dawning horror that he’s not going to budge.
You cross your arms. “You’re seriously not getting in unless I do?”
“Seriously.” He drags the word out, lips curling. “Moral principle. Can’t let you have all the fun.”
For a long moment, you just stare at him, steam curling around your shoulders. He stares back, unblinking, infuriating, and stubborn.
Finally you exhale, sharp through your nose. “Fine.”
He lights up like a kid at Christmas. “Knew you loved me.”
You hook your fingers under the hem of your shirt and strip it off in one motion, tossing it to the counter. His grin falters for just a beat before he leans back against the wall again, smugness doubled.
“See?” he drawls. “Already better.”
“Pants off,” you snap.
“Yours or mine?”
“Both.”
You unbutton your jeans, shove them down your legs, deliberately not looking at him. Behind you, you hear the rustle of fabric, the clumsy thump of his boots against tile. When you glance back, he’s down to his boxers, bruises stark against his skin, eyes locked on you with lazy interest.
“On three,” he says.
“What?”
He hooks his thumbs in his waistband, a wicked grin on his face. “We drop ‘em on three. Fair’s fair.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Thank you.”
You roll your eyes, shove your own underwear down without ceremony, and step into the shower. The water’s scorching, steam fogging up the cracked mirror. A beat later, Tyler crowds in behind you, skin hot and damp, laugh curling low in your ear.
“See? Not so bad.”
The water pounds down hot and steady, sluicing over both of you. The grime starts to slide away in rivulets. Blood diluted pink, sweat washing off his shoulders, turning the water at your feet a dirty swirl.
You grab the bar of soap, lather it in your hands, and shove at his shoulder. “Turn.”
He blinks at you through the steam, grin hazy.
“Now, Tyler.”
He sighs like you’re ruining all his fun, but he turns, bracing one arm against the tile. Water sheets down his back, cutting through the streaks of dirt. You drag your soapy hands over his shoulder blades, down his spine, across the bruises spreading dark under his ribs.
He hisses, shoulders flinching. “Fuck, that stings.”
“Yeah, well, maybe don’t get your ass kicked next time.”
“I didn’t get my ass kicked.” His voice is muffled against his arm, but the smugness is intact. “Other guy looks way worse.”
“You can barely stand up.”
“And you’re touching me anyway. Hm. Curious.”
You dig your fingers in harder, scrubbing at a scrape. He groans, loud and low, hips shifting like the pressure cut deeper than it should have.
“God- okay, gentle, gentle,” he whines, twisting to look back at you. His hair’s plastered to his face, water dripping off his jaw. “I’m delicate, remember?”
“You’re the least delicate person alive.”
“Fragile ego. Handle with care.”
You snort, working down his sides, soap sliding over warm skin, ribs expanding under your palms. He groans again, this one not theatrical but honest, his head dropping forward.
“Fuck. That’s… yeah. Right there.”
Your hands pause.
“I’m serious.” His voice is strained, almost hoarse. “Feels- Jesus. Don’t stop.”
So you don’t. You run your palms over his bruises, scrubbing away grime, water hitting so hot it makes both of you pink. He tilts his head back under the spray, mouth slack, groaning like every pass of your hands is both torture and relief.
By the time you turn him around to face you, he’s glassy-eyed, grin soft around the edges. Water pours down the line of his throat, cuts a trail over his chest. You soap a rag and start on him again, wiping across his collarbone, careful near the gash at his temple.
He leans into it, whining under his breath. “You’re so good to me. So mean, but so good.”
“I should let you rot.”
“You won’t. You love me.” His grin cracks wider when you scowl at him. “Say it.”
“Not a chance.”
He tips forward, crowding you back against the slick tile, his chest hot and damp against yours. “Say it and I’ll behave.”
“You won’t behave even if I do.”
“True.” He nuzzles into your neck, laugh muffled and wrecked. “But maybe I’ll beg pretty enough you won’t mind.”
You shove the rag against his chest, scrubbing hard. He gasps, then moans into your skin, somewhere between pain and pleasure. “Ohh, that’s fucked up. Keep going.”
His breath stutters, body pressing closer. “Please,” he says suddenly, quiet and raw under the spray. “Please, baby. I need-fuck, I need it.”
You freeze, rag dripping forgotten in your hand. He’s grinning, yeah, but his eyes are blown wide, his body trembling under your palms. Every line of him is strung tight, begging for you like he can’t hold it together anymore.
You squint at him, hand still braced against his chest.
“What the hell are you even asking for?”
He blinks at you, water dripping off his lashes. Then he tips his chin down, like the answer’s obvious.
Your gaze follows down the line of his stomach, across the bruises, to where his cock is straining hard against his thigh. The soap-slick water hasn’t hidden anything.
You snap your eyes back up. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
“See?” His grin cuts wider, teeth flashing, but his voice is still that raw, desperate whine. “Not just in my head. Can’t stop. Hurts.”
“Hurts,” you repeat flatly.
He nods, soaking wet hair clinging to his forehead. “Bad. Gonna die if you don’t help me.”
“Seriously? I’m not jerking you off in the shower while you’re covered in bruises.”
“Why not?” He’s relentless, crowding closer, chest pressing to yours, heat radiating through every slick line of him.
“Multitasking. Healing. You wash me, you fix me, and I get a reward. Win-win.”
“Tyler-”
He catches your wrist when you try to pull away, guiding your soapy hand down toward his stomach. His grin falters a little, that needy tension sparking through again. “C’mon, baby. Just- just touch me. I’ll shut up, swear.”
“You will not shut up.”
“I’ll try real hard.” His thumb strokes over your knuckles like he’s coaxing you, voice dropping to a pitiful groan. “Please. Feels like I’m gonna fucking explode.”
“You’re whining like a toddler.”
“So?" He drags your hand lower, until your fingertips brush him, hard, heavy, leaking against your palm. He hisses through his teeth, head dropping back. “Ohh, fuck. Yeah. That’s it.”
“Babe-”
“Please.” The word’s raw this time, desperate enough you almost don’t recognise it. His body shudders under the spray, his hips pressing forward against your stalled hand. “Please, don’t tease. I need you.”
You exhale, long-suffering, your free hand still braced against his chest. “You’re disgusting.”
He laughs, broken and whiny, and pushes his forehead to yours.
“Yeah. Yours, though.”
And just like that, the fight drains out of you.
You tighten your grip, slick palm sliding over him. His groan is instant, chest bowing toward you, hand clamping around your wrist like if you let go he’ll actually collapse.
You stroke him once, slow, and he nearly folds against you, a guttural sound tearing out of his throat. The hand on your wrist tightens, urging you faster, but you hold steady, deliberately unhurried.
“Fuck, fuck, don’t stop,” he gasps, forehead sliding down to your shoulder. His whole body is trembling under the water, the cocky act dissolving into something rawer, needier.
“You’re pathetic,” you mutter, soap suds slipping down between your joined hands.
“Pathetic,” he echoes, groaning as you curl your fist around him again, firmer this time. “So fucking pathetic. Don’t care. Just-ohh, fuck, yeah, like that.”
He rocks into your grip, sloppy, chasing every ounce of friction you’ll give him. His chest heaves against yours, water pouring down the ridges of his abs. You can feel every bruise under your palm, every ragged breath against your neck.
“You really dragged me in here for this?” you ask, voice sharp even as your hand twists, slick and steady.
He lifts his head, eyes blown wide and fever-bright. “Dragged me in here,” he corrects, panting. “And thank God you did. Best nurse I’ve ever had.”
“You’re bleeding all over the tile, and this is what you care about?”
His laugh cracks on a moan, head dropping back against the wall. “Care about you. Care about your hand. Jesus, tighter, please.”
You squeeze, just to shut him up, and his whole body jerks. He groans so loud it echoes off the tile, hips stuttering helplessly into your fist.
The cocky grin is still there, yeah, but it keeps breaking apart on the edges, smudged with desperation. He’s half whining, half laughing, like he can’t decide which mask to hold onto.
“Baby,” he gasps, shoving his wet hair back from his face. “Baby, I swear- I’ll die right here if you stop.”
“Good.”
“Then you’ll have to bury me naked. Real awkward funeral.” His teeth flash, then his mouth falls open on another ragged moan when you twist your wrist just right. “Holy shit, keep going, don’t stop, don’t-”
Your hand works him faster now, your grip sliding over every thick, aching inch. The bruises don’t matter anymore, the aches don’t slow him down. He’s chasing the friction like he’s starved for it.
His teeth sink into his bottom lip, jaw clenched, body shuddering under the spray.
“Gonna, shit, I’m gonna-” His hand clamps over yours suddenly, covering it, forcing your grip tighter, dragging you faster. “Don’t stop, don’t- ohhh, fuck, baby, right there, right there-”
His whole body arches forward, chest slamming into yours, water streaming hot down both of you. He spills over your hand in thick, pulsing streaks, hips jerking helplessly as his groans echo hard off the tile. “Fuuuck, yes. Yes. Oh my God.”
You keep stroking him through it, slow now, coaxing the last of it out until he’s sagging against you, shaking. His hand finally lets go of yours, sliding weakly down your arm.
For a beat it’s just the sound of water, the steam wrapping hot around you both, Tyler gasping like he ran a marathon.
Then you pull your hand back, slick with him, and raise it to your mouth.
His eyes snap open just as you drag your tongue slowly over your fingers, cleaning them off one by one.
The look on his face is priceless. Jaw slack, pupils blown, a wrecked sound tearing out of him like you’ve just knocked the air out of his lungs.
“Jesus Christ,” he chokes, voice hoarse and broken. His head hits the tile behind him, water raining down over his face. “You’re gonna kill me." You’re actually—fuck—you’re gonna kill me.”
You finally pry him off the tile, half shoving, half guiding, and somehow manage to drag his dripping weight out of the shower. He’s loose-limbed now, like he’s forgotten how to hold his body together, leaning on you every other step with that lazy grin plastered across his face.
“You’re heavy as shit,” you mutter, trying not to slip on the wet floor.
“I’m a luxury model,” he slurs, water still dripping off his hair, his mouth pressed right by your ear. “All steel frame, no plastic parts.”
“More like dead weight.”
“Sexy dead weight, though.” He winks, or maybe blinks, it’s hard to tell with how glassy his eyes are.
You muscle him into the bedroom, drop him onto the mattress, and grab a towel to at least get the worst of the water off. He sprawls out across the sheets without protest, chest rising and falling, bruises blooming deeper with every breath.
“Don’t move,” you warn, rummaging for the first aid kit you’ve practically made your own by now.
“Not going anywhere.” His voice is softer now, content, but when you sit back on the edge of the bed with the antiseptic bottle, he squints at it like you’re holding a weapon.
