please help select the order of pilates princess!reader’s agenda for park to get her number back—he’s willing to do anything! send the number from the to do list and the most popular ones will be written. (5 days of things to do).
1. pilates class @ 7am — tomorrow!!
2. build-a-bouquet @ 2pm
3. charm bracelet making workshop @ 3pm
4. pottery! @ 6pm
5. watch the sunrise @ ???
6. friendship bracelet and love island night @ 8pm
7. herb garden creation @ 9am
8. farmers market @ 11am
this is purely just for funsies cause i thoroughly enjoy writing the grumpy x sunshine dynamic. divider credit: @sssilverblessings
You show up to the PTMC’s emergency department with an injury. Unlucky for you, your boyfriend happens to have sharp teeth that decided to sink into your skin the night before.
tags/warnings: mentions of sex, cursing, brief medical talk, reader has EDS but it’s mentioned once and not pivotal, I think that’s it.
_
You were fucked. In both the literal and metaphorical sense of the word. Last night, Brendon had drove you so far into the mattress that you thought the bed frame was going to break. His sweet words contrasted with the sharp ache that his teeth would bring, clamping down on whatever skin he could find. Your poor chest absolutely littered with bruises and indents of his teeth. Not that you were complaining about that fucked. You’d never admit it but you might’ve even begged for it.
No, the fucked you were dreading was the fact that you’d managed to dislocate your collarbone and most likely your ribs, too. Every time you tried to take a deep breath the stabbing pain would nearly double you over. Your left arm was out of commission, tingling pain shooting down it with every shift. Normally, you’d tough out the pain, used to the occasional dislocations and subluxations.
This time wasn’t like that. This pain was radiating in a way you weren’t used to and you couldn’t say with confidence which way your collarbone went. Knowing if it went posterior it could rupture an artery, you decided to err on the side of caution. Which means you’ve been sitting in the ER’s waiting room for the last hour.
Langdon is the one who calls you back, still stuck working chairs at Robby’s orders. The PTMC staff knew you. The numerous times you’d show up with lunch for Brendon, the occasional times you’d stop in with an injury of your own, various work events. Everyone got along with you well, much more than with your predator of a boyfriend. Jokes that weren’t actually jokes but comments disguised behind a laugh would often flow about how Park the Shark ended up with you.
That being said, you knew someone definitely bumped you up in line. You weren’t going to complain though. The pain was bad enough that you just wanted to go home and pass out in bed the second this was over.
Frank smiles at you, genuinely happy to see you. “Hey Shark Bait, what’re you doing here?” The nickname manages to bring a small smile to your face. The shift in Frank’s tells you it resembles more of a grimace, though.
“Fucked up my collarbone, probably a couple ribs too.” You groan as you settle down on the exam chair.
His fingers gently probe over your shirt. Running as light as possible down the side of your ribs, clearly sensing the pain in your face the second he applies pressure. “Yeah, definitely feel some things outta place there. Let’s get you sent back for some imaging. I’ll page Park.”
Your only acknowledgement is a small nod and thumbs up. Within minutes, Perlah’s at your side and walking beside you as you slowly make your way to exam 8.
The curtain is pulled back abruptly and the sight of Robby comes into view, his hands furiously rubbing sanitizer over themselves. “Heard we had a VIP in the ER, figured I should come take care of it myself.” He jokes, eyes focused on reviewing your chart.
“Aw, Abbot not in yet?” You tease. Robby shoots you a raised brow over his glasses with a sharp glare and you chuckle. The movement sends a shock of pain through your entire left side, causing your lungs to constrict. It’s another 10 seconds before you’re able to take a semi-full breath again.
Robby’s face falls into sympathy, “Want anything for the pain?”
“S’alright. I’ve gotta drive home. Besides, you know it doesn’t do much for me anyways.” Nodding solemnly, Robby moves to your side.
“You mind if I have some students sit in with us? Not every day we get a hypermobile Ehlers Danlos patient in here. No one better to teach ‘em than you.” His hands are carefully starting to feel down your left arm, checking for a pulse and nerve reactions. You look up and see the med students already standing there.
Javadi you know well enough. Some new students, Ogilvie and Kwon, you’re pretty sure. Behind them Santos and Whitaker are walking past the nurses station and when Santos sees you, she quickly pivots and pulls Whitaker with her.
“What did we do to deserve fresh bait in here?” Santos jokes.
You shift awkwardly, face flushing and throat suddenly dry. It makes a grating sound when you clear it and speak lowly to Robby, “Could this maybe not be a teaching moment?”
It took a good three hours of gaslighting yourself before you let yourself believe maybe, you should get medical attention. Another two after that to finally accept yes, I should get this checked out just to be safe. The hickeys and bruises from last night were impossible to hide. The second closest ER would’ve taken another half hour to get to and you’re pretty sure it wasn’t wise to drive in your current state as is.
The last thing you wanted was half of the PTMC’s emergency department staff to see the evidence of your latest fuck with one of their surgeons who regularly does orthopedic consults. Robby alone would be bad enough.
Robby’s face scrunches in confusion but he immediately complies, nodding. “Yeah, yeah that’s fine. Let me go get Dana to sit in.”
Turning, he ushers the small crowd that started forming out of the room and ducks his head into the hallway to call for Dana. She walks in a few moments later and closes the curtain behind her and sighs when she looks at you. “What’s going on, hun?”
“Oh you know. Think I dislocated a couple things trying to walk and chew gum at the same time.” She grants you a small laugh and comes over beside you, hand hovering over your shirt.
“Need a hand with this?” Nodding you lean back a bit to give her a better angle to help reach for the hem. “Got anything underneath? Should I grab you a gown?”
“No I’ve got something on, thanks. Besides, not like y’all haven’t seen tits before.”
Dana huffs a true laugh out at that, “More than I’d like to sometimes, kid.”
Robby’s keeping his head down as he pulls on his gloves. Despite the fact he’s about to be touching your exposed chest he still wants to give you a sense of privacy. When the shirt starts to come up over your stomach you startle.
“Uhm-”
Dana halts her movements, shirt held in place. Robby looks up then, trying to see what went wrong.
“Listen, just, please don’t say anything. Okay?”
Robby’s brows shoot up, confused by what you could mean as you let Dana slide the shirt the rest of the way off. From her place slightly behind you, she doesn’t have the same view as Robby.
Robby who takes in the sight in front of him and mutters out, “Fuckin’- what the hell?” Voice full of concern and disbelief.
Dana comes around to see what Robby’s reacting to and instead of shock gracing her face, it hardens. After a moment she tilts her head down to force you to meet her eyes. “Park do this to you?”
You say nothing, just place your head in your right hand with a pathetic whimper of embarrassment. The sound must’ve come across wounded because Dana pushes on, “Someone you love shouldn’t do that to you, sweetie. We can help.”
Robby finally finds his voice. “There is zero tolerance for domestic assault in this hospital. We have people in the building right now who can handle this in minutes.”
Your head shoots up, “No! God, no, it’s not what it looks like.” You try and explain, but how the hell do you explain the situation without telling your dirty, kinky secrets to your partner’s coworkers.
“It looks like someone’s been hurting you.” Robby says flatly.
“I wanted it.” Dana’s brows shoot up at that. You struggle for the words to continue.
“Listen we,” you sigh, “Brendon and I are-”. Your voice breaks off in an insanity fueled laugh, “I mean have you seen him?”
Robby is clearly not following what you’re saying.
“Neither of us are exactly, gentle lovers. Last night was just a little intense. It wasn’t anything I didn’t want though, I asked for it.” You explain. Voice speeding up as you ramble, “Please don’t think Brendon would ever hurt me like that. Fuck no. He’s the most caring, loving man I’ve ever met. Really.”
Dana just started shaking her head with a small laugh, smirk tugging on her lips. “Alright then. Whatever floats your boat.”
Robby still looks like he’s trying to compute the information he’s gained in the last forty seconds. Dana starts attaching leads to you to get a vitals check and by the time she’s done, Robby is still just standing there.
“Dr. Robby! Would you please assess our patient?” As if broken from a trance, Robby’s eyes meet yours and quickly flit to Dana.
“Yes, of course.”
Robby is barely looking at the injury for three minutes when the curtain is dragged open. The space wide enough to expose you to the nurse’s station, leaving your secret vulnerable to anyone nearby. Well, at least it would be if it weren’t for the 6’2”, hulking man standing in its gap.
The same man whose teeth had sunken into your flesh over and over and over again last night, making you cry out noises you didn’t even know you were capable of. His eyes dark as he drank down every sound were now filled with concern.
“What happened?” He’s quickly closing the curtain behind him, not a single inch of your skin being exposed to the curious and prying eyes of a certain pair of nurses with an R2 behind them. His tone is sharp, quick and to the point. Like it always is whenever he’s worried about you.
“Nothing, baby. I’m fine I promise. I just wanted to be safe and get it checked out.” You try and soothe him, his hands immediately coming to rest over your collarbone.
The warmth of his skin is the only thing you feel, or maybe it’s the only thing you let yourself focus on. “When did this happen?”
You quickly drop eye contact with him. “Early this morning. ‘Bout an hour or so after you left.”
“Sweetheart, I left at 5am this morning. It’s past 1pm.” His hand finds your chin, making you look at him. All you give him is a small smile.
“Oops?”
“Why didn’t you call me.” He removes his hands, done with his assessment.
“I didn’t want to worry you. Figured it would go away within a few hours, but it just kept getting worse.”
“The clavicle dislocation is anterior. I want to get an x-ray on the ribs just to be safe but I think it’s just pinching a nerve this time.” Brendon explains, looking over at Robby who nods and places the order.
Brendon sits down on the bed next to you, hand stroking over your cheek lovingly. “We’re done here.” He doesn’t even glance over his shoulder towards the other people in the room as he dismisses them.
“I’ll be back to take her up for imaging myself.” Dana calls as she and Robby slide out from the curtain.
“I’m so getting you back for this later.” You tell Brendon and he only smirks as he lets his eyes fall to appreciate his handiwork.
“I hope you do.”
_
“Looks like Shark was a more accurate nickname than we thought, huh, Robinavitch?”
Robby doesn’t dignify Dana with a response.
He’d like a moment of silence to try and remove the intricate knowledge of his coworker’s sex life from his mind.
clearly I really liked this idea as I wrote this in less than two hours :) shoutout to anon🦷 for this!!!
The stormy marriage of Meakar Targaryen and his fiery wife, ignites a powder keg of desire, daily battles of words, wills and whimpers in the night.
Summer hall was never a quiet place, especially when the prince and his beautiful lady wife are home.
The day had been a battlefield of sharp words and stolen glares between Maekar and his wife. Like feral cats and snarling dogs, they clashed over the smallest slights, each barb laced with a heat that simmered just beneath the surface.
“Must every fucking door in this cursed place be left open? I swear the wind carries half my business down the hall.” Maekar grumbles, stomping into the library to find his wife running through the ledgers.
“The doors are open because your armor stinks of sweat and iron and carries soil, If you’d remove it before stalking through the halls the wind would not be needed.” She replied simply not looking up from her work, her tone even, goading him.
“It is armor, not a lady’s perfume.” Maekar grumbles sliding next her taking the ledger out her hand to look himself.
“And yet it offends the senses all the same.” She snips, snapping the paper back from him.
“I am reading that” he gruffly states, trying to grab it back as she walks off with the ledger “Do not turn your back on me when I am speaking.” He warns.
“Then choose better moments to speak.” She challenges, turning to face hime.
“You test my patience.” His voice carrying an undertone of danger, eyes darkening.
“You have so little to spare.” She meets, keeping his gaze despite the heat blossoming in her chest.
The maids and servants steadfastly avoided the prince and his lady wife when they were like this, whispering and giggling in the halls, undoubtedly knowing how the night will end. Like it always did.
By the time the sun dipped low and darkness settled over the rooms, the air between them crackled with unspoken need. Their chambers, lit only by a flickering candles, it suddenly felt too small for storm brewing.
The maids scurried from the room having dressed their lady for bed, leaving her at her dressing table. Maekar stormed into the their chambers, pulling off his shirt with a growl, his broad chest heaving from the day's frustrations. “You think you can bark at me all day and I'll roll over like some fucking pup?” he snarled, tossing the garment aside.
She spun around in her chair to face him, her face flushed in rage, the thin fabric of her nightgown whispering against her skin as she slammed her brush down on the wooden surface. “And you? Waltzing around like you have a hot poker up your arse, ignoring every word I say” she growled eyes flashing, but her nipples hardened against the sheer material, betraying what she truly craved
He closed the distance in two strides, grabbing her wrists, pulling her up to stand, “I've had enough of your mouth, woman. Time to put it to better use.” His voice dropped to a gravelly rumble, lips crashing down on hers in a bruising kiss. She fought for a second, biting his lower lip hard enough to draw a hiss, before melting into him. Her tongue battling his with the same ferocity they'd shared all day .
“Fuck you, Maekar,” she gasped when they broke apart, but her legs parted instinctively as he pressed his hardening cock against her thigh through his trousers. He ground into her, the friction sending sparks up her spine. “Oh, I plan to, my wicked temptress. I’ve been waiting to bury myself in that tight cunt day.' His free hand tore at the straps of her nightdress, the silk ripping with a satisfying tear. Fabric pooled at her feet, leaving her bare and exposed, her breasts heaving with each ragged breath.
She shoved him back toward the bed, nails raking down his chest, catching the little sliver hairs and leaving red trails that made him groan. “Then do it, you brute. Stop talking and fuck me” She yanked at the laces of the breeches, freeing his thick cock, which sprang out heavy and throbbing. Her fingers wrapped around it, stroking roughly as she pushed him onto the mattress. The bed creaked under his weight, but she didn't give him a moment to recover, straddling him, she guided his length to her slick entrance, letting out a whimper as she sank down, the tight heat of her walls taking his thick manhood, stilling as she bottomed out.
Maekar's hands gripped her hips, bruising the soft flesh as he bucked up into her. “Ride me, take your dragon” The words spilled out filthy and raw, with a hint of desperation, fuelling her frenzy.
Her head fell back, moans escaping as she bounced on him, slapping against him with wet, obscene sounds. The headboard banged against the wall. She slowed her pace teasing him as he gripped her hips hard enough to bruise as she looked down at her husband, panting and breathless beneath her, his eyes locked on her like she hung heavens above. Her hands found purchase on his hard chest as bent down kiss up his neck, his sliver beard scratching deliciously, across her cheeks, before she moved up meeting his lips in an almost reverent kiss. “Please” he groaned, as she moved and almost glacial pace, the sound of his whimpers was like music to her ears.
“Please what, my prince?” she whispered against his lips teasing, hands moving up his chest, as she continued her slow grind. Pushing him to the edge.
He growled in frustration, flipping them over without warning, pinning her beneath him “My turn, my love” Driving into her pussy with punishing strokes, he captured a nipple between his teeth, sucking hard while his fingers dug into her ass, spreading her cheeks as he pulled her harder against him with each deep thrust. She arched, clawing at his back, with a scream “harder Maekar” Sweat slicked their bodies, the sheets twisting and tearing, her hands, their moans filling the air.
Maekar pulled out abruptly, she almost sobbed at the loss, before he flipped her onto her stomach. He pulled her up onto her knees, slappjng her ass cheek, the sting making her yelp, before he thrust back in, fucking her from behind with relentless force. Pulling her back flush, to his chest as he drove into her. Her hips moving in tandem with his.
‘You're so wet for me” he pants kissing up her neck, nipping and sucking, intending to leave marks
‘You drive me to madness” she moaned, reaching behind her to pull his face to hers, kissing him deeply .
His hand snaked around to rub her clit, circles rough and fast, pushing her toward the edge. “Come for me, my love” he growled against her lips, his thrusts becoming frantic.
Her vision blurred at the edges, her breath coming in sharp gasps as she pulsed around his cock, a guttural cry tearing from her throat. 'Yes, fuck, Maekar, yes!' as her orgasm crashed over her without mercy. 'Oh gods, Maekar, ahh, fuck!' Her body bucked wildly, pushing back to take him fully, every pulse of her climax dragging her deeper into the bliss, her heart pounding like a war drum in her chest.
The sensation of her orgasm triggered Maekar's own release, her tight, pulsing walls clamping down on him like a fist. Pleasure exploded behind his eyes, raw and electric, as he roared her name thrusting erratically as rope after rope of his seed pumped out, the warmth spreading inside her while his body shuddered, “Fuck ahh, me love’ he groaned kissing her neck as he came down from his high, muscles burning from the strain.
They collapsed in a tangle of limbs, the mattress sagging, sheets ripped and sweaty.
Panting, Maekar pulled her close, his cock still twitching inside her “Seven fucking hells, this is worth every fight” he murmured, nipping her ear. She smiled softly, tracing the scratches she has left on his chest. “Everytime, my love”
synopsis you and Jack have always been two pees in a pod, working the ER together, on the field together, no wonder you started to search for those dark eyes and damning smirk. and you thought for a second, just for a second, he might be searching for you too, until you hear the man you're crushing on airing out everything he hates about you
warningstypical medical drama stuff, in-accurate medical terms. miscommunication. angst. insecure reader. language, jack says things he doesn't mean about reader. angry love confession in the rain. this is not proof-read
authornotei really really really loved this idea and tried so hard to do it justice, I hope you like anon. I tried to stay close to the SWAT idea but I'll be honest I know nothing about American army stuff (i'm british) so I sort of set it as much in the Pitt as I could. I also couldn't find ANYTHING for Jack's military background so I made up some SWAT guys
pitt masterlist. another Jack fic!
Just when you thought the rest of your day was going to be boring, Jack Abbot and his crew of SWAT pushed through the ambulance bay doors, yelling off stats, applying pressure where needed and clearing the way around them.
Which was a welcome change from trying to sell Robby your hypothetical first born child in exchange for a lunch break.
“Intubated neck wound, stats are going down. Got a room?” said Jack.
You were at the gurney in an instance, Robby joining the herd in the pushing of the bed. It took you less than a second to see through the bag in the neck and the blood and the uniform to recognise the one on the gurney. “Hiro? What happened?”
“Warehouse robbery gone wrong,” said Jack with almost absent of mind. He said the words and promptly seemed to realise who he was talking to and looked up- at you- again. “You're working today?”
“Oh no, I just hang around in hopes of seeing you in unfiorm.”
Next to you, Robby chuckled and beyond Jack you gave quick greeting to your laughing buddies, clad in SWAT uniform.
You were what could be called, a floater.
By all educational means you were a doctor and a damn good one too. You had every certificate you needed and all the flying colours you could get. You just didn't have a permanent job. You were a sub. You worked mainly at PTMC and on the field but had been known to go to the dark side, a.k.a, Presby.
“Okay, on my count,” you begin. “One, two, three-”
You helped lift him over to the bed.
“Did you intubate him?” you asked,
“Yeah, under active fire,” said Jack.
You looked at Jack. Sweat on his forehead, flecks of grey hair sticking to him and the shirt under his army vest hung lose. He was dishevelled in away romance characters presented on books covers. To lure you in. “You were shot?”
“Shot at.”
“You need to be looked at?”
“No. I'm fine.” His lips were pursed, focus on Hiro.
“Did you see the chords when you intubated?” asked Robby, floating around the two of you as Jack refused to leave Hiro's side and you stayed by Abbot. He'd seen it a dozen times before. A disaster where there was one, there was the other.
There was the occasions he'd hand over to Jack, go home, sleep and come back to find Jack had called in you. You who was always ready to go at the first buzz of your pager. Wherever it was, whatever you had to do. And Robby would look through the patients that night, check the board and understand they hadn't really needed your help all that much.
Jack had.
Now, Robby saw the way you looked at Jack and had seen the gap that existed between the two of you.
“Yeah, I did but it was hard to miss when I cleared them.”
Jack reached and you watched as he stretched, wincing at the pull in his shoulder.
“You should get that looked at,” you told him.
“I'm fine.”
“No, you're not.”
There was a small roll of the eyes as Jack's gaze rose to meet yours through his goggles. There was almost a tiny hint of a smirk- your favourite kind but it disappeared as soon as it appeared.
“Yeah, c'mon Abbot!” said Charlie, calling from the back of his room where he stood with Diaz, two of the SWAT officers you were most frequent with. “Let doc work you up.”
You chuckled low to yourself, trying to catch Jack's eyes to share the joke but he looked away, his jaw clenching.
So, he wasn't in the joking mood.
“Alright, fellas, out!” leaving the wounded's side you ushered them out in spite of their protests and their giddy, hopeful optimism that Officer Hiro would pull through. “We'll let you know any changes, out!”
You pulled on a gown and cleared a way over.
“Demanding,” said Robby.
“You should hear me in the bedroom,” you teased with a wink.
Over on the other side you caught a small click from Jack's tongue. A disapproval voiced loud enough for others to hear.
You grasped the ultrasound wand from the nurse, circling it around the wound at Hiro's neck while Jack pulled away the gauze he'd packed, carefully minding you. “Good lung sliding, no pneumo-”
The last gauze peeled away in a bloody mess and a rope of blood shot out directly at you for vengeance.
“Geez- woah!”
“Pumper!” you announced, clamping your hand over the wound.
The streak of red cut through the skin on your neck, your gown and the doctors coat you liked to wear just like they did in tv shows. You had a draw full of them at home for instances like that.
“Hey, hey,” Jack was at your side quick as you loomed over the body. “Move back, get yourself cleaned up.”
“I can handle a little blood, Abbot.”
“I know that but-”
“- this is a transected trachea now-”
There was little else time to worry about blood on your gown and coat when the intubation was pulled out, the hole in his throat open.
There was a lot people said about you, with words and looks alike but none of which passed you or bothered you. You knew some thought you abrash and loud, you were, you knew it true. On the field the teams you worked with always thought you as one of them, 'one of the guys' but damn it- you were a good doctor.
You ordered everything correctly, you took them and worked them without so much as a blink and Robby stood behind you approving of everything you did.
It was one of the reasons he always called you in.
“Well done, good breaths sounds, stats are up: in the nineties,” approved Robby.
Jack hummed, pulling off his gloves as you all backed away. “Not bad.”
Your carried your smirk with you and over to him. “Is that the great Jack Abbot stamp of approval?”
“You know I think you're good at you're job,” he said, plainly.
You did know that. You knew that Jack admired your skills. He was one of the only ones who'd seen your skills on the field when sometimes all you had left in your kit was the dregs from other procedures or in the hospital when everything was pristine. He'd worked closest to you, probably out of everyone in either one of your jobs.
But there was always something about Jack that kept him far away. He was always a man that was so calm, which in the the face of conflict wasn't a bad call. Yet, it was the quiet moments in between- the way his footfall would slow to match yours, or the glances he'd steal at you half way across the ward, or the extra snacks he'd pack that had you searching rooms for him, checking shifts to see if you'd be around him.
Then when you were, Jack pursed his lips, clenched his jaw, acted like he wanted to be anywhere else sometimes than at your side.
He was a complicated man. Annoyingly that's what added to your attraction- and everyone knew it.
Once the two of you told Officer Charlie and Diaz that Hiro was stable enough to be taken to surgery you followed after Jack.
“You sure you don't want me to look at that shoulder for you?”
“Hmm? Oh, no, it's fine,” he excused.
“Don't want the paperwork?”
“Something like that,” said Jack, still shifting around in pain as he tried to roll his shoulder out.
“Okay, okay, but get it looked at!” you called off, ready to shed your coat or at least try and rub off some of Hiro's blood.
There was a mutter from Jack before he went another way.