“Don’t give me that look. This is gonna sting.”
“Wait-” He tries to sit up, but you plant a hand on his chest and shove him back down.
“Tyler. Stay.”
The first touch of antiseptic hits a split along his ribs, and he jerks, sharp and violent, teeth clenching. “Holy fuck, that burns!”
“Yeah, no kidding. Hold still.”
He thrashes against the sheets, actually whining now, grabbing fistfuls of the blanket. “Jesus, baby, feels like acid!”
“Biggest baby alive,” you mutter, holding him down with your palm as you press again, firm and unrelenting. The sharp smell of antiseptic fills the air.
“Stop, stop, I’m begging-” His voice cracks, real panic flashing under the grin he’s trying to hold on to. His hand catches your wrist, tight, like he’s half serious about making you quit.
You soften, just slightly, but keep working. “I know. I know it hurts. But it’s this or infection.”
His eyes meet yours, wide and glassy, the grin gone now. He swallows hard, breath ragged. “Shit. You’re scarier than any fight I’ve ever been in.”
“Good. Maybe you’ll think twice next time.”
“You wish.” He tries for cocky, but the way his voice cracks when the cotton swipes over another gash ruins the delivery.
You finish wiping the last of the cuts, his stomach twitching under your hand as you tape a fresh bandage into place. He’s sweating from the pain more than the heat now, chest rising and falling hard, hair sticking damp across his forehead.
“Done,” you say, dropping the bloody cotton into the bowl. “For now.”
He cracks one eye open. “You sure? Feels like you were enjoying that a little too much.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
You shove the kit aside and finally crawl up the bed beside him. For once, he doesn’t have a quip ready. He just exhales, long and shaky, then slings an arm over your waist like it weighs a ton.
The sheets are already damp from his hair and skin, but neither of you cares. He smells like soap and antiseptic, undercut with the raw tang of blood.
You close your eyes for a second, just listening to his breathing settle.
Then his weight shifts.
It’s subtle at first, his hand dragging down your hip, his nose bumping the side of your throat. Then, without warning, he rolls, pinning you beneath him in one messy, heavy sprawl.
“Tyler come on-”
“Shh.” His grin is lazy this time, softer at the edges, but his body’s still a furnace against yours. “Not done with you yet.”
“You can barely move.”
“Doesn’t mean I can’t move on you.”
Before you can shove him off, his mouth finds yours. The kiss is sloppy, heated, and tastes like steam and salt. His tongue drags against yours, his weight sinking down, pressing you deep into the mattress.
He groans into the kiss, a low, tired sound that still vibrates through you. His hips shift, slow and uncoordinated, but there’s no mistaking the intent.
“Tyler,” you warn, but it comes out shaky when his teeth scrape your lip.
“Mmm.” He noses down your jaw, words muffled against your skin. “Round two. Just… slower. Messier. You won’t have to do much.” He grinds lazily against your thigh to prove his point.
His mouth trails down your throat, wet and uncoordinated, like he’s running on instinct more than finesse now. Every kiss is a little too hard, every scrape of teeth a little too sharp, but you’re already arching up into him.
He shifts, weight pressing you deeper into the mattress, one bruised arm braced beside your head. The other drags down your side, clumsy but purposeful, tugging at whatever fabric is still clinging to your body.
His hips grind down, slower this time, but no less insistent. You can feel him already, hard again, the heat of him nudging against you through the damp fabric.
“You're unbelievable,” you breathe, but your hands are already sliding up his back, nails catching on bandages.
“Mmhm.” His grin flashes briefly against your skin before he’s kissing you again, sloppy and hungry. “Unbelievable. That’s me.”
The kiss breaks when he fumbles between you, tugging at his waistband, then yours. It’s all mess, his knuckles knocking into your hip, your leg catching awkwardly against the sheets. But then he’s there, pressing into you in one slow, groaning push.
Your head falls back against the pillow with a gasp. He swallows it, mouth catching yours again as he sinks fully inside.
“Fuuuuck,” he groans, the word dragging out, his body shaking with the effort. “God, baby, you feel unreal.”
His thrusts are shallow, uneven, more grind than rhythm. But he’s so hot against you, so heavy, his forehead pressed to yours like he needs you to anchor him. Every breath is a moan, every movement desperate but messy, less about control and more about clinging.
You clutch at his shoulders, his back, your nails skimming sweat and damp fabric and bandages alike. He winces when you hit a sore spot, but it only makes him groan louder, grinding harder into you.
“Thought you were tired,” you gasp.
“Am tired,” he pants, his grin wobbling but still there. “Still not stopping. Not, oh- fuck, til you come with me.”
His mouth crashes against yours again, teeth and tongue and heat. The kiss breaks when he drops his head to your throat, panting hard, mouthing at your skin like he’s half delirious.
Every thrust is heavier, lazier, his hips dragging against yours in long, messy rolls. He’s whining again, raw and unfiltered, groaning into your neck like he’s barely holding on.
Your body arches up into him anyway, meeting every sloppy push, the two of you tangling tighter under damp sheets. The sheets cling against your back, his weight pressing into you like he wants to sink straight through.
“God,” he groans, voice cracking, forehead slipping against yours. “Can’t, can’t get close enough.”
His hand fumbles down your thigh, hitching it higher around his hip. The new angle has him gasping, the sloppy roll of his hips dragging deeper. Your nails bite into his back, his body shuddering under every scrape.
“Don’t stop,” you whisper, though he was never close to stopping.
“Never,” he mutters back, his lips brushing your jaw. “Not until- fuck- make me come, baby. Wanna feel you.”
He drops lower, chest sliding against yours, his weight almost crushing but grounding all the same. Each thrust is slower now, heavier, as if he’s wringing the pleasure out of both of you. Your hips lift to meet his, and the friction sparks hot, sharp, right where you need it.
The groan he lets out when he feels you clench is obscene, guttural, his mouth catching at your throat. “Ohh, do that again. Please, please, oh my God-”
Your whole body arches, straining against him, the sloppy grind of his hips dragging you higher and higher. He’s babbling into your skin now, every word broken between gasps.
“Can’t- can’t hold it baby, come with me, please, please- ”
It hits you first, your body bowing up under him, nails carving red down his back. He moans when he feels it, the sound raw and helpless, and the next thrust drags him over the edge too.
He spills inside you with a desperate groan, his whole body shaking as he presses down hard, grinding through it, every movement messy and uncoordinated but dragging both of you through the high.
When it finally ebbs, he collapses against you, chest heaving, face buried in your neck. His weight is crushing, his breath hot, his voice wrecked when he finally manages, “Holy fuck.”
For a long while, neither of you move. The only sounds in the room are the ragged drag of your breathing and the slow tick of water dripping off his hair onto the sheets.
He shifts to the side, rolling half off you, but not far enough to let you go. His arm hooks tight around your waist, hauling you with him until you’re sprawled against his chest.
“Mm.” He presses his face into your damp hair, sighing deep. “Perfect.”
You huff against him, too drained to come up with a retort. His chest rises and falls under your cheek, slower now, steadier, though every so often he winces when your hand brushes over a bruise or bandage.
“We're leaking on your sheets,” you murmur eventually, voice muffled.
He chuckles, hoarse and low. “Our sheets. You live here now, remember?”
“Unfortunately.”
His arm tightens around you, pulling you in closer, and for once, he doesn’t try to fill the silence with another joke. He just lies there, breathing with you, heat radiating off his bruised body, his heartbeat steady under your ear.
Hope you guys liked this one, it was very self-indulgent lmao
summary. rumors of the bond between you and your twin-brother daeron begin to swirl amongst oldtown, your uncle, ormund, does not appreciate it one bit and decides to confront you about it
word count. 7.1k
warnings. mdni, dead dove do not eat, targtower reader, dub-con, ormund is a hypocrite, oral (f receiving), set pre-dance, english is not my first language!
a/n. family tree by ethel cain. go listen to it!
highly inspired by this post.
The bone comb slides through your hair, smooth as silk.
In the polished silver of the looking glass, the long strands caught the morning light filtering through the high arched windows, gleaming a pale, shimmering silver-white. Around you, your handmaidens fluttered like a flock of nervous sparrows, whispering their soft awes and marveling at the plain view of your Valyrian ancestry.
You had been in Oldtown for almost as long as you could remember yourself.
The Red Keep of King’s Landing was nothing but a collection of half-faded memories. The faces of your lady mother, Queen Alicent, and your other siblings—Aegon, Helaena, and Aemond—were remembered only in fleeting glimpses, through a sort of thick and hazy mist. You knew they all much resembled yourself in looks, with the same pale eyes and silver-gold locks.
But they were distant princes and princesses of a court you barely knew.
The only other person who resembled you so closely, but one whom you knew all too well and held dear to your heart, was your twin brother, Daeron.
The maesters at the Citadel loved to recount the tale of your quickening to the young acolytes. It was said that when he came wailing into the world from Alicent’s blood-slicked womb, the Grand Maester had no idea there was another.
The old man had wiped his brow, thinking the labor done, and only when he saw the Queen’s birthing was still taking place, her screams echoing through the chamber anew, did he realize a second babe lay within.
Alas, you were no less welcome, appreciated, or celebrated than your brother.
So when the time came for Daeron to be sent south to the Honeywine to serve as a squire for your mother’s family, the Hightowers, it had been decided that it would be best if you went along too.
That is how, for most of your life, even as a princess of the Crown, you have called Oldtown your home, raised amidst the scent of salt, tar, and the tolling of the bells from the Starry Sept.
“It is so beautiful, my princess,” Miriam spoke softly, her voice hushed with the reverence usually reserved for the Mother’s altar. She gently carded the bejeweled golden comb through the long strands of your hair. “Like pale moonlight on the water, or the morning mists on the morrow…”
Through the silvered mirror, you could see her eyes wide in awe, and you could feel the extreme caution of her touch. Her fingers did their work ever so gently—not daring to snag a single knot or cause the slightest pain to the princess.
“Thank you, Miriam,” you replied with a gentle, practiced smile. You were much used to being showered in compliments by the household, and equally used to replying to them with the appropriate courtly courtesy.
“Which dress, princess?” another of your maids, Cathy, chirped up. The other girls helped her hold up two different garments, their faces eager for your choice.
Your eyes followed the trail of the first; a gorgeous, sweeping gown made of quality red silk from the Free Cities, flowing like fresh-spilled blood and intricately embroidered with black thread along the bodice.
The other was a gown of Hightower green, fashioned from the softest Myrish wool, its collar carefully decorated with seven-pointed stars stitched in silver thread.
It was a silent, but obviously heavy choice—the colors of your father’s house against the colors of your mother’s kin.