You looked back to him once, watching as he walked off with a small limp that probably wasn't detectable to anyone that didn't analyse him like you did. It was a brutal sort of thing, SWAT, and with Abbot's sleep schedule you knew it was only worse. Eight- maybe ten hour shifts for so little sleep to get thrown back into the fire- literally. You wondered how he did it.
And, why.
Jack flexed out his shoulder at the press of the q-tip to his back.
He meant it, the wound really wasn't that bad. It had grazed through his clothes and vest but still hit just enough to leave an angry welt and bruising. He was content to hide away and sort it himself if it weren't for the fact he couldn't reach.
Then Samira Mohan walked by and offered her help. He was already tired, annoyed that those punks had thought it a good idea to rob a warehouse in the middle of the day, already worried about Hiro and his recovery. Then- there was you, with your snarky comments while saving his life, not batting a lash at the blood that got splattered on you in the mean time and still having time to flirt with Robby.
And prancing around in this scrub pants that were surely just a bit too tight.
Jack was wound up, which was why he admitted surrender and allowed Mohan to clean out his wound.
“Why do you do this?” she'd asked.
Jack had folded his arms over his chest, suddenly very aware he was shirtless in front of her. “My therapist says I need a hobby. I suck at golf.”
She hummed. “Funny.”
“Thank you.”
He made conversation to be polite, asking about the fellowships he knew others were already applying for. Crus had been telling him about them and he knew Mohan was searching to.
They were chatting was all when Robby walked by, looking in to check.
He frowned when he saw Mohan and Abbot, pausing in his fly by with a hand in the door way.
Jack watched as Robby looked around again at the ward, undoubtedly searching for you.
“We're almost finished up here,” said Mohan.
Robby held up his hands. “I didn't say anything,” he said, leaning in the doorway. He passed Jack a nod. “You good?”
“Getting there, thanks to Doctor Mohan's capable hands.” Jack kept his eyes averted from Robby as if he'd done something wrong. He hadn't. He'd told you the wound didn't need looking at because he was going to handle it.
Robby looked at him the sort of way he looked at patients when he knew they were lying about their scale of pain. “Can you give us a second?”
Just as Jack was about to push himself up Samira moved behind him.
“Er, yeah, sure. No problem,” she said, pulling off her gloves and listing off post-care instructions from instinct. “Keep it clean and the dressing fresh.”
“Can do, Doctor Mohan. Thank you.”
Robby stepped out of the way for Mohan before walking in, staring at Jack with his hands in his pockets.
Jack found his shirt discarded on the floor and pulled it over him. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? Clearly,” said Jack.
“Are you avoiding her, now?”
Jack didn't need to ask who he was talking about and Robby didn't need to specify. “Course not.”
“Did she do something?”
“No.”
“So what was all that? Back in trauma?” asked Robby. His eyes were beady, waiting to pick up on any shift in Jack or anything that might betray him. But Robby wore his heart on his sleeve. He might think he doesn't or thinks he's good at hiding such emotions away but Jack and everyone else sees them anyhow.
Jack had his heart buried deep down. “I dunno, man,” he huffed, ignoring the burning sensation as he pulled his shirt back over him. “Maybe I just didn't feel like joking around when my buddy was bleeding out on the table.”
Robby shook his head, eyes creasing. “People bleed out all the time.”
Jacks lips pursed as he worked on tucking his shirt back into his pants. Anything to keep him occupied and averted from Robby’s knowing gaze.
“I haven’t seen you this worked up since you first met her,” he teased.
“Now I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” Abbot grumbled.
Robby chuckled low in his throat, leaning back on the wall comfortable like he was watching his favourite show. “When two consenting adults like each other very much-”
“I don’t,” said Jack, abrupt. “I don’t… like her.”
“Jack, c’mon-”
Jack turned to Robby. He considered his confusion. Sure, you were a great doctor and even better on the field. Something about the chaos seemed to focus you, bringing out your best self. You were funny, even at the worse times.
“She’s not it for me,” he said, trying to mean those words.
Your smile first thing in the morning didn’t warm him. The fact you knew his coffee order after only two days of working together didn’t make him feel special. You were incredibly intelligent. Beautiful.
Jack twisted and turned around his wedding band.
Robby watched, heaving a sigh. “Brother…”
Jack couldn’t keep you in his heart when his dead wife still held a place there. It wasn’t fair to you.
“She’s not it, Robby.”
“And why not?” He asked, pushing and prodding against his bag of lies like he knew he was carrying it.
“She’s different- we’re two different. You know with my- with my wife we worked. She wasn’t a doctor, she didn’t throw her life away on field missions. She wasn’t… she wasn’t ruthless, she was soft. Perfect for me.”
He pressed down against the metal band branding him.
“You’re not gonna give yourself a chance to be happy because she’s not like your wife?” Asked Robby.
Jack glanced back at him. “I know what works for me. I can’t be with someone as loud or… bash. She’s-she’s brutal, you know.”
Robby nodded but there was a furrow between his brows. “We all have our own ways of dealing with things.”
“Her way is drinking every weekend, out with the guys, there’s no healthy habits there,” argued Jack. Why he was arguing about you with Robby he didn’t know. Why he was defending himself with words that fell like led on his tongue he had no idea.
“Okay,” said Robby in a way that marked defeat.
But Jack didn’t believe what he was saying. He heard himself and frowned. “And I don’t even think she’s a person who could settle down. Hmm, I mean look at her job? She’s constantly in between them.”
“She’s a sub, that’s what she does-”
“- scared of commitment,” corrected Jack.
Robby scoffed out a laugh of disbelief. “Okay, you’re in a mood or something.” He pushed himself from the wall.
“No, I’m not,” he argued a little too quick and a little too harsh to be okay with what he was saying. “She’s a good person she’s just not my person. You know she-she doesn’t even like flowers, who doesn’t like flowers?”
“She’s more than a good person, Jack,” said Robby with an air of defeat about him. With one last look back to Jack he left, closing the door gently behind him.
In the seconds the door was open Jack sort a peek out. You were at the nurses desk, leaning over a tablet, the blue glow illuminating you. There was a troubled look to your face, scrunching your brows and marring your usual unflappable gaze. Jack almost wanted to see the chart himself and ask what was bothering you, but he knew you never told him, only ever let it be yourself that saw your problems.
Another thing he couldn’t stand. You’d never ask for help.
Even if, Jack couldn’t admit it out loud, he’d help without an invitation too.
You suppose you shouldn’t have been surprised, yet doctors ran on hope. Without hope trauma rooms became morgues and body’s became empty vessels. You’d built hope into your system, kept somewhere between your heart and stomach.
That’s why you felt it plummet.
She’s not it for me.
There was no intention to listen in on a conversation that clearly you weren’t supposed to know about. You'd just been passing by when you heard your name from Jacks mouth. That was enough to stop you in place. If your feet weren't frozen you would have moved, made yourself busy or call up to surgery to check on Hiro.
But as Jack went on your heart plummeted.
She's brutal.
It wasn't until you heard Robby defend you that you moved away, hiding with your back to the exam room and hunching over a tablet that held no chart.
You'd always assumed Jack was just harder to crack then some of the other SWAT guys. You could read most of them within days, know their moods from a glance. You'd never been able to read Jack and maybe it was because he didn't want to be known by you.
You thought seeing Hiro with a hole in his neck would be the worst thing of the day but you caught your reflection in the black screen of the tablet and resented the way things blurred around you.
She's not it for me.
“Hey-” Robby was behind you and you tucked your head into your chest. His hand squeezed your shoulder. “Central twelve when you have a chance.”
“You got it, boss.” Luckily your voice remained steady despite the waver in your throat.
Robby gave a nod and left you to it.
Had Jack had hatred for you since you knew him and just never said a word? Did you do something for him to harbour these feelings?
Besides from not being his wife.
The door closed again and on instinct you looked over your shoulder, catching Jack adjusting his belt. He looked up and found your gaze, offering you a pulled smile.
It was like every other smile he'd ever given you.
You'd been so blind with affection to not see it. What a fool.
You couldn't even pull your lips back up, you just walked away.
Weeks went by in flashes of sleepless nights and lonely days.
The sick and injured didn't wait for you to get over yourself, instead they helped.
You offered yourself like a lamb to the slaughter in Presby and even Westbridge. You pulled doubles, catching small naps in any empty exam room or on-call room you could find. You started to learn staff names when you'd never cared before.
A group of nurses at Westbridge even invited you out for drinks.
“Drinking every weekend, out with the guys, there's no healthy habits there” you remembered Jack's voice and declined their invitation.
When SWAT called you had an excuse. A plumber was coming around... you were re-modelling; suddenly your apartment was going through half a dozen makeovers and all your childhood friends were visiting.
“You know you're not a very good liar,” Diaz had said when he called you for a drink and you declined. That day you were taking your mom's dog to the vet (your mom was a cat person and in another state)
Your apartment became a cave and you became a shell of yourself, un-ironically listening to the high school musical soundtrack and crying.
And still you couldn't find it in yourself to be angry at Jack. Of course he wouldn't want you- he had a wife. And a memory of that wife to keep him walm. What could he do with you? If you weren't his type, you weren't his type. If it was just that maybe you could have moved on.
But he didn't like you as a person and that stung more.
You didn't know how long it had been since you were last at PTMC, only long enough that you started to scramble corridors in your mind and forget what some of the nurses sounded like.
“We have a mass casualty event,” said Robby on the phone one Sunday morning. His voice sounded different, but you supposed time played tricks on your memory. “School bus incident. You in?”
You were in pyjamas at home, some crappy tv on low. “I'll have to check, Presby might need me.”
Robby scoffed down the line. “Have they called yet?”
“Well, no-”
“Then get your ass over here.”
“Robby-”
“Please, please get your ass over here,” he said down the line, sighing heavily. “I.... I could really use another set of hands.”
Robby didn't say please. Ever. So how could you say no.
Within the hour you were dressed an,d thrown into the anarchy.
You got through the ambulance doors, was thrown a gown and got to work. You didn't even see Robby to let him know you were there, you just found Langdon and worked beside him.
“I need some help over here!” yelled out a paramedic.
At once you and Langdon were at her side, pushing along the gurney.
“Kid, fracted tib-fib, pupils mid range and sluggish- couldn't get a line we had to intubate.”
“Dana what's open?” called out Langdon.
“Room in trauma one!”
Mass casualty meant trauma rooms doubled up, pushed up against either wall. Mass casualty meant extra hands called in- like you. Still, when you pushed through the door and found Jack's eyes look up you spared half a second in apprehension.
“You're here,” was all he said.
You didn't know what to say. There was some snarky comment on the tip of your tongue as you settled the boy in the corner but you remembered you weren't supposed to be that person.
Jack didn't like that person.
“Yeah, in the flesh,” replied Frank instead.
“Chest trauma on the right!” you assessed. “We need an X-ray in here.”
“X-ray's backed up,” Jack called from where he hovered over another patient.
“Then get me an ultrasound!” you called out. “Push five migs of epi down the tube and hang a unit of O-neg on the rapid infuser.”
“BP'S eighty over fifty, pulse is at one-twelve!” called out Princess.
You felt someone bump in your shoulder and knew by inhale it was Jack. He was close at your side, pulling off and on another pair of gloves.
“What have you got?” he asked.
It wasn't instinct to move away from him. It was practised control that had you swapping sides with Frank, practically pushing him into Jack.
“Chest trauma to the right, he's tacky,” he explained quickly.
You pulled out your stethoscope, listening closely. “His breathing's stridor, I need a thoracotomy tray!”
“A thoracotomy?” asked Jack, voice oddly quiet in the trauma as if it was whispered just next to you. “You sure you can handle that?”
“I'm a good doctor, if I'm nothing else,” you bit out, swinging your stethoscope back around your neck. You weren't going to allow yourself to fall back into old habits, of questioning what Jack didn't like so much about you. You focused on the un-conscious boy under the mercy of your hands. You ordered the right tools, made the cut neat and precise, pushing more pain relief.
“Any tamponade?” asked Jack.
You checked the boys blood pressure. “No, pericardium's dry.”
“Okay, start an-”
“- start an internal massage-”
You and Jack said at the same time.
Frank seemed stuck in headlights before he reached through the incision in the boys chest and slowly started to work the heart.
“Pulse?”
“Barely.”
Jack frowned, looking over at your work. “Cross clamp the aorta, and push another mig of antropine.”
“I need suction!”
“Got anything for surgery?” asked a new voice, Doctor Walsh checking between the patients in the room.
“Oh no, we've brought the OR down to us,” said Jack.
Doctor Walsh rounded, catching the suction and the message of the heart. “Are you doing a thoracotomy right now?”
“Don't look at me,” said Jack, surrendering.
Before anyone could argue with you, question your capability you snapped out. “I know what I'm doing!”
Jack was silent, Frank smirked and Walsh rose a brow.
“Clamped,” said Princess.
“Someone push in another of antropine and get another unit of blood in,” you ordered.
There was a sudden buzzing as all eyes averted to the monitor.
“He's going into V-fib!”
You wiped your bloody and gloved hands down your gown. “Okay, I need internal panels!”
They were handed to you and Jack rushed to your side.
“You want me to-” he started but you already had the panels in hand and were ordering their charge.
“Charge to thirty! Clear!”
Like you were cupping the heart with your own hands you nudged the panels on either side and shocked. There were little miracles sometimes in the ED and with a bus full of school children you needed miracles.
“There! He's stable!” said Princess.
“We've got a girl coming in, needs stabalising and an ortho consult!” said Lena, throwing the door open. It seemed everyone had been called in.
“I'll take this guy, don't want you getting all the credit,” smirked Walsh as she and the team wheeled out the boy. She looked back at you, almost waiting for you to say more- some funny joke or flirtatious tease.
You only waved past her to get the young girl into the room.
Everyone in the room looked at you as you honed in on the next casualty, ignoring the pang in your heart at Jack's gaze.
When the girl for ortho came in you could only work on stabilising her before Park the Shark descended and took her up, assuring the bag was on ice. He gave you a less ten friendly look. Seemingly Jack wasn't the only one who couldn't stand you.
The hours ticked by in bodies of different kids, in shades of blood and traumas. By the time you got outside for some fresh air it was night and one lonely ambulance sat with you.
You were catching your breath when you heard the doors slide open and shut again. You imagined it was someone else wanting some peace and air, or a paramedic heading back out on the road.
“You were impressive in there,” said Jack, coming to stand next to you. There was a large enough gap that another body could have fit there.
“Thank you.”
He gave one short nod. “Robby call you in?”
“Yeah.”
“Same here,” he said, not that you'd asked. “You know, Hiro's doing well.”
You paled in the night. Lost in your own self-loathing you hadn't even asked about Hiro, or gone to see him. You'd heard he was okay when he dropped a message from the ICU but that was as far as it got. “Oh yeah, I know, I heard.”
“What, from the guys?”
You nodded, lips pursing as you crossed your arms over your chest in the light chill.
“You know they told me you haven't been around much,” said Abbot. “I've noticed it too. We all went to Larry's the other night, your invitation get lost?”
Was it a test? Was it a joke to him?
“No, I just didn't want to drink. Trying to cut down, it's not so healthy,” you said, kicking one foot in front of the other.
“One or two's not bad,” he said. “Couple of us are gonna grab a beer once this is all over. You joining us? Usual spot.”
She's brutal, you know.
You looked to him first. He was already looking at you, eyes creased like he was trying to see through you. It was real and earnest and making his words from weeks ago hurt even more.
“No thanks, Jack.” You almost reached to his shoulder but thought better of it.
Heading back in seemed the safer option.
Jack turned when you did. “Noody's seen you for weeks-”
“- I've been busy-”
“- except those nurses in Presby, they see you all the time apparently-”
“- they've been busy, they've called me in-”
“- I called you three times last week, you didn't answer-”
“- I didn't think you'd want me.” It was about the only honest thing you'd said in weeks. Your trainers squeaked on the ground just before the hospital, the automatic doors ready to welcome you back.
Jack was at your side, close enough you could see the lines of confusion in his face. “Why would you think that?”
You tried to think of a quick excuse but every word died prematurely in your throat. You chocked on them.
“Hey-hey-” Jacks hand fell to your back, soothing it in calming rubs.
You allowed yourself to bask in one circular motion of his hand and your back before you stepped away, backing up from the doors that slid shut again on instant.
“What’s going on?” Asked Jack, following in your steps.
“Nothing, nothing.”
Jack made a disgruntled noise. “C’mon, talk to me.”
He let you think about what to say, stewing in silence where your mind became alive with everything he’d said, with every terrible thing you’d already thought about yourself. You imagined every time you’d cracked a joke that was maybe too perverse. You tried to picture Jacks face but came out blank. Was it loathing? Contempt?
Your voice betrayed you with a shake as you spoke again. “I do like flowers.”
“Huh?”
You wiped at your eyes and turned to him. “I like flowers,” you said, stronger. “Nobody’s ever brought me flowers but I- I like them.”
For anyone else it would’ve took time to click. They’d have stood there, looking at you like you’d gone mad, spewing out words that out of context meant nothing.
But Jack was not just any other clueless guy. He was the guy who always packed left overs and left them in the fridge, he always cooked enough to make sure he’d have left overs. He was the sort that always checked in on pedes patients and made sure they had enough colourful bandages for them.
Jack knew what you were saying immediately. His jaw tensed. “I- I shouldn't have said that.”
“You said a lot of things,” you said, holding yourself tighter. “Sounded like you meant them.”
He gulped. “I didn't mean-”
“-what, for me to hear it?”
“No, I didn't mean for what I said to come out as- as bad,” he said.
“Well it didn't come out as shining praise either.” You turned from him, looking out to the building and lights. Somewhere n the distance a siren wailed.
“Robby- Robby was saying things, teasing, I just waned to shut him up.”
You chuckled with loathing. “No you didn't. It's okay, Jack, you don't have to like me, I just wish you didn't make it seem like you did.”
“Hey!” he said, coming to stand in front of you. He was without a scrub top and his t-shirt clad to his biceps, his muscles flexing as his jaw worked. “I do like you.”
You rolled your eyes. “No you don't.”
“I do-I do-” Jack grabbed the top of your arms, stopping you from walking away. His grip was tight, not enough to bruise but enough to beg you not to leave. “I do like you.”
“It doesn't matter.”
“It does, it does.” Jack crouched enough in his knees to get a look at your face that you kept trying to turn away from him.
“You know the worst thing is? It's that I know,” you uttered, voice quiet. You didn't trust yourself to shout- even if you really wanted to- in fear your voice cracked, humiliatingly.
Jack's eyes softened, his thumb drawing up and down in comfort. “Know what?”
“I know that I can be a lot. I go out with the guys, I drink, I make jokes when things get bad because what else am I supposed to do? Cry? Let the grief of the job swallow me up?”
“No. No, of course not,” he said, lips pulled down.
You hated that you still wanted to make him smile. “I could keep a job if I wanted to but I like meeting the people-”
“- I know, I know you do-”
“- and now I'm here defending myself to a guy who probably doesn't even want to hear it!” Trying to turn in Jack's hold was feeble, his grip was strong and he moved with you.
“You don't have to defend yourself, you have nothing to defend!”
“You know what the worst part is?”
Jack shook his head, waiting.
“It's the guy you liked and admired the most seeing everything you hate about yourself and hating you for it too.”
Jack flinched as of you'd slapped him. The chill in the air grew colder around you and all the light from the dim glow of the lamps shrunk away, leaving you and Jack in a self-made darkness. You felt his grip weaken and savoured the feel of him a moment longer.
It was only when you couldn't stomach it anymore that you retreated back into work.
Jack had fucked up.
There was no easy way of putting it. There was no clinical way of looking at it, no diagnosis to give other than he had fucked up.
He'd never heard himself speak and hated the sound of his own voice. Never caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror with tired eyes and a pale expression and loath to see the sight. When he looked at himself, all he saw was your own face heart-broken. When he heard himself talking he remembered everything he'd said.
He could have blamed it on the pain in his shoulder, the worry over Hiro, the lack of sleep he'd been struggling with for days but he had a therapist for all that. You didn't deserve that burden.
He was un-focused the following week in work. Patient satisfaction was at an all time low with him. He'd opened up to his SWAT buddies over a self-pitying pint and had been shunned.
“What's your problem?” Charlie had said, two beers deep and a haze over his eyes. “She's a fucking saint. She'd lay down her life for any one of us- what the fuck man?”
“She won't return my calls,” Jack told them. “Can you just... just call her?”
They'd refused, with good reason.
He'd tried texting his apology. He'd tried calling you in but he found from a contact at Westbridge you'd been covering nights while their attending was on holiday.
It was a brash decision to call in to PTMC and tell them he'd be late, he was running an errand. Nobody questioned him.
Westbridge was darker than the hospital he was used t, built up on top of each other but they were no less busy than himself. Patients were lined up in corridors and there was hardly a seat left in chairs when he walked through.
“Can I help you?” asked the nurse at reception, eyeing Jack and the bouquet of flowers he held.
He said he was looking for you.
“She's in a trauma right now, can I take a message?”
“Can you tell her Ja-Jack's here.” For a moment he debated lying, saying it was Robby wanting to see you, or maybe you didn't want to see Robby either. Deceit wasn't going to be his friend.
Jack waited and tried not to look around, tried not to let himself get caught in the heavy bustle of another hospital as he waited for you. He ignored the coughing from the waiting room that definitely sounded like it would require a chest CT.
There was a crash of doors and he caught sight of you rushing out, protective goggles over your eyes and bloodied gown clad to you.
“Jack, what is it? Are you okay?” your eyes were frantic, searching him.
Ah. Of course you'd think something had happened. When you hear someone's in the hospital it's very rarely to just say hi. “I realise I should've specified,” said Jack, rubbing the back of his knuckle against his brow. “I just- I wanted to see you. And give you these.”
Sensing this was a conversation she definitely wanted to be around for yet probably wouldn't be allowed to, the nurse at reception left the two of you to it and Jack sat the flowers down on the counter in-between you.
You eyed the shades of red roses, of yellow tulips, the violet of the iris and the pink of the peony.
“I didn't know what you liked so, I kind of got one of everything,” he said, sighing to himself. He should have got two of every flower the florist had on hand. “I didn't get Lilies, the lady at the shop said it's a show of death and sunflowers aren't in season, apparently.”
“They're very nice, thank you,” you said.
“They come with an I'm sorry:” said Jack. “I'm sorry.”
You wet your lips and pursed them, nodding slowly. “Okay.”
Jack looked down to his boots. “It's not, I know it's not, nothing I said is okay and I didn't mean it.”
You didn't say anything at that, only taking in a quivering breath.
He ignored the irritation in his prosthetic as he crouched to catch your gaze. Jack wasn't used to having to search for your gaze, usually he always found it already on him. He only realised how much he valued finding you in the middle of the storm when you wouldn't look at him.
“I didn't mean it,” he enunciated every word, begging you to hear them.
Your gaze studied around Westbridge, hoping for a distraction.
“I messed up, it's on me. It's not you.”
“The classic it's not you, it's me?” you dismissed.
Jack winced. It was cliché, damn him. “Yeah, I guess so.”
He watched as your fingers brushed over a flower petal, picking it off like plucking a string on a guitar. He felt his heart pound in his chest.
“Can I get back to work now?” you asked, gently.
What was he thinking? Turning up to where you were tying to do some good. Where you were doing good- it was what you did. Did he expect the flowers to fix everything? No. Only he could. But he'd grovel, he'd beg, he'd crawl after you for the rest of his miserable life and do it all while building you a rose garden.
He'd do all of that for one minute of your eyes on his.
“Just promise you'll come back. To the Pitt. Whole place is going to crap without you.” He tried to joke but it was a pathetic thing.