Before you could make your choice or offer a reply, two rapid, thudding knocks sounded on the door. Before any of your maids could bid entrance, the heavy oak thing was creaking violently on its iron hinges, banging hard against the dressed stone wall as it all but flew open.
The girls around you instinctively flocked closer to one another, forming a kind of protective half-circle with their bodies, their eyes cast down toward the rushes on the floor. One of the household servants entered first, his eyes fixed stiffly ahead of him, not daring to spare any of the women the slightest glance.
“The Lord Hightower, my princess,” he announced, his voice tight with formality.
Before you could catch your footing, find a robe, or even question what was happening, your uncle was already stepping foot inside your private chambers.
You were wearing nothing but your thin linen shift, and the maids seemed to notice your state of undress as they nervously began jittering their fingers, shifting from foot to foot.
Ormund stepped into your room as he stepped into any other room in the city—like he owned the very stones beneath his boots (because in truth he did).
He was wearing a simple but finely cut doublet of dark green velvet, the color he preferred frequenting the most, slashed with silver satin. His sharp grey gaze swept across the flock of trembling girls once before settling entirely on you.
“Uncle—” you began, straightening your back and lifting your chin, attempting to summon the dignity of a Crown princess while clad only in your night-smock. Miriam took a hasty step backward from your side.
“Leave us.” he commanded the maids, his voice a low, resonant baritone that left absolutely no room for disobedience.
You could see almost all of them squirming under the cold scrutiny of his gaze. His tall, broad-shouldered frame and strong, unyielding jawline inspired absolute reverence and fear in many a young maiden in Oldtown. Alas, you were not just one of many; you were blood of the dragon.
Your jaw tightened quietly. “Your princess commands you to stay.” you firmly countered, your voice ringing clear against the stone walls.
The girls seemed paralyzed. Entirely confused, frozen in place, caught in a web of divided loyalties. They looked between their princess and their Lord, not entirely certain whose orders they should be following.
You thought Ormund’s eyes would flash with fury at the defiance, but instead, what you found on his face was a dark amusement. A sly, mocking grin threatened to spread across his features at your antics.
“Your Lord commands you to leave us at once.” he repeated. His voice carried a tone of absolute authority, carrying no hint of the amusement that danced in his eyes.
At the sheer severity of his command, the girls finally broke. They scampered out of the door one by one like frightened mice, nodding their heads in hurried acknowledgment and leaving you alone with your uncle.
A sharp sense of quiet betrayal began to unfurl within your chest.
These are my girls, you thought bitterly. They should be loyal to me. They should be listening to my commands, not his.
The only comfort, the only thing you would look upon later with a touch of gratitude, was Miriam.
Just before stepping foot through the heavy oak door, the girl looked back, her ashamed eyes searching yours for an answer, a silent plea for forgiveness. You nodded ever so slightly, letting her know she was dismissed, and the girl quickly took her leave. At least someone in this castle still recognized your royal authority.
The door creaked shut behind them as a household guard pulled it closed from the hallway, and the servant stepped outside, leaving a heavy silence in the room.
You turned your back on your uncle, returning to your vanity.
It was a magnificent piece imported from Lannisport, a gorgeous bone-white wood crafted with intricate star designs and inlaid with mother-of-pearl.
It had been a gift for your fifth nameday, and you had been in love with it ever since, even if for the first five years it had been far too grand for a child to use.
Your fingers picked up the bone brush Miriam had dropped and continued the work; alas, your movements were far less gentle and much more forceful than the maid's. You yanked the bristles through your silver-white hair, your eyes fiercely refusing to meet Ormund’s in the reflection.
Once again, you could hear him shuffle his boots against the rushes, and a soft air of laughter escaped him at your stubborn antics.
“Is this how you greet the Lord of Oldtown?” he began, stepping closer to where you sat in front of your vanity, his shadow falling over your shoulder. You still refused to meet his gaze or give him the satisfaction of an answer.
“Have I not raised you with better manners, niece? A princess of the crown should know how to behave appropriately in front of Great Lords. Hm, tell me, what would your lady mother say to this?”
“I would not know, my Lord,” you countered through gritted teeth, venom dripping from every syllable. “I have not exactly been privy to my lady mother’s thoughts or her presence. After all, I was raised here in Oldtown.”
His thick eyebrows shot up in mock surprise. “Yet still… she is the Queen… and you her daughter, a princess of the royal blood.”
“A toothless princess, or so it would seem,” you muttered bitterly. “When not even my own handmaidens seem to follow my commands.”
Ormund let out a low chuckle, a sound that rumbled deep within his chest. He stepped directly behind you, placing a firm, calloused hand upon your bare shoulder, his fingers slowly caressing the pale skin.
A sudden prickle of goosebumps rose along your flesh at the unbidden contact. He leaned down, tilting his head until his lips pressed against the delicate, pale shell of your ear. His warm breath fanned over your skin, sending a cold shiver down your spine.
You watched it all through the silvered glass of the vanity—his sharp, predatory gaze watching you like a deer through the reflection.
“Ormund.” you began, your knuckles turning white as you clutched the bone hairbrush tighter.
“Uncle.” he corrected softly, his voice a low, commanding murmur against your skin.
He shifted his lips down to the crook of your neck, pressing a firm, lingering kiss into the hollow there.
“What are you—” You tensed, attempting to wrench yourself around to break free from his suffocating proximity, but his hands on your shoulders kept you firmly locked in place.
“Is it true that Tessarion has mated with Starfyre?” he questioned suddenly, as if to catch you off guard, an accusatory glint entering his grey eyes as he spoke of your magnificent beast.
Starfyre had been your very own hatchling, born from a precious clutch laid by Dreamfyre herself. He was a breathtaking vision, clad in shimmering silver-white scales that caught the light like polished armor, with wings that glittered like crushed diamonds when he took to the sky.
Though he was already considerably larger than Tessarion, Starfyre carried himself with a fierce, regal majesty— his long, serpentine neck beautifully akin to Prince Daemon’s dread mount, the Blood Wyrm, Caraxes.
“What—” Your brows furrowed in sheer bewilderment. “What? Yes, it is true… they are dragons, Uncle. They nested together in the outer pits—what did you expect them to do?”
He shushed you quietly, raising a sharp finger to cut off any word or attempt to speak. Not that you had any defense to offer… nor any way to justify the ways of your beast. Dragons were creatures born of fire and blood, and you possessed no true, godlike power over them, despite the grand illusions of Targaryen superiority that the smallfolk and highborn alike reverently believed in.
“The most concerning of… rumors have reached my ears, sweet niece… and this unfortunate discovery has only sharpened them.” He announced, straightening his spine, before reaching down and taking a single lock of your snow-white hair between his thick, calloused fingers and slowly coiling it around his digit like a pale ribbon.
“Rumors…” You parroted, attempting to turn your head to face him. But his heavy hand tightened upon your shoulders, staying your movement. His fingers dug painfully into the soft flesh beneath your thin linen shift, but you bit down the wince threatening to escape you. You swallowed hard instead, forcing your voice to remain level. “Words are wind, uncle.”
“Words are wind. Indeed.” he hummed in acknowledgement, his eyes remaining locked onto the strand of pale hair wrapped around his finger. “Alas— even the foulest wind carries a scent. And the most rumors have at least a crumb of truth buried within them. Or would you care to differ?”
“I—I do not know what you mean.” You stammered. A cold sweat began to break across your brow then, even as goosebumps rose along your arms.
It was a queer, conflicting sensation—the dragon blood in your veins made your core feel flush and hot with ancestral fire, yet Ormund's unexpected intrusion left you shivering with an icy dread.
“Oh, stop playing the fool!” He snapped at last and the suddenness of it made you physically recoil from his touch. His voice boomed against the high, vaulted stone ceiling of the chamber like a heavy war drum. It was a sound thick with agitation, sharp and aggressive.
“Ormund—” You pushed yourself to your feet, standing up to face him. Your voice shook—far shakier than a princess of the blood royal should ever sound—and you hated yourself for the weakness of it.
You needed to be strong. You needed the iron will of your house. Your lady mother, Queen Alicent, would never waver or tremble before a man's anger, you thought.
“You will stay silent and listen to me.” Ormund jabbed a thick thumb toward his own chest, his gesture sharp, almost manic. The raw authority in his command left you with little choice but to obey.
Your knees felt weak, and you sank back down with a dull thud onto your wooden stool.
He closed his eyes for a brief moment, drawing in a long, slow breath as if mentally gathering his patience before exhaling it into the quiet room. When he spoke again, his voice came out far steadier, though the quiet malice in it sent a renewed chill down your spine.
“Oldtown is the seat of the Faith, niece, as all the folk in the Seven Kingdom know. It is no place for unholy and sinful people.” He began, his tone unyielding. “The mere fact that you carry the blood of the dragon does not exempt you from the laws of gods and men, nor does it shield you from the judgment of the Seven. Not you nor your brother.”
What in the names of the gods was he talking about? Your mind raced. Desperately searching for meaning, but you could simply not fathom his intent. Still… you had learned your lesson well enough this morning; you knew better than to speak back and stoke his fury.
“You think the eyes of the Hightower do not see?” He finally spat, a look of pure disgust twisting his features. “You think I and everyone else in this castle do not see how you and Daeron look at each other? How you touch one another?”
At those words, you felt your heart drop like a stone into a well.
Daeron was your twin. He was your other half, the right part of your own soul. He understood you as no lord, lady, or maester ever could. You had shared a womb; you had been cradled together in the same nursery. It was only natural that you felt entirely comfortable in his presence. That you laughed at his jests and relished the warmth of his embrace. He was your brother, by the grace of the Seven.
“He is my brother.” You stated, standing your ground. You were proud of the sudden firmness and steadiness that returned to your voice.
Finally, the blood of the dragon was answering, and you were gaining back your footing.
“Your brother, yes…” Ormund spoke the words with a soft, mocking sneer. “And the lot of you—my royal cousin’s kin—have notoriously queer customs indeed. The abominations of Old Valyria may fly about free in King’s Landing, but Oldtown and the Faith do not tolerate such queerness.”
A bitter, breathless laugh escaped your lips before you could stop yourself. “You are out of your mind, uncle.” Through the silver looking glass, you watched as another dark storm of fury began to coil behind his eyes at the audacity.
“Out of my mind, she says.” Ormund sneered, a strange, ugly twist curling his lips. Before you could gather your senses or summon your dragon-pride, his hand shot forward. His fingers clamped around your forearm like an iron manacle, gripping the flesh so fiercely that a sharp gasp of pain caught in your throat. By sheer, unyielding strength, he dragged you to your feet, jerking you forward until you stood scarce an inch from his chest.