“Okay. Yeah.” Your shoulders lifted in in-difference.
“And don't ignore the guys. They're going out for drinks tomorrow night. I won't be there. They all pretty much think I'm a dick anyway.”
There was a glimpse of a smile.
Jack played on. “I'm a total, total dick, a jerk!”
An elderly lady being escorted by with a nurse and an IV trailing her paused and glanced his way.
“Sorry,” he uttered.
You hid your chuckled behind your mouth but he caught a second of it.
It was enough for now.
Your name was called down the corridor.
“He's in V-tach!” a nurse announced before disappearing again.
“Go,” said Jack, taking himself out of the equation. “Just, please. Don't be a stranger.”
Jack wasn't lying when he said the place was going to crap without you. How they managed on shifts without your charm to work fretting family and friends down, or your terrible singing in between exams he didn't know.
Walking through the ambulance doors for his shift there was already paramedics pushing an empty and slightly blood stained gurney back into their rig. There was a crowd of elderly patients in beds and gowns left at the side and phones were ringing, drilling into his eardrums.
“Where the hell is she?” barked Robby, spotting Jack and no you.
Jack dumped his bag at the counter. “What happened here?”
“Nursing home caught fire, now where is she? We're swamped her, I thought you were going to get her and bring her back?”
Jack grumbled, frowning at the counter. “She's busy at West.”
“West? God-” Robby groaned, looking around the place and cursing. “Listen, I don't care what you have to do to make it up to her, buy her a florist, give her a ring, get down on your knees, I don't fucking care- I need her here.”
“You think I don't?” Jack snapped.
Robby eyed him, hand clenched on the counter. “Tell her the truth-”
“-Robby-”
“-no, you tell her you didn't mean a damn thing you said. That you were scared loving someone that isn't your wife.”
Glass. Jack was made of glass. If Robby could see through him so clearly why couldn't you? Why couldn't you see the truth? That Jack liked you, liked you more than he'd liked anyone. That loving you meant leaving the life he lived with his wife behind, yet carrying a part of her with him always. He didn't want to do that to you. He didn't want to make you live with a ghost or carry his grief. There were days where it was too hard for him to handle.
Robby sighed. “You think she'd want you to be happy?”
A muscle in Jack's neck tensed as he went to nod but was held back by himself.
“Talk to her,” said Robby clamping him on the shoulder quickly before disappearing.
Hiding away wasn't going to solve anything. That's what Robby said to you in a desperate plea to get you back to helping him out with shifts.
Truth was you weren't hiding away... as much.
Drinks with the guys had been hours of them telling you Jack was wrong, after Jack had exposed himself to them, laying the situation on the table. As promised, he wasn't there but every conversation revolved around him so much so it felt like he was at your side. You defended Jack when they argued against him. You told them you knew you were loud at times, maybe you shouldn't joke around as much as you did.
They'd laughed, thinking it was a joke itself.
They told you not to change.
It was hard not to. Every time you heard yourself get loud or get a look from people at the other table your instinct was to shrink. When Diaz tripped on the curb out the bar you laughed instead of helping him and was left with your own guilt when you got home.
Un-learning habits was hard. Learning to live with them was harder.
You started with baby steps. A day shift here, a day shift there, by hand-offs you were always gone. Yet, in the staff lounge there sat a fresh bouquet of flowers every morning. As soon as they started to wilt another fresh bunch was placed over night.
Nothing was said. Nothing ever had to be.
“Shen's out, food poisoning,” said Robby over the phone another day. “You know I wouldn't ask if there was no otherway.”
Which was how you ended up working a night shift. The first in months.
Jack's eyes lit up as you walked in, it was impossible not to notice. The only eyes to rival his sparkle was Lena's when she saw you.
It was the sort of night that held your attention. That roped you in and demanded you listened. Not overly busy but not quiet enough to cause you and Jack to be held captive in the same room. Only seconds passed in hallways when he looked like he was going to say something before being called away, taunt in the neck and gripping his stethoscope for the life of him.
“Am I going to need surgery?” asked the young boy in five who you were examining. A nasty accident in his dad's garage ended up with a laceration to the foot.
“Not surgery but a couple stitches to bring the skin back together, and you're gonna have to stay off your feet for a while,” you said.
The boys eyes grew wide in joy. “So, no school?”
You chuckled as his mom pinched his shoulder playfully. “Well, I can't be the deciding factor on that, I'm afraid.”
You put in the orders for stitches.
“Is it gonna hurt?” asked the boy, shrinking back in his bed.
“We're gonna numb you up so you don't feel anything,” you assured. “Tell you what, I have a secret stash of candy that I only share with my favourite patients, how's that sound, you want something?”
The boy tried not to be too eager in his nodding but it took less than two second for him to grin.
You didn't expect anyone in the lounge when you went in search for candy usually lying around.
Jack was hunched over the table, pulling out the dying flowers and arranging fresh ones. He stopped when you walked in, the door closing gently behind you. “Hi.”
“Hey.”
“I was just... maintenance,” he mumbled.
You nodded along, a thick awkwardness engulfing the two of you. “Maintenance... yeah... sure...”
You moved around him, keeping a good distance around the space of him like he was a poisonous snake. The cabinet was high up, the tin an old sewing one where you hid your most precious protein bars and sugar packed candy.
“Here, I can-”
His body was sturdy against the back of you as he reached up for the tin. Few select people were allowed to know about its contents and Jack was on of the first ones you trusted. He raised his arm and you watched the freckles along his arm move and ripple. Upon inhale you took a deep breath of lingering cologne, mixed with the hearty sterile hand wash of the ED.
Jack's own head tilted down and your heard him inhale, deeply.
The tin fell into your hand.
Jack stared down. “Oh- er, there.”
“Thanks.”
It was about all the conversation you got with Jack your shift was over. The morning was just breaking through the clouds at six, bringing with it a down pour. You'd already punched out, handed off your patients to McKay and was left standing under the small awning of the ambulance bay, trying to out wait the rain.
It took ten minutes for Jack to follow you out.
“You heading out?” he asked, hands shoved in his pockets.
“Yeah. I'm just waiting for my uber.”
Jack frowned. “What happened to your car?”
“It's in the garage.”
“Well... I can give you a lift,” he suggested.
The rain hammered down harder above you, steady streams falling from the awning to at your feet. As discreet as possible you checked the location on you uber. Just around the corner. In the rain it had taken longer.
“No, it's okay, you don't have to.”
“I'd like to,” said Jack, stepping closer. “I'd like a chance to talk to you. To tell you everything that I meant by my words.”
You'd almost hoped you could carry on as you were: extremely avoidant.
“You don't have to, Jack.”
“I do- I do!” he insisted, hands out in front of him as if desperate to grasp you. He held himself back. “Please let me.”
Stomaching more of his words, whether it be excuses as to what he meant to say or just doubling down and insisting what he said was true. You didn't think you were strong enough for either.
Your phone buzzed in hand as a slick back black car pulled up, window rolling down and calling your name.
“No, wait-wait!” said Jack, holding a hand up to you with all the authority of an attending still on duty.
“Jack, what are you-” You were struck in place, watching him lean through the window, rain dampening his shirt as he un-folded a few bills and handed them to the driver.
“We don't need you know, sorry man,” Jack mumbled.
Your jaw hung open as you stepped out into the rain, bottom of your scrub pants dampening at once. “What?”
The driver tutted. “I still want me five star review!” He drove off quickly, splashing the two of you as he went.
“Oh- serious?” Jack gritted. “Now I wish I hadn't given him such a tip.”
The puddles of rain were seeping into your trainers as you walked off, out of the way of ambulances and cars, pulling your jacket tighter around you.
“Wait! Wait!” Jack called after you, boots slapping in the water. He all but jumped in front of you, stumbling lightly at the shift in his bad leg. “Wait.”
“I don't know what else you want to say to me, Jack?”
“Nothing I say can excuse what I said-”
“-so why try?”
“Because it's killing me being like this!” he snapped. The rain was pouring down, falling down his cheeks and nose. “It's killing me to look for your smile and not see it. It's killing me to hear a joke and you not laugh. Everything I said, it-it re-plays in my head and I'm sorry.”
“I know you are, Jack, I just need time!”
“I'll give you time,” he said. “I'll give you anything you need. But just let me say one thing. You owe me nothing, I'm begging you.”
To prove a point Jack crouched, starting to get down on his knees, hands already clenched together. To spare you the embarrassment and him the ache in his leg you tugged him back up.
He stared at you, breathless. He was as drenched as you, the both of your scrubs stuck to you.
“I haven't loved anyone since my wife,” said Jack. “I haven't tried, I didn't want to try. I was... not happy, but content to just carry on with her here-” he curled a fist at his chest. “And then you... and I couldn't not feel anything for you. I tried- I really tried.”
“Okay. You tried. I get it,” you mumbled.
“But I started to love you and I hated myself for it. It felt like I was betraying her by wanting someone else. By wanting you. And I did- I do want you. Every terrible joke you made, Jesus, I couldn't laugh in front of patients and their families. When you go out drinking with us and the guys in our team and you sing karaoke badly-”
“Excuse me?”
Jack winced. “I mean great, great karaoke.”
You chuckled.
“I can't take back the fact you're different from my wife, you are, but I don't think that's a bad thing- it's not. Because I still love you. I love that you're loud, I love that you draw attention to yourself as soon as you walk into a room, my attention is always on you anyway,” he smiled, sadly. It was the kind of smile a lover would give as they watched the love of their life leave them. “I shouldn't have made my grief your problem. I shouldn't have hated myself for feeling love again and I shouldn't have tried to convince myself hating you. I mean, that was just- just impossible.”
You looked down to your trainers, seeing the darkening colour where the water soaked in. “I've loved you for so long now, Jack.”
He waited, catching his breath, for more.
You looked up at him. “I'm sorry. About your wife. I can't imagine how hard it is for you. But I don't want to fall in love with a man who constantly advertises me next to his wife.”
Jack nodded, looking down.
The rain was probably helpful, hiding any tears you'd give away.
“I love you, separate to how I love my wife. And I loved her, I did. But I don't want to spend the rest of my life dead inside. Be on my death bed when I'm eighty looking back at all the times I should've kissed you.”
His words pulled at your heart, your feelings that you'd been burying deep inside clashing together inside of you.
“By the time you're eighty, I'll be like, in my sixties?” you said.
“Yeah, something like that.”
“And looking to settle down.”
Jack laughed, and you laughed and for a second that was almost enough. The rain had made the grey in his hair darker, almost making him look younger. “I'm not saying I won't fuck up, I probably will, I have a therapist for a reason.”
“Therapy is good,” you said.
Jack's eyes were lighting up slowly with every teasing comment you made. Something akin to hope flickered between the two of you. “But I will never draw comparison to you and my wife. I'll never make you feel like second choice. I'll never dump my grief onto you. If you just give me one chance, just one chance at making this right.”
As sorry's went... as love confessions went.
“I'm scared what it means to love you, Jack,” you said, slowly, feeling the words around your mouth.
“I know, I know,” Jack reached over, clumsily brushing back your damp hair from your cheeks. In spite of the rain, his skin was still soft and hot on you. “I am too.”
You searched his eyes before whispering. “Can I kiss you?”
He smirked a little. “No.”
Your heart dropped.
Jack's hands tilted your head back before you could tuck yourself away. “Can I kiss you?”
His lips were slick and wet from rain but no less sort after from you. He didn't push or prod for more, he just laid his lips against yours with enough pressure for you to know he was there. For you to always remember he was there.
You could have stayed like that for hours, practically standing on each others toes as your own hands came up to clutch his biceps, fingertips digging into his freckles.
You pulled away only when you needed to catch your breath.
Jack's lips chased yours, body tumbling into you slightly as his eyes took seconds to open like coming out from a dream.
You ran your hands up his shoulders. “I love you.”
He closed his eyes and soaked in the words.
“Will you let me?” you asked.
“Always,” he promised.
thank you to anon for requesting, and thank you to @oldbaddies and @mafercita101 who wanted to be tagged :)
The idea of ormund making reader get on her knees and beg whenever she wants to go out since he ‘can’t trust her’ after she paraded around in that dress 😫
Forgiveness
Dark!Ormund Hightower X Targ!Reader
TW: Heavy Manipulation, Gaslighting
AN: Kinda different but hope you like it
The morning after, he would not let you leave the room.
You woke to find him already dressed, standing by the window with his back to you, his silhouette sharp and rigid against the pale grey light. The bed beside you was cold, he had not held you last night, not after what happened. You had slept alone on your side of the mattress, still trembling, still aching, still smelling the smoke from your burning dress even though the fire had long since died.
You sat up slowly, the blanket clutched to your chest. Your shift was thin and worn, the same one you had been wearing yesterday when he tore the dress from your body. You had not bothered to change it. You had not had the energy.
"Ormund?" Your voice came out small. Hesitant.
You swallowed. Your throat was dry, your eyes still swollen from crying. "You—you did not—"
He did not turn around. "I have been standing here for an hour," he said quietly. "Thinking. Trying to understand how we got here. Trying to understand what I did wrong."
"I did." He turned then, and his face was not angry. That was almost worse. He looked tired. Sad. Disappointed. The face of a man who had been let down by someone he loved. "I have been too lenient with you. I see that now. I trusted you to know how to behave, and you proved that you cannot be trusted. That is my fault. Not yours."
You stared at him, something cold settling in your stomach. "What do you mean?"
He crossed the room slowly, his footsteps heavy on the stone floor. When he reached the bed, he did not sit beside you. He stood over you, looking down, his expression full of what looked like genuine sorrow.
"I mean that I have failed you as a husband," he said. "I should have been clearer. I should have set firmer boundaries. Instead, I let you run wild, and yesterday happened. You embarrassed yourself. You embarrassed me. You paraded through my city dressed like a common—" He stopped himself, shaking his head. "I will not say the word. I promised myself I would not say it again. But you know what I mean."
Your face burned. The memory of the guards staring, the squire dropping his sword, the servants whispering, it all came rushing back. At the time, you had felt beautiful. Now you just felt foolish and cheap.
"I did not mean to embarrass you," you whispered.
"I know you did not." His voice softened, and he finally sat down on the edge of the bed. He took your hand in his, his thumb rubbing gentle circles over your knuckles. "I know you did not mean to. That is what makes this so difficult. You are not malicious, my love. You are not cruel or calculating. You are just… young. Naive. You do not understand the way the world works."
"I understand—"
"No." He squeezed your hand, cutting you off gently. "No, you do not. If you understood, you would never have worn that dress. If you understood, you would know that men do not look at a woman dressed like that and think about her wit or her kindness or her gentle heart. They think about one thing, and one thing only. And the thought of anyone thinking about my wife that way—" His jaw tightened. "It makes me sick. It makes me want to kill someone."
You flinched, he noticed.
"I am not going to hurt you," he said quickly, his voice softening again. "I would never hurt you. You know that, don't you? Everything I do, I do to protect you. Even when it seems harsh. Even when it seems cruel. It is all for your own good."
You nodded slowly. You did not know what else to do.
"But I cannot protect you if you will not let me," he continued. "I cannot protect you if you insist on making choices that put you in danger. And so I have to take steps. Difficult steps. Steps that hurt me more than they hurt you, I promise."
Your heart began to beat faster. "What steps?"
He sighed heavily, as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders. "I cannot let you leave our chambers today. Not until I have gone out and… repaired the damage."
"Repaired the damage?" Your voice rose, sharp with confusion and fear. "What damage? What are you talking about?"
"The damage you did yesterday." He said it patiently, like a tutor explaining a difficult concept to a slow student. "Half the city saw you in that dress. The guards, the servants, the merchants in the streets. They saw my wife—the Lady of Oldtown—dressed like a woman of ill repute. They are talking about it right now. Whispering about it. About you."
Your stomach dropped. "They are not—"
"They are." He looked at you with such pity, such genuine concern, that you felt your certainty crumble. "I know you do not want to believe it. I know you want to think the best of people. But I have lived in this city my whole life. I know how people talk. I know what they say about women who dress the way you dressed yesterday. And I cannot—I will not—let them say those things about my wife."
You felt tears prick at your eyes again. You had not thought about that. You had not considered what people might be saying. You had just been happy to feel like yourself again.
"I have to go out there," Ormund said, his voice heavy with duty. "I have to speak to the guards who saw you. I have to make sure they understand that what they saw was an aberration, a mistake, a lapse in judgment from a young bride who does not yet know our ways. I have to repair your reputation before it is too damaged to salvage. Do you understand how difficult that is for me?"
You nodded, your throat too tight to speak.
"It is humiliating," he continued. "To have to go out there and make excuses for my own wife. To have to look men in the eye and pretend that everything is fine, that my wife is a respectable woman, when half of them saw her dressed like a—" He stopped again, pressing his lips together. "But I will do it. Because I love you. Because you are my wife, and your honor is my honor, and I will not let anyone drag your name through the mud. Even if it means swallowing my pride. Even if it means humiliating myself to protect you."
A tear slipped down your cheek. You wiped it away quickly, but he saw.
"Do not cry," he said softly, reaching up to brush the tear from your cheek with his thumb. "I am not angry with you. I am disappointed, yes. I am hurt. But I am not angry. I know you did not mean to cause this mess. I know you were just being thoughtless, not malicious. But thoughtlessness has consequences, my love. And now I have to clean up those consequences."
"I am sorry," you whispered. The words felt inadequate, pathetic. "I am so sorry, Ormund. I did not think—I did not realize—"
"I know you did not." He cupped your face in both hands, tilting your chin up so that you had to look at him. "That is the problem, my love. You did not think. And until I can trust you to think before you act, until I can trust you to consider the consequences of your choices, I have to keep you safe. Do you understand?"
You nodded, even though some part of you was screaming that this was wrong. That you were a princess, a dragonrider, a woman grown. That you should not need permission to leave your own chambers.
But that part of you was quiet. Muffled. Drowned out by the shame burning in your chest and the guilt churning in your stomach.
"So I cannot leave?" you asked. Your voice was very small.
"Not today." He stroked your hair gently, tenderly, as if he were comforting a child. "Today, I need you to stay here. I need you to reflect on what happened. I need you to think about the choices you made and how they affected both of us. And while you are doing that, I will be out there, cleaning up this mess. I will be talking to the guards, reassuring the servants, making sure that everyone understands that my wife is a good woman who made a foolish mistake. I will be restoring your reputation. Protecting your honor. Doing the things that a husband must do when his wife cannot be trusted to protect herself."
The words hit you like blows. Cannot be trusted. Foolish mistake. Cleaning up this mess. You felt yourself shrinking under the weight of them, your shoulders curling inward, your eyes dropping to your lap.
"I will make this right," he promised, lifting your hand to his lips and pressing a kiss to your knuckles. "I will fix everything. But I need you to do your part. I need you to stay here, and reflect, and think about how you can be better. Can you do that for me?"
You nodded. You did not trust yourself to speak.
"Good girl." He kissed your forehead. "I know this is hard. Believe me, it is harder for me than it is for you. Do you think I want to leave you here alone? Do you think I want to go out there and have those conversations? It is humiliating. It is exhausting. But I do it because I love you. Because your honor is more important to me than my own comfort."
He rose from the bed, adjusting his tunic, smoothing down his sleeves. He looked every inch the Lord of Oldtown—commanding, dignified, in control. And you—you were still in your thin shift, your hair a mess, your eyes red and swollen from crying. You had never felt so small.
"I will send up a tray for you," he said, pausing at the door. "And I will check on you when I return. We will talk more then, about how we move forward. About how we rebuild trust between us."
He paused, his hand on the door handle, and looked back at you with an expression of such deep, sorrowful love that your heart clenched.
"I do love you," he said quietly. "You know that, don't you? Everything I do, I do because I love you. I just need you to be the wife I know you can be. The wife you were always meant to be. And I am going to help you get there. No matter how long it takes. No matter how hard it is. I am not giving up on you."
And then he was gone.
The door clicked shut behind him, and you were alone. Alone in the cold stone room, with nothing but your guilt and your shame and the faint, lingering smell of smoke from the fireplace.
You sat there for a long time, staring at the door. Thinking. Reflecting, just as he had asked.
Your face burned with shame. You pulled the blanket up around your shoulders, trying to disappear into its grey folds. He was right. He was right about all of it. You had been thoughtless. Naive. You had not considered the consequences of your actions, and now he was out there, cleaning up your mess. Defending your honor. Protecting your reputation. And all you had to do was sit here and reflect.
It was humiliating. But it was what you deserved.
You had embarrassed him. You had embarrassed yourself. And he was still willing to forgive you. He was still willing to fight for you. He was still willing to love you, despite everything.
You did not deserve him. You really, truly did not.
The hours passed slowly. A servant brought a tray of bread and cheese and watered wine, and you ate mechanically, barely tasting it. You tried to read, but the words blurred on the page. You tried to pray, but the words felt hollow and meaningless. Mostly, you just sat by the window and watched the clouds move across the sky and thought about all the ways you had failed.
When Ormund finally returned, the sun was low in the sky, painting the room in shades of gold and amber. You heard his footsteps in the corridor and straightened immediately, smoothing your hair, wiping your face, trying to look like a wife he could be proud of.
The door opened, and he stepped inside. He looked tired—worn, even—and your heart clenched with guilt. You had done this to him. You had exhausted him with your thoughtlessness.
"How did it go?" you asked quietly.
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "It was difficult. Humiliating. But I think I managed to smooth things over. I spoke to the guards. I spoke to the steward. I made it clear that what happened yesterday was a mistake, a moment of poor judgment from a young bride who is still adjusting to our ways. I think they understood."
"Thank you," you whispered. The words felt pathetically inadequate. "Thank you for… for doing that."
"I did it for you." He crossed the room and sat down heavily in the chair by the hearth. "I did it because I love you. Because I cannot bear the thought of anyone speaking ill of you."
You rose from the window seat and crossed to him, kneeling at his feet. It felt right. It felt like penance. "I am so sorry, Ormund. I am so sorry for everything. I will be better. I promise. I will be the wife you need me to be."
He looked down at you, his expression softening. He reached out and stroked your hair, his touch gentle. "I know you will. I believe in you. I just need you to prove it to me. I need you to earn back my trust."
"How?" You looked up at him, desperate. "Tell me how. I will do anything."
He considered for a moment. "For now, I think it is best if you do not leave our chambers without me. Just for a little while. Just until I can be sure that you understand what is expected of you. That you understand how a Lady of Oldtown should dress, should behave, should carry herself."
You nodded quickly. "Yes. Yes, of course. Whatever you think is best."
"It is not what I think is best for me," he said, his voice gentle and sad. "It is what I think is best for you. I am doing this to protect you, my love. Not to punish you. Do you understand the difference?"
"I understand." And you did. You really did. He was not being cruel. He was being careful. He was protecting you from yourself, from your own naivety, from the judgment of a world you did not fully understand.
"Good girl." He cupped your face in his hands and leaned down to kiss your forehead. "Good girl. I knew you would understand eventually. I knew you would come around."
You closed your eyes and leaned into his touch. His hands were warm, his voice was gentle, and he loved you. He loved you so much he was willing to humiliate himself to protect you. How could you not be grateful? How could you not love him back?
"I love you," you whispered.
"I love you too," he said. "More than you know. And I am going to take care of you. I am going to teach you. I am going to help you become the woman you were always meant to be. You just have to trust me."
Summary: After receiving a shipment of dresses from Dragonstone, you finally experience a moment of happiness and reconnect with your former self.
TW: Emotional abuse, Psychological abuse, Domestic abuse, Misogyny / slut-shaming, Gaslighting, Age-gap relationship, Implied sexual coercion / marital sexual abuse themes
WC: 6K
The morning of the day everything changed began like so many mornings before it quietly, with the weight of someone else's choices pressing down on you before you had even opened your eyes.