“Yet it is you, and your whore of a half-sister with her bastards, and your rogue of an uncle who bring abomination into the realm.” He hissed, his breath hot against your face. “And my own cousin is no better… wedding her two children to one another like beasts in a paddock.”
Any other man would have lost his head for such words. It was high treason, spoken aloud in the light of day, but here in the Hightower, Ormund was king in all but name. What defense did you have? Who would believe the word of a lonely princess over the Lord of Oldtown?
“She brings nothing but shame to the Seven and the name of House Hightower.” He spat.
You writhed against his grasp, trying to twist your arm free, but his hold only tightened, his fingers bruising the pale skin. “You are hurting me!” You cried out, squirming in his grip.
Ormund merely cocked his head to the side, rolling his eyes with a cold, mocking amusement, as if your protests were nothing more than the theatrics of a spoiled child.
“Come,” he said, pulling at you. But you dug your heels into the rushes, your body locking in place. He let out a dark, raspy snort. “Move your feet, niece, or by the Smith, you will make me drag you across the stone.”
You opened your mouth to scream, to protest, but he was already hauling you toward the far end of the chamber. Your bare feet stumbled clumsily over the floorboards, tangling together as his iron grip remained locked upon your forearm. He pushed you roughly into the secluded alcove of the solar, where the handmaidens had prepared your morning bath.
It was meant to be your sanctuary before the day's dressing, a quiet ritual interrupted by his brute intrusion.
The great tub was fashioned from fine, polished oak. Wide and deep, its rim decorated with simple, carved waves. When first poured, the water had been scalding hot—a heat that would leave any ordinary mortal blistered and weeping, but to the ancient blood of Old Valyria, it was a comfort.
Now, however, the thick blankets of steam had faded into the high ceiling. You swallowed hard, your throat dry, as he shoved you toward the lip of the tub, finally releasing his bruising hold on your arm.
“Undress.” He commanded.
Your head whipped around with sudden, fierce indignation. “What?” The word stumbled from your lips, breathless and broken.
Ormund sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, deeply displeased at having to repeat himself. “I said,” he began, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low register, “undress.”
He nodded toward the water, his grey eyes fixed on you as you stood frozen, refusing to comply. “You reek of dragon.” He spat. “I assume you went riding at first light?”
“Last evening.” You clarified, your teeth chattering slightly despite the heat of the room.
He hummed, a low, rumbling sound. “And you did not think to bathe afterward?”
“I did.” you said defensively.
“And yet you still smell of those… wretched beasts.” He spat the word beasts with a charring venom, as if the very thought of the dragons fouled his tongue. “Why must you be so difficult at every turn?”
With a heavy sigh, he whirled you around. Before you could leap away, his thick fingers caught the collar of your linen shift. With one brutal downward jerk, he pulled the sheer material down your arms. You reached towards the garment, desperately trying to catch the fabric, but his hands were too strong, his movements too practiced and unyielding.
You felt the linen slip from your body, pooling around your thighs and ankles in a breathless rush. The cool morning air hit the bare skin of your belly like a sudden winter storm. Instantly, you crossed your arms over your chest, curling inward in a desperate attempt to shield your nakedness from his searching eyes.
“No… no…” he whispered, his voice suddenly thick. He reached down, catching your wrists and pulling your arms away from your body by force. “You will not deny me this, sweet niece.”
You turned your head away in profound shame, your cheeks burning. Under the chill of the solar, the rosy points of your breasts hardened, and a fresh wave of goosebumps broke across your skin.
Ormund stepped closer, entering your space until the heavy green velvet of his doublet brushed against your bare flesh.
He brought a rough hand up to your face, his fingers cupping your chin with a firm, unescapable grip, forcing your head back up. You hated the treacherous instinct of your own body—how you naturally leaned into the warmth of his hand for a fleeting second—but you hated what came next even more. Through the coarse cloth of his breeches, you felt the rigid, swelling hardness of his manhood pressing aggressively into the soft flesh of your thigh.
“You must understand,” he whispered, his breath smelling faintly of sweet wine and incense as he leaned over you. “I do not blame you for what you cannot control. You cannot help it, poor child. This savageness… it is bred into your very bones. It is in the blood of the dragon. You are stained by it. Dirty. It is a disease.”
A hot liquid welled in your eye, spilling over your lashes. You felt stripped of all your royal dignity—embarrassed, ashamed, and consumed by a helpless, raging fury. Your teeth clenched so tightly your jaw ticked.
“But do not fret, sweet niece,” he murmured. He leaned down, pressing his lips to the wet track on your cheek, tasting the salt of your tear. “I will cure you of it. I will be your guiding light, and free you from this monstrous burden.” A slow, unsettling smile spread across his face.
“Now. Get into the water.” His voice was quiet now, almost gentle, yet it carried the absolute weight of a battlefield command. Once a general, always a general.
With no stones left to throw and no shields to raise, you had no choice but to comply.
Lifting one trembling leg and then the other over the rim of the wooden tub, you descended into the water. Most of the vapor had long since vanished, and the water had cooled to a dull, bearable warmth. As the ripples closed around your chest, you were only glad for the dark water, fore it did something to shield your naked form from his hungry, predatory gaze.
Ormund hummed in low contentment. For a single, fleeting moment, as he turned his back to you, your heart unclenched. A desperate, foolish hope flickered in your chest that he might finally leave you to your privacy.
He did not.
Instead, he marched with heavy, deliberate steps over to the cedar cabinet where your handmaidens stored the various scented waters, crushed herbs, and rare oils meant for the bath.
He pulled the drawer open with a forceful, impatient tug that made the wood groan. Instinctively, you drew your knees up to your chest, curling into a tight ball within the water, trying to minimize what he could see.
From the safety of the tub, you could only see his broad back and the dark chestnut curls of his hair as he bent his head over the drawer, examining the glass phials nestled inside.
“Which one shall it be…” you heard him murmur under his breath.
He lifted a slender glass tube to his nose, pulling the stopper to sniff the contents. A low hum of approval escaped him. “They received the new Lyseni order I made for you. Good.”
You sank deeper into the water, until it lapped just beneath your chin, wishing the oak tub would swallow you whole.
He rummaged through the collection for a few moments more. In the quiet clinking of glass, you almost found a strange, twisted peace inside the intimacy of the act. Then, his fingers closed around his prize.
“Aha.”
When he turned back around, he held a glass phial filled with a thick, pinkish-orange liquid that gleamed like a captured sunset in his large hand. He slammed the wooden drawer shut with his free hand, the sound echoing sharply against the stone walls.
“This will do perfectly.” he murmured.
As he walked back to the edge of the tub, you could see the dark dilation of his pupils, the tight clenching of his free fist at his side. You knew that look. This was not the first time he had looked at you so, nor was it the first time he had forced his way into your sacred spaces. Far from it.
You and Ormund had done things in the shadows of the Hightower that the Seven would make you repent for every single day for the rest of your lives. The septons would call it an abomination, a wicked stain upon your soul. Yet, staring up at him, a treacherous warmth began to bloom in your belly. You hated how much you wanted him in these quiet hours. You lusted for his touch, desired his strength, and craved the very danger he represented.
The worst part of it—the part you loathed most of all—was how quickly the guilt began to evaporate once the lust settled into your blood. The betraying slickness between your thighs had been there from the very moment his iron grip had clamped onto your forearm.
Let him think you are afraid, the dragon blood whispered inside you. You were far too proud, far too much a princess of the realm, to ever admit how much his rough handling truly pleased you.
“A special Lyseni bathing oil,” Ormund explained, kneeling down upon the heavy stone floor beside the wooden tub. Even on his knees, his towering frame loomed over you, leaving him almost a head taller than your sunken form in the bath. “It is exceptionally strong, but it leaves behind a pleasant, gentle aroma. Rosemary and sharp lemon—concocted from a special batch originally meant for a wealthy Magister’s wife.”
You merely hummed in quiet acknowledgment of his words, your eyes tracking his movements. With a sharp pop, he loosened the cork stopper with his teeth, tilting the glass phial so the oily, sunset-colored liquid began to drip lazily into the water around you.
The scent hit the air instantly, thick and intoxicating. The sharp, bright aroma of lemons mixed with the earthy, pine-like fragrance of the rosemary herbs, completely overtaking your senses.
Ormund closed his eyes, inhaling the rising steam deeply. The harsh lines of his brow finally unfurled in pure pleasure. “There now.” he whispered, his eyes opening to pin you with a heavy gaze. “This will rid you of that dreadful dragon stench.”
Your muscles gradually uncoiled as the sweet, sharp vapors of the Lyseni oil worked their way into your senses, eliciting a soft, involuntary sound of contentment from your throat.
Through hooded eyes, you saw a surge of possessive satisfaction cross Ormund’s dark gaze. He rolled the heavy velvet sleeves of his doublet up past his thick, hair-darkened forearms, reaching for a dry linen washcloth before dipping it into the scented water.
He wrung the cloth once with his thick, powerful fingers. You watched the warm water cascade down his digits, back into the tub in heavy droplets, hating how effortlessly your mind trailed to darker, more treasonous thoughts about those very hands.
Beneath the opaque, oil-slicked surface of the bath, your thighs squeezed together. You breathed a silent prayer of thanks for the dark water that shielded your body's betrayal from his sight; you knew precisely how smug he would be if he caught even a glimpse of the effect he still held over you.
He brought the wet linen to your skin, tracing your collarbones with a strange, quiet reverence. He began to scrub away the nonexistent dirt and the invisible scent of the dragon, working with a meticulous precision.
He handled you as though you were his most prized treasure—like a man polishing a sacred family heirloom, or the dark, rippled edges of Vigilance— the Valyrian steel greatsword of House Hightower.
The only other time you had ever witnessed your uncle display such haunting gentleness was when he cleaned that very blade.
You remembered the story Daeron had told you, fresh from the courtyard. Ormund had just taken a rebel lord's head, the steel dripping with crimson, and your twin brother had been too young, too trembling, to know how to properly wipe the Valyrian steel clean. Despite Daeron's high position as his squire, Ormund had not cursed him. Instead, he had taken the oil and the rag, showing the boy personally.
“A squire does not serve because the knight is incapable,” Ormund had told your twin that day, his voice steady over the dead man's blood. “He assists so the knight may look to the horizon, where the heavier duties lie.”
Now, those same hands traced the pale skin of your arms, sliding over your shoulders and down your back. Gently, silently, his knuckles nudged your knees apart, smoothing the cloth over your chest.
In the heavy, lemon-scented silence of the alcove, your mind drifted to forbidden shores.