You woke to the sound of the bells. Oldtown was a city of bells, something you had not known before you came here. They rang at dawn, at noon, at dusk, at every hour in between, marking time with a relentlessness that made you feel like you were living inside a heartbeat. The sound echoed through the stone walls of the Hightower, bouncing off the ancient masonry, seeping into your dreams. On Dragonstone, you had woken to the sound of the sea and the distant cry of your dragon. Here, you woke to bells.
You lay still for a moment, watching the light creep across the ceiling. The curtains were heavy but a single sliver of gold had found its way through the gap, painting a line across the stone above your head. You traced it with your eyes, following it from one corner of the room to the other, and tried to remember what day it was.
It did not matter. The days were all the same now.
You turned your head on the pillow. Ormund was already gone. His side of the bed was cold, the blankets pushed back, the indentation of his body already fading from the mattress. He rose early, your husband. He had a city to run and a household to command. You had learned quickly that he did not expect you to be awake when he left. He did not expect anything from you in the mornings except that you would be there with your legs opened when he returned.
You sat up slowly, pushing the heavy blankets aside. The air in the room was cool, carrying the faint, familiar scent of smoke from the fireplace. Your shift was wrinkled from sleep, twisted around your legs, and you smoothed it down automatically before swinging your feet to the floor.
You crossed to the window and pulled back the curtain, just a little. The view was spectacular, you could not deny that. The Hightower rose above the city like a spear thrust into the sky, and from your chambers near the top, you could see everything. The Honeywine River winding its way to the sea. The rooftops of Oldtown spreading out below, a patchwork of slate and tile and thatch. The Citadel in the distance, its domes and spires gleaming in the morning light. And beyond it all, the Whispering Sound, blue and endless, stretching toward the horizon.
It was beautiful. It was not home.
You let the curtain fall and turned back to the room. Your gown was laid out for you already. It always was. You had not chosen the dresses you wore since your wedding night. They simply appeared each morning, draped over the chair by the hearth, waiting for you. Today's was a deep charcoal grey with silver embroidery along the scooped neckline and long, tight sleeves. The fabric was heavy—it was always heavy—and the cut was modest. You had never worn anything like it before you came to Oldtown, and now you wore nothing else.
Your ladies arrived as you were washing your face. Three of them, all Hightower women, all chosen by Ormund's steward. They helped you into your dress without comment. The laces were pulled tight, the sleeves smoothed down, the high collar fastened close around your throat. You stood still and let them work, lifting your arms when they needed you to, turning when they asked. You had learned that it was easier to comply than to question.
"Your hair, my lady?" Ellyn asked, her hands already reaching for the brush.
You hesitated. "I thought I might leave it down today."
A pause. Barely a heartbeat, but you felt it.
"Lord Ormund prefers it up," Ellyn said. Her voice was neutral. Polite. The voice of a servant who had been given instructions and intended to follow them.
You opened your mouth to argue—it was your hair, after all, your head, your choice—but the words died on your tongue. It was not worth the fight. Nothing was worth the fight anymore.
"Very well," you said quietly.
Ellyn nodded and began to brush. You watched yourself in the mirror as she worked. The girl looking back at you was beautiful—you knew that, had always known that, had been told it so many times it had ceased to mean anything—but she did not look like you. She looked like a portrait of you, painted by someone who had only heard a description. The hair was right, silver-gold and falling in soft waves. The eyes were right, violet and clear. But something was missing. Some spark. Some light.
You looked tired. You looked pale. You looked like a woman who had been slowly fading for weeks and had not noticed until this moment.
Ellyn pinned your hair up in an elaborate twist, securing it with silver combs. You felt the weight of it pulling at your scalp, the familiar tension that always followed. Your mother had never made you wear your hair up. Your mother had let you wear it however you wanted—loose and wild when you were flying, braided with ribbons when you attended court, simple and unadorned when you were alone. Your mother had always said that you were beautiful because you were yourself, not because you looked like anyone else's idea of beauty.
You missed your mother. You missed her so much it felt like a physical ache, a hollow space in your chest that nothing could fill.
"There," Ellyn said, stepping back to admire her work. "Very proper, my lady."
"Thank you," you said, because that was what you were supposed to say.
They left you alone after that, retreating to their own tasks, and you sat by the window for a long time, watching the clouds move across the sky. Somewhere out there, beyond the city walls, beyond the Whispering Sound, beyond the Reach and the Kingswood and the Blackwater Bay, your mother was sitting on Dragonstone. Your brothers were running through the halls, laughing, arguing, living their lives.
And you were here. In Oldtown. Married to a man you barely recognized anymore.
The courtship had been so different. You remembered it now, sitting in the grey morning light, turning the memories over in your mind like stones. Ormund had come to King's Landing two years ago, representing his house at some council or another, and he had seen you across the throne room. You had been ten and eight then, young and shy. He had been thirty-six, a widower with four children, a lord in his own right. He had looked at you with such intensity, such focus, that you had felt like the only person in the room.
He had been charming. He had sent you gifts, books from the Citadel, rare perfumes from Lys, a necklace of sapphires that matched your eyes. He had written you letters, long and eloquent and full of praise. He had sought you out at feasts and tourneys, always finding a way to sit beside you, to speak with you, to make you laugh.
Your mother had been skeptical at first. "He is older than you," she had said, her brow furrowed. "And he is a Hightower. The Hightowers are ambitious, my love. They do not do anything without purpose."
But you had argued for him. You had told her that he was kind, that he was good, that he made you feel special. And eventually, reluctantly, she had agreed to the match. Not because she trusted him—you knew now that she never had—but because she trusted you. Because she wanted you to be happy. Because she thought that denying you this would only make you want it more.
And there was the political reality, too. You had known that, even then. The Hightowers were powerful. The Hightowers were influential. The Hightowers could tip the balance in the coming struggle for the throne. Marrying you to Ormund was a way of securing their loyalty, of ensuring that when the time came, Oldtown would stand with Rhaenyra.
You had been a gift. A guarantee. A hostage wrapped in silk and sent south with a smile.
You had told yourself it did not matter. You had told yourself that Ormund loved you, that he would be good to you, that the political reasons were secondary to the personal ones. You had believed him when he promised to cherish you, to protect you, to make you happy.
You had been so stupid.
The knock at the door startled you out of your thoughts. You turned, smoothing your features into the placid expression you had learned to wear, and called out, "Enter."
It was a servant, one of the many whose names you had not yet learned. He was young, barely more than a boy, and he bowed awkwardly when he saw you.
"My lady," he said. "A shipment has arrived for you. From Dragonstone."
Your heart stopped.
"A shipment?" You rose from your chair, and your voice came out breathless, eager, the way it used to sound before you learned to keep your feelings hidden. "Where is it?"
"In the courtyard, my lady. I can have it brought up to your chambers, if you wish."
"No." The word was too quick, too sharp. You forced yourself to slow down, to breathe. "No, thank you. I will come down myself. I would like to—" You stopped. You did not know how to explain what you wanted. You wanted to see it. You wanted to touch it. You wanted to hold something from home in your hands and remember what it felt like to be yourself.
"Of course, my lady," the servant said. He bowed again and retreated, and you were alone once more.
You did not run. Running would have been undignified. Running would have drawn attention. But you walked faster than you had walked in weeks, your heart pounding in your chest, your hands clasped tightly in front of you to hide their trembling.
The courtyard was busy when you arrived. Servants and guards and grooms going about their daily tasks, none of them paying much attention to the crate sitting near the stables. It was large, nearly as tall as you were, made of dark wood and bound with iron bands. And stamped on the side, clear and unmistakable, was the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.
You stopped a few feet away, suddenly afraid to approach. It was silly, you knew. It was just a crate. Just wood and iron and the things your mother had sent. But it felt like more than that. It felt like a message. A reminder. A lifeline thrown across the distance between Dragonstone and Oldtown, telling you that you were not forgotten.
"My lady?" A servant—a different one, a woman with kind eyes and flour on her apron—approached with a slight curtsy. "Shall I have it brought to your rooms?"
"Yes," you said, and then, because you could not help yourself, "No. Wait. I want to open it here."
The woman looked surprised, but she nodded. "As you wish, my lady. Shall I fetch a crowbar?"
"Please."
You stood there, in the middle of the courtyard, while she went to find the tools. The sun was warm on your face, warmer than it had been in days, or perhaps it only felt that way because you were happy. You were actually happy. The feeling was so unfamiliar that it took you a moment to recognize it.
When the crowbar arrived the scent hit you first.
Jasmine. Your mother's perfume. The same perfume she had worn since you were a child, the same scent that had clung to her hair when she held you, to her gowns when you pressed your face into her shoulder. It was faint, barely there, but it was enough. Your eyes stung, and you had to blink rapidly to keep the tears from falling.
And then the dresses. They were packed in layers of fine paper, each one wrapped carefully to protect the delicate fabrics. You pulled them out one by one, your breath catching in your throat each time. Silk. Chiffon. Velvet so soft it felt like water running through your fingers. The colors were breathtaking, deep violet, pale blue, crimson, silver, black, gold. Lyseni cuts, every one of them. Flowing skirts and fitted bodices and sleeves that would flutter when you walked.
These were your dresses. These were the clothes you had worn before your wedding, before Oldtown, before everything. These were the clothes that made you feel like a Targaryen princess instead of a Hightower wife.
And then, at the very bottom of the crate, you found it.
The silver-grey gown.
You lifted it from the paper with hands that shook, and the sunlight caught the beadwork, and for a moment you forgot how to breathe.
It was the most beautiful dress you had ever seen. The bodice was gathered chiffon, layer upon layer of it, so fine and sheer that it looked like morning mist made solid. Tiny silver beads traced patterns across the fabric—flowers, vines, delicate spirals that caught the light and sparkled like captured stars. The neckline was a sweetheart, low and elegant, designed to frame the collarbones and accentuate the curve of the breasts without being vulgar. The sleeves were off the shoulder, sheer and flowing, held in place by jeweled straps so fine they looked like threads of starlight. The waist was fitted, structured, creating a dramatic contrast with the flowing pleated skirt below. And the skirt was layer after layer of soft, swirling fabric that would catch the air and dance with every step you took.
It was a dress for a princess. It was a dress for a dragonrider. It was a dress for you.
You held it up against your body, right there in the courtyard, and you could not stop smiling. You probably looked ridiculous—a lady of House Hightower clutching a gown to her chest like a child with a new toy—but you did not care. You did not care about anything except the feel of the fabric beneath your fingers and the sudden, overwhelming certainty that things were going to be better now.
"Would you like to wear it, my lady?"
You looked up. The servant woman was still there, watching you with an expression that was almost a smile.
"May I?" you asked, and then realized how foolish the question was. You were the lady of the house. You did not need to ask permission. But somehow, without thinking, you had.
"Of course, my lady," the woman said. "I think it would suit you beautifully."
You dressed alone. You did not want anyone else's hands on this dress. It was too precious, too personal, too much a part of you. You slipped it over your head carefully, reverently, letting the silk whisper against your skin. You adjusted the bodice, settled the sleeves on your shoulders, smoothed the skirt down over your hips. And when you looked in the mirror—
You gasped.
You were beautiful. You spun in front of the mirror, watching the skirt flare out around you, and you laughed. A real laugh, bright and surprised, the kind of laugh you had not made since your wedding night.
And then the knock came.
"My lady?" Margot's voice, muffled through the door. "The other ladies are asking if you will join them in the solar. They have heard about the dresses and are eager to see."
You took a deep breath. You smoothed your hands down the front of your gown. And then you opened the door.
Bethany gasped first. Loud and delighted, the way only a girl could gasp. "Oh, my lady! You look like a queen!"
Ellyn was more restrained, but even she could not hide her surprise. Her eyes widened, and her mouth opened slightly before she caught herself. "It is... very fine work, my lady," she said carefully. "Lyseni, I presume?"