You found yourself imagining a world where the two of you were wed in the Starry Sept, a world where you would legally become the Lady of Oldtown. You imagined your belly swelling with his highborn seed, envisioning a dozen children—some with the dark chestnut curls of the Hightowers, others with the striking silver-white hair of the dragon—running and shrieking through the echoing corridors of the castle.
But even as the thought bloomed, a bitter taste rose in your mouth. You knew it was nothing more than a fool's dream. An ugly, poisonous fruit that presented itself as sweet, only to choke you the moment you bit into its flesh.
Your lady mother, Queen Alicent, would sooner see Oldtown reduced to ash before allowing such a scandalous match. And Ormund, for all his dark lusts, would never disgrace his house or his standing in the eyes of the realm by taking his royal niece to wife.
And besides, the Lord of the Hightower already had three trueborn children of his own to secure his lineage.
With a low hum of approval, finally pleased with his work, Ormund tossed the sodden rag onto the floor. It hit the dark stone with a heavy, wet squelch, the spilled water staining the grey masonry an even deeper, bruised shade of black.
He leaned closer, his shadow completely consuming you.
His bare hand, still damp from the water, caressed your collarbone before trailing down, down, down…
His fingertips tracing the curve of your breast and the slope of your waist, until finally they settled over your sweet mound. Your breath hitched as he gripped your cunt. You hated how instinctively your hips arched into his palm, the bathwater sloshing softly against the wooden tub.
He began to trace his fingers along the sensitive folds of your cunt. He was teasing you—deliberately rolling the tender flesh between his fingertips, his thumb pinching and applying a slow, agonizing pressure to the bud of it.
“Do you let him touch you like this?” he whispered, his voice dropping into a dark, demanding register that made your heart hammer against your ribs. “Do you let him look at you, hm? Do you give him this right?”
You shook your head blindly, your silver hair dragging wetly across your shoulders.
“Words, niece,” he commanded softly, his grip tightening just enough to demand total submission. “I require words.”
“No.” you managed to choke out, the syllable catching in your throat.
“I need to hear it plain.” Ormund murmured, his eyes flashing with a savage, predatory glint as he watched the burning crimson rush to your cheeks. “Do you let Daeron into your bed? Into your cunt?”
The shame of it washed over you in a suffocating wave. To be pinned beneath his hold, naked and defenseless in the water, while he spoke the name of your twin brother—it felt entirely depraved, a twisted game born of the dark shadows in his mind.
Yet, beneath all the humiliation, that treacherous lust in your blood stirred, confusing your senses until the line between fury and desire blurred entirely.
“No—I do not let Daeron touch me,” you managed to whisper, a sharp gasp escaping your lips as the sheer intensity of his fingers working you apart overwhelmed you. “Only… only you.”
He laughed at that—a genuine, unrestrained bark of amusement leaving him, though the tension between you was anything but light. Pressing deeper, he joined two more fingers with the first, curling them inside your slick heat in a heavy, beckoning motion.
Your eyes fluttered shut, your thighs parting wider as your head thudded back against the rim of the wooden basin.
“Maybe you are not so unmanageable after all,” he hummed, his gaze tracking the rise and fall of your chest. “Spoiled, without a doubt. But not entirely beyond locking into place.”
Your chest tightened at his words, a strange, hollow warmth blooming inside you despite the insult. You bit your lip so hard the taste of copper threatened to burst forth, your knuckles turning white as your hand gripped the edge of the tub for dear life.
Ormund’s eyes flickered down to your straining fingers. With his free hand, he reached out, interlocking his thick, calloused digits with your own, anchoring you to him.
He brought your laced hands up to his lips, pressing a cold, lingering kiss onto the back of your hand, all while his gaze remained locked onto yours. He searched your violet eyes for any sign of true distress or displeasure. He found none.
For a time, the chamber held only the lewd squelching sounds of his fingers moving within you, slightly muffled by the water, the gentle sloshing of the bath, and occasionally your own heavy, breathless heavy sighs.
The damp white baby hairs clung to your forehead, slick with sweat and the rising mist of the bath, the bottom of your locks completely drenched.
Unable to bear the distance any longer, you leaned forward blindly, catching his lips with your own.
He groaned as your lips crashed with his own, his wine-laced breath mingling with your own. His free hand tangling into your silver locks tils your head, pulling you flush against the wood of the basin until you were facing him entirely within the cramped confines of the tub.
Your mouths clashed in a desperate rhythm as your tongue intruded past his mouth, beneath the water his fingers quickened. He moved faster, driving deeper as your inner walls constricted around his hand, your pleasure threatening to spill over the precipice.
Ormund always knew when you were reaching your peak. Your body grew restless, shifting against his touch and you became squirmy, your hand blindly clamping down on the wrist that wrought such havoc upon you.
“Yield to it, niece.” he whispered against your bruised lips, his voice a commanding growl that left no room for retreat. “Let me see it.”
With a breathless, unrestrained cry, you obeyed his command and let go, the world spinning away into a blinding haze of colors as he held you through the wave.
Only when the tremors finally subsided and he deemed the deed finished did he slowly withdraw his hand, leaving you to slump back weakly against the curved wood of the basin, completely undone.
Ormund rose to his feet, exhaling a heavy breath as his hands moved down to adjust the tight laces of his breeches. But before he could take a single step away from the water, three rapid, echoing knocks thudded against the heavy oak door.
He froze, a dark groan of frustration escaping him, as the blood in your veins instantly turned to ice.
If anyone were to find you in this scandalous compromise with the Lord of Oldtown, you would be absolutely doomed.
A princess of the Blood Royal caught in such a depraved state would bring ruin to the realm and shame to the High Tower. Yet, to your absolute horror, Ormund did not falter. He did not hide. Instead, he cleared his throat and called out to the door with a booming, careless command:
“Come in!”
“Ormund!” you hissed in a frantic, terrified whisper.
You scrambled to stand up in the oak tub, desperately looking around for a linen robe or a dry sheet to cover your nakedness, for there was no denying he was inside your private chambers.
But the bottom of the basin was slick with the Lyseni oils. Your foot slipped on the smooth wood, and you stumbled, your heart leaping into your throat as you barely caught yourself on the damp rim of the tub. The water sloshed dangerously against the sides.
Ormund marched with long, confident strides to the other end of the solar.
With a rough, heavy yank, he pulled the thick brocade privacy curtain shut, cutting off the alcove from the rest of the room. Thank the Gods, you thought, pressing your back against the wood. He was reckless, but he was not utterly insane.
You heard the heavy oak door creak open at that exact same moment, followed by the soft shuffle of boots upon the floor rushes. You caught your breath, freezing like a hunted doe, trying to keep the water completely still so it wouldn't make a single sound.
Your blood ran instantly cold when you heard the first word spoken from the solar.
“Uncle.” It was Daeron’s voice.
You all but shrank into the water, wishing you could disappear into the copper depths. Your naked form left you feeling utterly vulnerable, stripped of every ounce of your royal dignity.
“Nephew.” Ormund acknowledged curtly. You heard the heavy thud of his boots as he shifted closer to the doorway to block the boy's path.
Daeron cleared his throat. You could not see him through the heavy curtain, but you could picture him perfectly: clad in the deep green fabrics of your mother's house, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen worked in silver thread upon his leather belt. His pale brows would be creaked in confusion, his young face puzzled as to why the Lord of Oldtown was standing in his sister’s private solar. Alone. The reality of it stung like a whip.
“I wish not to… intrude, my Lord,” Daeron said, his voice carrying the polite, practiced cadence of a well-bred squire. “But the Septon has been awaiting your presence at the Starry Sept for almost the entire morning.”
He had easily slipped into the dutiful role expected of him, and you hated how natural it sounded.
“Ah,” Ormund managed, his tone dripping with a feigned nonchalance, as if the holy matters of the city had completely slipped his mind. “Indeed. The hours slip away far too treacherously.”
“I kept him company in the courtyard and assured him that you had urgent, pressing matters of the estate to attend to.” Daeron explained, trying to look out for his master.
Ormund cut him off by placing a heavy hand upon the boy's shoulder.
It was a hand that was still completely drenched in the bathwater—slick with the sweet, musk-scented evidence of your recent release. You heard the distinct, wet slap of his palm against the fine velvet of Daeron's doublet.
The droplets clung to the fabric, immediately soaking into the cloth and staining his squire's garment with the very nectar Ormund had coaxed from your body only moments before.
You burned red with a sickening, paralyzing embarrassment. Gods, you thought, closing your eyes in agony. Your own twin brother was standing a mere few feet away, unwittingly bearing the scent of your sin upon his clothes.
“Thank you, Daeron,” Ormund said, and you could hear the smug, insufferable smirk in his voice. “You are a most dutiful squire. You will make a great knight one day, I am certain of it. You might even surpass your uncle Gwayne one day…”
You knew the Lord's arrogance wasn't born from a genuine desire to compliment the boy, but rather from the thrilling, twisted pleasure of the secret he held right behind the curtain.
“Uncle—is everything alright?” Daeron wondered aloud. You heard a slight shift in his footsteps, as if he were tilting his head to peer over Ormund’s broad shoulder, trying to catch sight of your vanity.
But Ormund kept him firmly locked in place, his grip unyielding. “Of course everything is alright, boy. Why would it not be?”
Ormund countered the question without an inch of doubt, lying straight through his teeth while his royal niece sat naked, shivering, and thoroughly ruined just on the other side of the silk hanging.
“Now, be a good squire and ride ahead to tell the Septon I am arriving.” Ormund patted the boy's cheek with an affectionate, patronizing hand, sending him off.
Daeron opened his mouth one last time, squinting a pale brow. His lips formed a shape as if to call out your name, wondering where his sister had vanished to on this morrow, but under the heavy gaze of his Lord, he relented.
“As you command, my Lord.”
The heavy oak door banged shut behind him, the latch clicking into place with a definitive thud.
An invisible weight lifted from your chest, and you finally managed to let your shoulders drop, exhaling a long, shaky breath that you had been holding for what felt like an eternity.
You stood up from the tub, the cooled water cascading down your pale thighs and clinging to your skin as Ormund drew back the privacy curtain.
He stepped into the alcove, his dark eyes sweeping over your dripping form one last time. His gaze was entirely silent, unreadable, and devoid of the warmth that had filled it moments before.
He gave you a single, curt nod of his head, turning on his heel without a word. The heavy door opened and closed once more, leaving you alone in the quiet solar—aching, profoundly confused, and shivering in the sudden cold.
⭑ when he first saw you, you were everything he did not look for in a wife. you turned out to be stubborn, from the very beginning you made it clear that he would not get obedience from you, and you were too confident. of course, he knew you were a lady from high society, so your way of life was not that different. but the main thing aerion caught was how spoiled you were. he expected to see a traditional bride: one who would flinch from every wrong look and obey every word — like septas who worshipped the god. instead, he got you.
he never intended to tolerate anyone’s whims — whether from his own family, and especially not from his wife. and if someone had asked him directly, he would have confidently said that he had no idea how it happened. but there were signs.
⭑ they told him to show you around the gardens of your future castle — so you saw everything and got used to the place. and he, naturally, refused. why would he waste his time and entertain you like a fucking servant? but under maekar’s supervision, he agreed after all.
he walked too fast. you clearly fell behind and did not intend to hurry or run after him. noticing that, he suddenly turned around. “do you have the legs of a five year old? can you walk faster?”
you did not even speed up. “i can,” you answered calmly. “but i will not. you walk like a horse and my legs are tired.”
he only looked at you for a few moments. “you are acting like a child.”
you shrugged and kept walking at your own pace. but you noticed how he slowly, almost unnoticeably, slowed down to walk next to you.
⭑ at the wedding, when the hour of the common cup came, you took the heavy silver cup from the steward's hands. you hesitated. you brought it to your face, smelled the sharp sour wine, and the corners of your lips dropped.
"i will not drink this," your voice sounded quiet but petulant. you pushed the cup away, almost spilling the wine on the white cloth.
"it is part of the rite," he answered, enough for you to understand how important it was.
you frowned. tiredness hid in the creases of your forehead, your lips were pressed tight. the candles danced in your eyes. "it is too sour," you said, like a child who did not want to take bitter medicine. "i do not like it."
aerion slowly turned his head to you. his eyes, usually feverishly bright, now looked at you with close attention. he was silent for a few heartbeats, then slowly turned his head and nodded to a servant.
"change all the wine to sweet."
and later, at the feast.
the feast was only growing stronger: the music became deafening, the laughter of neighbors too sharp, and the gazes of the drunken lords too intrusive. you felt your head start to hum from the chaos.
you touched aerion’s shoulder, interrupting his conversation with daeron. “it is too noisy here.”
aerion raised an eyebrow and looked at you as if you'd said something foolish. “this is a feast. did you expect silence like at a funeral?”
you did not answer — you just pressed your lips together and turned away, staring into emptiness. he immediately felt the change: you no longer tugged at his sleeve, no longer criticized the serving of dishes, and no longer rolled your eyes at the stupid jokes of the retinue.
aerion exhaled loudly, cutting daeron off mid-sentence. he suddenly stood up, firmly grabbed your hand, and pulled you with him, forcing you to rise.
“we are leaving.”
⭑ "i want candied flowers."
aerion raised his eyes from the scroll slowly, as if he did not hear you correctly.
"flowers," you explained, brushing your hair in front of the mirror. "the ones they make in highgarden. white, pink, in sugar glaze. they say they melt on the tongue like the first snow."
he rolled his eyes, the gesture came out almost too dramatic. "it is pointless," he dropped. "highgarden is weeks away."
you pressed your lips and turned away to the window, not saying another word. the evening passed in a heavy silence, you went to bed with your back to him.
he did not apologize. aerion targaryen never apologized, you learned that long ago.
on the fourth morning, you entered your chambers and stopped at the threshold. on the dressing table was a casket. black wood with silver inlay, too elegant to be just a box. you opened the lid.
flowers lay in rows. roses, violets, petals of plants unknown to you — each covered in the thinnest crust of hardened sugar, sparkling like frost. you breathed in the delicate scent and smiled brightly, looking at him as he stood by the fireplace.
"do not ask for more."
you took a white flower and brought it to your lips. the sugar crunched on your teeth, the petal melted — and he was right. like the first snow. "they are cold," you remarked.
your husband only raised one eyebrow. "the road is long."
"should have been faster."
he slowly walked closer, thinking about how he no longer even felt angry at such remarks of yours, only fully accepting them. "next time," he said, "go yourself. and we shall see how fast you return with flowers in your hands."
you took another one. a pink one. "you would not allow it," you answered him back, "for your wife to freeze somewhere on a distant road."
aerion closed his eyes. he was silent for a long time. and then the corner of his lips twitched. "no," he said so quietly that you barely heard. "i would not."
⭑ night fell on the castle, heavy as a blanket of lead. you did not speak for several hours — since he said: "no. i only got you the valyrian steel last moon" when you asked for a necklace of that rare blue stone.
you did not argue and did not fight, but simply went silent and lay on the very edge of the bed, turned away to the wall and did not even fix the blanket — let it be cold, let him get out to his own chambers.
aerion sat in a chair by the fireplace for a long time, drank wine, looked at the fire. he was right, and he knew it: you were unbearable, capricious, demanding the impossible with such an air as if the air around you should turn into gold. any other husband would have sent you to a family estate long ago to learn humility. but you were not just anyone. and he was not any other husband.
aerion set aside the glass, stood up, walked to the bed and looked at your back — offended, beautiful and sometimes (always) unbearable. he did not lie down at once: first he just sat on the edge, then slowly stretched out beside you.
you felt how he moved closer — the mattress sank under his weight, the warmth from his body reached your back. his hand lay on your waist.
"do not touch me," you whispered to the wall.
he did not remove his hand. on the contrary — he pulled you closer, insistently and pressed his chest to your back, buried his face in your hair and was silent for so long that you thought — he fell asleep.
"in a week," he said suddenly into the top of your head, muffled and tired. "your necklace will arrive."
⭑ well, he remembered everything about you.
he might seem busy talking to the lords, but his gaze was always on you. if you kept your hand on the fabric of someone's dress for even a second or looked with interest at an unusual brooch on a guest's shoulder, aerion noted it to himself. a week later, exactly the same thing, only more expensive and of better quality, waited for you in your chambers.
if you tried to express delight or ask how he knew, he only jerked his shoulder irritably. last moon, you kept your eyes on a silver tiara in a merchant's shop — for exactly one second, no longer. a week later, it lay in a casket on your table. you did not even remember it.
"it will suit you," he said, seeing your questioning look.
⭑ you were often capricious — sometimes because of trifles, the wrong fabric, the wrong taste, a word said at the wrong time. it would irritate anyone else to the limit. it irritated aerion too. for a second.
today was the fitting of a new dress. you turned in front of the polished steel mirror for an eternity, frowned, and pulled the lace on the sleeves. "it is terrible," you announced, pulling a ribbon off your shoulder. "the color makes me pale, and the style is baggy, as if i am a servant."
aerion raised his gaze and looked at the dress, then at you. "the dress is just a dress."
you froze, slowly turning your back to him — so proud, offended, with pressed lips and tense shoulders, as if he just insulted your entire existence.
"fine," he said more quietly, almost tiredly, and rose from his chair. he walked closer, stopped by your shoulder. "tell me how it should be."
you turned fully — still sulking, still with a stone face, but in your eyes was already that same spark which he learned to recognize since your first wedding night.
"silk, not brocade, the color lavender, not blue, lace only on the collar and take the waist in by three fingers." aerion listened, did not interrupt, and then nodded to the tailor, ordering him to begin.
he looked at you — there was no irritation in his gaze, only endless patience of a man who surrendered long ago and was even glad of it. "is that all?" he asked. you thought for a second. "and pearls along the hem." aerion closed his eyes, then opened them. "fine. pearls along the hem."
⭑ he loves when you sulk. when you cross your arms on your chest and turn away with pouting lips.
at first, of course, he ignored it — he pretended that he was busy, that it did not concern him, he even spoke to some knight louder as if on purpose, but he still looked at you out of the corner of his eye. the pause stretched, you did not move, did not even look in his direction — and he could not stand this. "again?" he said with light irritation, but he already walked closer, leaned down, and caught your gaze. "what now?"
"nothing," you stubbornly shook your head and turned away again. he exhaled, his hand laying on your chin. he turned your face to him, squinting slightly. "you do not know how to do 'nothing'," he said quietly.
you were silent and pouted your lips again, making him lean down and kiss you shortly and softly. he pulled away first and looked closely. "now?" you still frowned, but already weaker. "still nothing."
he laughed quietly — almost unnoticeably, only the corner of his lips twitched — and kissed you again, longer this time, warmer, as if he tried to fix your mood just like that. "is that better?" he asked in a low voice. you paused as if you thought about it, then nodded slightly. "perhaps."
⭑ aerion targaryen wasn't stupid. he distinguished a real tantrum from a theatrical one, a sincere offense from a fake one. he knew when you were truly tired, and when you simply wanted his attention. and still — every damn time — he gave it to you.
because the point was not whether you outplayed him or not.
Synopsis: eager to participate in the festival of indulgences that takes place prior to the great fasting (given how Catholic-coded the Faith of the Seven is, I figure they have a holy month that's similar to Lent), the wife of the Lord of Oldtown (and the younger sister of Rhaenyra) defies her husband's orders and steals away to indulge in the festivities...unaware that said husband has been alerted to her actions.
CW: Religious-based themes, religious guilt, toxic relationship, age-gap relationship, emotional abuse/manipulation, misogyny, implied abuse, some implied suggestive content, Ormund clearly having anger management issues, implied sexual coercion towards the end (minors DNI)
A/N: Godsdammit! I did not think I was going to be having feelings for this man. I tried to resist, really I did (much like how I tried to resist falling for Aerion Brightflame), but at the end of the day, I'm a fanfic girlie who thirsts for hot fictional people like every other fanfic girlie.
"What do you think you're doing?" a familiar, young voice whispered just as you were about to sneak away in your disguise.
You gasped and turned to face who it was, "Seven Hells, Daeron, you don't sneak up on people like that," you scold your brother.
Daeron looked you up and down and realized what you were up to, "you're going to the festival, aren't you? Even when your lord husband has expressly forbidden it."
You sigh, almost annoyed that you had been caught so easily by your young half-brother of all people.
"I'm well aware of my 'lord' husband's orders," you said with an eye roll, "I know how he feels about the festival of indulgences. I still want to go." "Why? If Ormund discovers you've snuck out, he'll be angry."
"And how would Ormund ever find out, Daeron? Huh?" you challenge, "it's not like he has eyes on me or any of us every day and night...unless you have intention to inform the Lord of Oldtown yourself and risk facing his wrath?"
You noted the hesitant look on Daeron's face when you asked that. Much as your brother admires your husband for some reason, you both know how Ormund can get when he loses his temper. He has yet to take his wrath out on you (though you suspect Daeron has been on the receiving end of said wrath), but he could still be frightening during those times.
You know the risks you are taking just venturing out of this keep, but this is something you've wanted to participate in since your first called Oldtown your new home.
It was a risk you were willing to take, if it meant having a taste of the freedom you've been craving since exchanging vows in the Starry Sept and being practically placed under the authority of your lord husband.
"You still haven't answered my question," Daeron brings up, "why this wanton desire to partake in this...nightly orgy? When we would be better off preparing for the morrow when the Great Fast begins?"
"Pfft, Daeron, really, I've never known anyone to eagerly observe the Fast as much as you have," you scoff, "have you truly never wondered what goes on during this time at festival? Even once? Have you never imagined what the streets are like during this one time of the year? What the vendors are selling in terms of food and memorable trinkets? We could go together, just the two of us. Make it a night to remember, wouldn't that be fun?"
Daeron looked away as if he were ashamed, "I have no desire to participate in such sinful vices." "We wouldn't even be doing anything!" you insist, "we'll just watch, nothing more. Maybe have a cup of wine here and there, what's the harm in that?" "That's not the point," Daeron insists back, "Ormund is certain to find out. I won't risk it, and neither should you."
You roll your eyes at Daeron's warning, "fine, I'll just go by myself," you decide to goad your brother, hoping he might take the bait and actually cut loose for once in his life, "I mean, there's no telling what kind of trouble a lone women such as me could get into out on the streets at this hour. Not like I could ask my husband even if he wanted to come; he is quite sensitive to the stenches of the street. He wouldn't last one hour....but my half-brother on the other hand..."
Daeron turned away, refusing to give into the temptation you were offering.
You turn and make for the exit, hearing Daeron sigh almost reluctantly.
"Wait," he called out, running up to catch up with you, "if you insist on going...you shouldn't leave without an escort."
Smiling wide, almost victoriously, you and Daeron quietly leave the confines of the keep, fully expecting to have the time of your life.
--------------------------
It was never your intention to lose Daeron in the crowd, but given you didn't have the boy constantly breathing over your shoulder anymore and you could move around more freely, it ended up being a happy accident.
You had nothing against Daeron, but in some ways he could behave similar to his lord cousin even if he was as frighten of the man as you if not more so.
You didn't feel terrified about being on your own; the streets were alive with festive lights, floating candles, and vendors selling various wares and street food.
Just now, you were snacking on a skewer of charred meat while watching a street performance that appeared to be dedicated to the Seven.
Additionally, you were disguised in your hooded cloak, which concealed your silver blonde hair, you were not concerned that anyone would recognize you as a princess of the realm or as Lady Hightower.
It felt so good to be outside, far from prying eyes, gossipy nobles, and the ever sharp, watchful eye of your pious, self-righteous husband.
You'll never understand why your father King Viserys thought this been a good match. Upon the passing of the late Lord Hightower- when Ormund assumed the mantle- a letter had arrived at the Red Keep, courtesy of Otto Hightower, proposing a match between yourself and his nephew.
There had been no real reason you could think for this arrangement, given Ormund already had secured his line with heirs from a previous marriage.
Part of you had suspected it had been Otto's way of getting back into the good graces of the king after being dismissed as Hand (which did coincidentally coincide with the sudden passing of the previous Hand and his son back in Harrenhal).
You also suspect it may have been Viserys' misguided way of keeping peace with his family and the Hightowers given the rift between his wife and oldest daughter, but why did you have to be involved? That reasoning made no sense to you as you and Rhaenyra were the only children from Viserys' first marriage and had been quite close despite the difference in age.
Viserys had tried to assure that you wouldn't be alone as Daeron had already been living in Oldtown for years as a ward, but that brought you little comfort as you hardly even knew the boy the way you knew his older full blooded siblings.
Nevertheless, you had been sent to Oldtown within a fortnight of receiving that letter that would ultimately seal your fate to a man who seemed to be more dogmatic than actually faithful to his ancestors' religion.
You had expected Ormund to be a devout follower to some extent, given that Oldtown has been the historical seat of the Faith of the Seven with its Citadel and Starry Sept, and the Hightowers being the high born guardians to that faith, but this was something else entirely.
Something insidious and domineering lurked below the surface and seemed to constantly radiate from Ormund's being, whether he was saying his prayers in the Sept alongside his ward or tending to his duties as lord of his domain.
Whatever that something was, you would come to see it more during the brief courtship with Ormund prior to exchanging vows before the High Septon.
Ormund had made it clear from beginning that the moment you exchanged your Targaryen cloak for his family's symbol, you would belong to him, and you must take care to present yourself before the people- both noble and smallfolk- as his dutiful, subservient wife.
You initially took it as a jest, though in hindsight, such a response had been foolish on your part.
In the course of your marriage, Ormund had never laid a hand on you, nor violently forced you to perform your marital duties against your will...but he could be frightening in other ways.
Very early on, you had come to discover your husband is something of a perfectionist... a highly controlling perfectionist, much so to the detriment of everyone around him, yourself included.
Everything needed to be a certain way, according to his worldview; the letters on his desk need to be organized neatly, the sheets of his bed needed to be tightly tucked with nary a wrinkle in sight, the oils and perfumes he cherishes deeply needed to be arranged in a specific way, and every order and direction he gave needed to be carried out to the very T.
Anything less could result in an overturned table, a broken arm, a bruised face, and everything in between that could occur from his explosive temper.
And when it came to you, his supposedly obedient wife, you were not exempt from his expectations. nor his wrath.
Actually, it seemed worse for you not because you are Ormund's lady wife, but also because you are a Targaryen, and behind closed doors, your lord husband never made secret his contempt for your family's...queer customs.
Most days, you could keep your head down, but much of your life revolved around Ormund's orders that came to you either by way of him or the servants, from the duties you needed to tend to during the day, the times you needed to be up and when to go to bed, and even down to the clothes, perfume, and jewelry you were expected to wear. You were also expected- to no one's surprise- to attend services in Sept alongside your husband which included joining him in prayers to the Seven.
To be Ormund's wife felt like a misnomer...from your point of view, you may as well be a doll, one with no agency in her life other than what the man allows you.
It was suffocating to say the least, which is why you were so happy to be out on your own right now, enjoying the festival of indulgences.
Ormund, unsurprisingly, has rather strong opinions of this holiday, believing it to be nothing more than an excuse for the smallfolk to partake in various vices and sins before repenting before the Seven at the start of the Great Fast, before being expected to kneel before the gods and confess their sins as they forgo various meats and wines and sweets for the next seven weeks.
You've always wanted to go, seeing it as little more than some harmless fun, but alas Ormund had forbidden it each time you asked every year, believing it to be unbecoming for the Lady of Oldtown to be seen partaking or even spectating on this annual orgy (his words, not yours). You've learned after the first three attempts to not to bring it up as it resulted in him losing his temper, followed by you being on the receiving end of his passive aggressive comments and cruel words for the next seven weeks.
After the show, you wonder about the streets a little more. It was getting late, and as much as you wanted to stay out a little longer, you know you will need to go back eventually.
Venturing around several corners, you notice something peculiar going on down one street; men and women were flocking- rather excitedly- to this part of town, dressed rather colorfully and wearing strong perfumes and oils.
Curiosity getting the better of you, you sneak passed over to investigate what all the fuss was about.
The moment you take the first steps down that road, a powerful incense-filled scent hits your nose. You were not familiar with this smell, even Ormund wasn't know for possessing such a peculiar scent in his vast collection.
Nevertheless, you found it to be surprisingly intoxicating.
Venturing further down, you start to hear pleasuring sounding moans and grunts coming from the participants. You look around to see alleyways and small tents with thinly veiled doors that were lit in such a way that highlighted the specific acts these people were doing. Your eyes widen in realization to what was going on.
This might be the orgy portion of the festival both Ormund and Daeron had been referring to.
You should go, you think to yourself. This is sinful and wicked, you shouldn't be anywhere near this.
But seeing the way that one couple was interacting, seeing the man with his head between the woman's legs, seeing the woman moan in pleasure, it made you feel things between your own legs.
Ormund's never gone down on you like that before; maybe if he did, you'd enjoy his visits to your bed more often and vice versa.
Being distracted, you began to lose sense of your other surroundings.
Much that the moment you feel a hand wrap around your mouth and another wrap your waist to drag you away, you panic and began to make muffled screams for help.
You feel the figure turn you around, still keeping hand over your mouth, to reveal the one face you dreaded to see tonight.
Ormund Hightower, it seems, had figure out you were not in the keep this evening, and had gone out in a disguise of his own for the purpose of hunting you down and dragging you back.
Judging by the look on his face, he was not the least bit happy that you had defied his orders.
You dared not to speak a word the moment he took his hand away. You merely allowed him to escort you back to the keep, your head hanging down in shame.
------------------------
The moment you crossed the threshold into your chambers- or shoved in more like- Ormund slammed the door shut behind you with enough force to startle you.
You dare not turn around, knowing the mood the man was in right now. He clearly was trying to keep himself from exploding in anger judging from the deep, shaky breaths he was taking to keep his temper in check.
He hasn't laid a hand on you before, but at this point, there may as well be a first time for everything.
He called for the maids who were recently roused from their serving quarters, and had them prepare your bath.
There was tension in the air, palpable enough that one could cut through it with a knife. No one dared to speak a word or even so much as make a sound as the maid carried out their task.
During this time, Ormund kept a tense hand around your arm, as if you were intending to leave again.
As if you were some kind of animal who would take off at the first opportunity.
Once the bath was prepared, Ormund then dragged you to the washroom, having the maids dismissed. He stripped you of your cloak and commoner's clothes with erratic movements until you were bare before him.
You attempt to cover yourself with your hands, unable to avoid his intense gaze.
"Don't do that," he warns in a low tone, grimacing from the smell you emanating from your body and your clothes from being out in the streets.
He turned, covering his nose as he didn't have his smelling oils with him on hand. Upon Daeron returning to confess where he had been- and informing of your whereabouts- Ormund had left the keep in haste with intention of finding you before you disgraced yourself in some way that would bring shame to his family's name.
He didn't exactly have time to pack the things he usually had on hand for his own outings, not when his reputation was at stake.
"Get in the bath," he quietly demands.
You do as he says, not wanting to his wrath any further. Though the steaming heat and sweet aroma of the oils would usually bring you some comfort, you found you could not relax at the moment given the circumstances.
Ormund stepped out, slamming the door once again. Outside, you could hear the man shouting certain profanities and tossing various objects against the wall.
You grimace and gasp out each time you hear a banging sound or glass shatter upon making contact with the wall.
Though it only lasted a minute or two, to you it felt like an eternity. You could only hope to the Seven that no passing servant was nearby to get caught in your husband's rage-filled rampage.
You hear the door slowly open this time around. Your now calm husband walked in, though the tension was no less palpable.
He grabbed a bar of soap, a pitched already filled with water, and a washcloth before he knelt behind you.
"Do you have any idea what consequences you have unleashed with your reckless actions this night?" he asks as he wet your hair with the pitcher, "the lengths I had to go through to find you before word could get out that the...Lady of Oldtown was out gallivanting on the streets like some feckless, wanton creature?
He then lathered the soap and worked it roughly into your hair and into your skin as if he intended to scrub every perceived impurity that lingered on your body from your night at the festival, "What would the smallfolk say if they recognized your face on the street of fleshly pleasures, if they saw you participating in such wicked acts? What would that say about me that I allowed my wife to carry on in this manner?"
"I wasn't doing anything, Ormund," you say in a meek voice, to which Ormund scoffed, "I swear," you insisted strongly this time, "I swear before the light of the Seven, I didn't even know, I wasn't aware of the acts that were taking place, I was-" "Only watching?" Ormund asked as a challenge.
"No, I wasn't, I-" "Don't lie to me," Ormund warned, now having a grip on your hair and giving it a slight pull, causing you to let out a gasp, "I saw the way you let your gaze linger. I saw that lustful look, (y/n). Is that what you want? To act in similar ways like some woman of the night in some filthy brothel? Like some wanton whore? Like...like your bitch sister Rhaenyra?" "What? No, I wouldn't-" "Oh, but you would if given the chance," Ormund insisted, tugging your hair again, harshly this time, eliciting a painful sound out of you, "if I hadn't shown up, who's to say you wouldn't have spread your legs for that man you were watching? Perhaps you would have allowed his seed to take root and produce his bastards, as your own sisters has." "I have been faithful to you all these years, Ormund!" you exclaim, "I made vows in the Starry Sept, before gods and men to be your lady wife, I would never do such a thing! I was a maiden when you took me to your bed on our wedding night, you know this! No doubt the Septon had confirmed this to you when you sent him to ensure my maidenhead was still intact."
"Can you really blame me for that?" Ormund asked with a sneer, "your family's reputation for degeneracy knows no bounds. I had no need for another wife when my uncle first made the proposition, yet he insisted it was necessary to secure long term peace throughout the realm...but it seems I can't even maintain peace in my own household if my wife insists on acting like some savage wildling! You know how I feel about the Feast of Indulgences, you know why it was forbidden to attend."
"You were there earlier today as you are every year-" "Because I am Lord of Oldtown, I must attend during the day, but I do NOT enjoy one moment of it! Seeing the dregs of society indulging in such base acts is disgusting to me. If I could avoid it altogether I would, but alas I have my duties...and you have yours, and you will do good to remember that...wife."
Ormund then released his grip on your hair and took the pitcher to rinse out the soap. He then took a towel and tossed it to the side of the tub, "dry yourself and get dressed," he ordered as if you were one of the servants and not his wife, to which you reluctantly obey.
"...how did you even know I was gone?" you ask, but you have a feeling you knew the answer, "was it Daeron? Did he tell you? I told him not to tell."
"Fortunate that he didn't listen," Ormund said, handing you your nightgown, "Daeron is a good boy. He was apparently concerned for your well-being when he lost you in the crowd, as any good brother would. He was not wrong to worry. The streets are no place for a lady, especially one without an escort. Who knows what raping cutthroats linger in the darkest corners, especially at night. It's a wicked world out there, (y/n), but you seem too naive to accept that."
Ormund placed a hand against your cheek, a gentle manner this time, once you were dressed in your nightgown, "You don't seem to understand that I do these things for your own good. Every order I give you is for your own protection." "My protection..." you turn your gaze upwards to look Ormund in the eye, "protection for me or for your reputation?"
You could've sworn you saw Ormund's eye twitch briefly before he pulled away and turned his back on you. He looked to be in a state of contemplation.
You stand there awkwardly, not knowing what you should do next. You walk back to your chambers to brush out your hair before your vanity mirror.
There were considerably more tangles in your hair from the vigorous scrubbing on your husband's part.
You were halfway done when Ormund entered your chambers. Part of you assumed he was fixing to leave for his own. By the time you worked out the last knot, you feel his hands on your shoulders, causing you to suddenly tense.
"I have assigned guards outside your chambers," he tells you, "you will not leave without an escort for the next seven weeks, and you will not venture outside except to go to the Sept to say your prayers. Perhaps it was a godsend that the Great Fast begins on the morrow, that should give you time to reflect on your reckless choices from tonight."
"Seven weeks? Ormund, you can't be-" "I will also make a habit to visit your chambers more frequently than I have in the past. Nightly if I must...until I ensure that my attempts will be fruitful and my seed will take root."
Upon hearing those words, you turn your head over your shoulder. The dark expression on Ormund's countenance made you realize he was serious.
"I...I don't understand. You have no need for more heirs, you've said so yourself."
Ormund grabs your arms and roughly yanks you to your feet, "I have no need for more heirs, that much is true," he agrees, "but it appears my wife is easily distracted from her duties that she must seek out fleeting pleasures in other places. Perhaps if I made you a mother, a real mother, it would temper that rebellious attitude within you."
You began to stammer your words in response to Ormund's declaration. He intends to use a baby to trap you in this keep, so you wouldn't disobey him and venture outside again.
Ormund pressed a finger to your lips to quiet your protests, "now, now, wife. You'll do well to remember the vows we made before the Seven. It would be a slight to the gods to refuse your wifely duties. Is that what you want?"
There was a wildness in Ormund's own eyes when he spoke. He wouldn't lay a hand on your, nor force you to open your legs for him...but there were other ways he could 'persuade' you to do his bidding. He wouldn't hurt you...but he has a temper, one that rivals that of the dragons he despises, and people could get hurt when caught in his wrath.
So, looking down, you quietly shake your head.
Darkly smirking in triumph, Ormund leads you to the bed to carry out your marital duties.
You take a deep breath and look to the ceiling as Ormund hikes the skirts of your gown to your waist.
You have a feeling you'll be familiar with this position for the next seven weeks.
It's likely that once the Great Fast has concluded, the Lord of Oldtown would then make an announcement that his young lady wife will be with child.
Being parted from your husband is never easy, for you or for him. You always crave to keep a piece of him with you, and he craves a piece of you. It’s only fitting you send him off with a gift. (1k+ words)
Ormund Hightower x wife!reader
Content: MDI, 18+, pantie sniffing, male masturbation. Aka Ormund jerking off to his wife sending him used unwashed underwear. Smut. Scent kink. This is pure filth. Brief mentions of pregnancy. Ormund is his own warning. I am gross and perverted. Don’t know what came over me but this idea has been in my head since the second he sniffed that vile and somehow pantie sniffing has now turned me into a rapid animal. Not proofread.
“I miss the sweet taste of your nectar. I miss the smell off your cunt after you peak. The smell of your sweet cunt in the morning when I wake you with my tongue. The taste of you after a day in the hot sun of the reach where I have forbidden you to wash and the musk of your cunt overwhelms my senses. The taste and scent of you when I drop to my knees and bury myself between the soft plush of your thighs. I miss you my sweet wife, I miss your face, your voice and most of all your sweet scent.”
Ormund was never a sentimental man, never did he care for the idea of carrying objects meant to symbolise meaning or memory of a loved one. That was until he took you to wife, and suddenly the idea of keeping something to remind him of you filled him with complete and utter lust. And he supposed love but the mere thought of you made his blood pump and his cock grow hard.
You rarely parted from one another but when you did Ormund made sure to leave a part of him with you, whether a babe in your belly or some extravagant gift that had the envy of all the ladies of your court. And you always made sure to give your husband ample gifts in return. Weather a miniature of your naked form. Letters full of each and every thing you desired to do to him and he to you upon his return in excruciating detail. And he loved each gift you gave him, but his favourite kind was when you gifted him your small clothes.
The first time he had asked you had been hesitant. Not over the action of sending your small clothes, no Ormund often stole yours, whenever he would drop to his knees and burying himself under your skirts to lap at your cunt, your panties always ended up in the pockets of his doublet, where he would reach for them as the day went on sniffing them when the stresses of the day got to him.
But the idea of sending them, of them being intercepted or the men of the camp seeing your panties in your husbands hand as he sniffed them? That had made you hesitant. But ormund already kept a vile of your perfume to sniff when he felt like it, panties where not much different. At least that’s what he reassured.
So you had sent them, and he had sent them back you ruined and covered in his cum. The fabric torn from the endless rutting of his cock against the delicate fabric.
He had done that after three days apart. And now with this godsforksane war he had been parted from you for three moons. Three moons of lust filled letters, three moons of you depicting the most sinful of words on paper that would no doubt get your both exiled from old town and excommunicated from worshiping of the seven. Three moons before Ormund snapped and his requests grew into pure filith.
Panties where before you would wear them for perhaps an hour before rolling them in your letter to him and sending it away. Now ormund grew depraved in his requests.
Asking you not to bath for days, wearing the same pair of underwear each day before sending it to him. Begging you to touch yourself and coat your panties in your silk before gifting them to him. And you complied, even when your maids whispered about your lack of hygiene and the growing amount of underwear missing in your draws.
You cared not, not when your husband would detail exactly what your underwear was used for.
My dear wife,
I must thank you for the small clothes you gift me, for the it has allowed me to dream once more of you and to know what the musk of your cunt smells like.
The sweet aroma of your cunt fills me with undying lust my sweet wife. Dreams of you riding my face fill my slumber, as I lick and feast upon the delicious aroma of your small clothes. My hand fisting my cock as I imagine you riding my face with recklass abandon, my tounge fucking your cunt with a passion no man has ever known. I cum each night with your panties wrapped around my cock, wishing it was your cunt, wishing I was fucking into you and not the mattress if my tent. Each night when I sniff your panties, the husk of your cunt lingering even days after their arrival, each night I feast upon them with more hunger than a starved man.
I crave you and your cunt, I crave to sleep by your side, where my cock can rest and soften within your warmth. To fill you with my cock every moment of every day. I wish for you to ride my cock as I work through the endless paperwork that no doubt awaits me upon my return. I wish to stuff your mouth with my cock and fuck your full of my cum. I wish for you to ride my cock with your small clothes stuffed into my mouth, were all I can feel and taste is you.
I need you my sweet wife, I crave the very air your breath. I crave your cunt, your taste I crave you. Fucking my fist each night hardly compares to the warmth of your cunt. To the feel of your lips in my mouth, and your small clothes hardly replace the want that pumps from my heart down to my cock.
I write this with love and leave you the knowledge that I fuck my fist with your newest panties wrapped around my cock as I write this, staining them with my cum.
Though my love, my sweet wife, this shall be the last pair of panties you should need to send to me, the last time I wait days to smell the aroma of your cunt, to know that you wear the very panties I will demand to smell and taste upon my arrival.
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