"Yes," you said, and your voice came out stronger than it had in weeks. "My mother sent them. I used to wear this style at court."
The walk through the Hightower was different than it had ever been before. You had walked these halls dozens of times since your wedding, head down, eyes averted, trying to take up as little space as possible. But today, in your gown, you walked with your head high. You looked people in the eye. You smiled.
And people noticed.
Servants stopped to stare as you passed. Guards straightened, their gazes lingering on you longer than was proper. A young squire dropped the sword he was carrying and had to scramble to pick it up, his face bright red. You felt their eyes on you and you did not mind. You had been invisible for weeks. It was nice to be seen.
—
Ormund found you in the solar.
It was late afternoon by then, the sun beginning its slow descent toward the horizon, painting the room in shades of gold and amber. You were sitting by the window, reading your mother's letter at last—it was full of news from Dragonstone, gossip about your brothers, questions about how you were settling in—when the door opened and he walked in.
You looked up and smiled. "Husband. I did not expect you back so early."
He did not smile back. You should have noticed that. You should have seen the storm gathering behind his eyes, the tightness in his jaw, the way his hands were clenched at his sides. But you were still floating on the happiness of the morning, still wrapped in the warmth of your mother's words and you did not see.
"Where did you get that dress?"
His voice was flat. Too flat. The kind of flat that comes before a storm.
"It was in the shipment from my mother," you said, and you heard the happiness in your own voice, bright and fragile and utterly unaware. "She sent me dresses from Lys—the kind I used to wear at court. Isn't it beautiful? I have not worn anything like it since—"
"Stand up."
You blinked. "What?"
"Stand. Up."
You stood. The letter slipped from your fingers and floated to the floor. You stood, and he looked at you, and the silence stretched out between you like a wound opening.
"Ormund," you said carefully, "is something wrong?"
He crossed the room in three strides. He grabbed your arm and pulled you toward the door.
"You will come with me," he said. "Now."
"Ormund, you are hurting me—"
"Now."
He dragged you through the corridors. You stumbled after him, your beautiful skirt tangling around your legs, your jeweled straps digging into your shoulders. Servants saw you—you knew they saw you, you saw their faces turn away, their eyes drop—and shame burned hot in your cheeks. You were the lady of the house. You were a princess of the blood. And you were being pulled through your own home like a disobedient child.
He did not speak again until the door to your chambers slammed shut behind you.
Then he let go of your arm, and you stumbled backward, catching yourself on the back of a chair. Your chest was heaving. Your heart was pounding. And when you looked at his face you barely recognized him.
"What," he said, low and dangerous, "are you wearing?"
You stared at him. "It is a dress. I told you. My mother sent—"
"Your mother." He spat the words like they tasted of poison. "Your whore of a mother sent you a whore's dress, and you decided to parade yourself through my keep in it."
The word hit you like a slap. Whore. Your mother. He had never—no one had ever—
"Don't look so shocked." He stepped closer, and you stepped back, and the chair between you felt like nothing, like paper, like a wall that would crumble at a single touch. "You know what I am talking about. You know exactly what your mother is. The whole realm knows. She spreads her legs for every man who looks at her twice, and now she cannot even control her own daughter."
"That is not true." Your voice came out thin. Reedy. Nothing like the strong, confident voice you had used all day. "My mother is not—you cannot speak of her that way. She is your future queen—"
"She is a whore." He said it flatly. Calmly. Like he was remarking on the weather. "She is a whore who put bastards in the line of succession and expected the realm to bow. She has fucked her sworn shield for years—everyone knows it, even if they are too afraid to say it—and those Strong bastards she calls sons are proof. And now she has sent her daughter to me, dressed like a common bedslave, and I am supposed to be grateful?"
Your hands were shaking. You pressed them to your stomach, trying to steady yourself. "I am not dressed like a—I am not. This is just a dress. This is the kind of dress I have always worn. You saw me in them at court. You said I was beautiful. You said—"
"I lied."
The words stopped you cold.
"I lied." He stepped closer again, and this time there was nowhere to back away to. Your shoulders hit the wall. "Of course I told you that you were beautiful. That is what men do when they are courting. We flatter. We praise. We tell you what you want to hear. And you—" His eyes raked down your body, and you felt naked, exposed, like every inch of skin was on display. "You were a maiden then. Untouched. A prize to be won. I could look at you and imagine all the things I was going to do to you once you were mine."
He paused. His tongue swept across his lower lip, and the gesture made your stomach turn.
"Do you want to know what I really thought, when I saw you in your pretty little dresses? I thought about what was underneath. I thought about tearing them off you. I thought about bending you over a chair and seeing if you were as tight as you looked. I thought about how sweet it would be to be the one who finally got to touch what you were showing everyone."
"Stop—" The word came out as a choked whisper. "Please, stop—"
"But that was then." His voice hardened. "That was when you were a maiden. That was when you were untouchable. Now you are my wife. Now you wear my name and live in my house and sleep in my bed. And my wife does not dress like a whore."
"I am not a whore." Tears were burning in your eyes now, hot and stinging. You blinked rapidly, trying to hold them back. "I am a Targaryen princess. I am a dragonrider. I am your wife, and I have done nothing wrong—"
"Nothing wrong?" He laughed, and it was an ugly sound. Ugly and cruel and nothing like the warm, charming laugh you remembered from the courtship. "You paraded yourself through the entire keep in a dress that shows your tits to every man with eyes. Guards stared at you. Servants stared at you. My squire -your own uncle- dropped his sword because he was too busy looking at your body to remember what he was doing. And you think you have done nothing wrong?"
You had not known about the squire. You had not noticed. But it did not matter. It would not have mattered. He had made up his mind about what you were, and nothing you said would change it.
"It is just a dress," you whispered. "It made me feel beautiful. It made me feel like myself. I have been wearing your dresses for weeks—your grey dresses, your heavy fabrics—and I have not complained. I have not asked for anything. I just wanted one thing that was mine. One thing that felt like home."
"Home?" He sneered the word. "You mean Dragonstone? You mean your mother's castle, where she hides her bastards and her lovers and pretends she is fit to rule? That is not home. That is a den of sin and corruption, and you are lucky I took you out of it."
"Lucky?" The word escaped you before you could stop it, high and incredulous. "You think I am lucky? You think I am grateful for this? For being dragged through the corridors like a prisoner? For being called a whore in my own home? For being married to a man who—"
"Who what?" His voice dropped to a dangerous murmur. "Who what? Say it."
You opened your mouth. You closed it. The words were there, burning on your tongue, but you could not make yourself speak them. You were afraid. You were so afraid.
"Who does not love you?" He finished the sentence for you, and his smile was terrible. "Is that what you were going to say? That I do not love you? Let me tell you something, little wife. I love you more than you deserve. I love you despite your mother, despite your reputation, despite the rumors about your parentage. Everyone knows you are not Laenor's daughter—no more than the Strong bastards are. And now you come here, dressed like a whore, and expect me to be grateful?"
"My father loved me." Your voice cracked, and the tears spilled over at last. Hot and wet, tracking down your cheeks. "Laenor Velaryon raised me. He was my father. And you will not speak of him that way."
"Laenor Velaryon was a fool." Ormund's lip curled. "He raised another man's bastards because he was too weak to do anything else. Just as your mother is too weak to control her own desires. And you are just like her. Weak. Vain. Desperate for attention. You think you are special because you have a dragon? You are nothing. You are a spoiled princess who has never had to work for anything, who has never had to serve anyone, who does not know the first thing about being a wife."
"I am not—"
"You are a piece of property." He stepped forward, and his hand came up, and for one terrible moment you thought he was going to hit you. But he did not. He touched your face instead, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with a gentleness that made your skin crawl. "My property. Your body belongs to me now. Your hair, your face, your tits, your cunt—all of it. You do not get to decide what you wear or what you show. You do not get to decide anything. You are mine. And I will not have my property parading around like a common whore."
"Let go of me."
You did not recognize your own voice. It was quiet and cold and utterly steady, nothing like the sobbing, broken girl you felt like inside.
He did not let go. His grip on your jaw tightened, just slightly. Just enough to remind you of his strength.
"You do not give me orders," he said softly. "You are my wife. You obey me. You do what I say, when I say it. And if you cannot do that—" His thumb pressed harder, digging into the soft flesh beneath your cheekbone. "Then I will teach you. I will teach you to be grateful for my attentions. I will teach you to be the wife I need you to be. And by the time I am finished, you will thank me for it."
"You are hurting me."
"I am trying to help you. But you are making it so difficult." He released your jaw, finally, and stepped back. His eyes dropped to the dress. To the silver beadwork. To the sweetheart neckline that he hated. "Take it off."
Your blood ran cold. "What?"
"Take. It. Off."
You did not move. You could not move. Your body was frozen, your mind screaming, your heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat.
"Please," you whispered. "Please, Ormund, I will not wear it again. I will put it away. I will wear whatever you want. Just please—"
"Take it off, or I will take it off for you."
You raised your hands. Your fingers were shaking so badly you could barely grip the fabric, but you tried. You tried to be good. You tried to do what he wanted. The jeweled straps slipped from your shoulders, and the bodice sagged, and then—
His patience ran out.
He grabbed the neckline with both hands and pulled.
The sound the fabric made was like a scream. A high, rending shriek of tearing silk, and then the bodice was splitting, the beadwork scattering in all directions like falling stars. You cried out and tried to pull away, but he was too strong. His hands found the seams and pulled, and the dress came apart in his grip like paper. Chiffon shredded. Beads flew. The jeweled straps snapped, the tiny stones scattering across the floor and skittering into corners where you would never find them again.
"No, no, no—" You were sobbing now, your hands batting uselessly at his arms, your voice rising to something that was almost a scream. "Please stop, please, it was a gift, it was from my mother, please—"
"Your mother." He grabbed the skirt and tore it from the waist, the pleated fabric ripping with a sound like thunder. "Your mother should have taught you how to be a wife. Instead she taught you how to be a whore."
"My mother—" You could barely speak. The words were choked with tears, your throat raw from screaming. "My mother loves me. She sent me this because she loves me—"
He laughed. It was the cruelest sound you had ever heard.
"Your mother sent you here because she wanted to get rid of you. Because you were inconvenient. Because she has her bastards to think about now, her precious Strong boys, and there was no room left for you. You were a spare. A surplus. A problem to be solved. And I solved it. I took you off her hands when no one else would."
That was when you slapped him.
You did not think about it. You did not plan it. Your hand just moved, arcing through the air and catching him across the cheek with a crack that echoed through the room. You stared at him, your palm stinging, your breath coming in ragged gasps. And he stared back at you, his head turned slightly from the force of the blow, his cheek already reddening. For a long, terrible moment, neither of you spoke.
Then he turned back to you, and his eyes—
His eyes were dead. Empty. Two pits of black that looked at you without recognition, without humanity, without anything at all.
"You should not have done that," he said quietly.
And then he reached for the rest of the dress.
You did not fight him anymore. You could not. Your body had gone limp, your strength drained, your spirit crushed into something small and broken. You stood there, shaking and crying, as he tore the remaining fabric from your body. The skirt fell away in ribbons. The underskirt followed, ripped from the waistband like paper. And then you were standing in nothing but your shift, your arms wrapped around yourself, your shoulders bare and trembling.
He stepped back. His chest was heaving. His face was flushed. And in his hands, he held the ruins of your dress. He held it up. Looked at it. Then looked at you.
Then he walked to the fireplace.
"No." The word came out as a broken whisper. "No, please. Please, Ormund. Please don't."
He threw it into the flames.
You watched it burn. The silk caught immediately, curling and blackening like a living thing in its death throes. The beadwork melted, silver droplets running down the fabric like tears. The chiffon vanished in a flash of orange, there and gone, consumed by the fire that had never felt warm, not once, not since you arrived in this cold, cold city.
You sank to your knees. You could not stop crying. Your whole body was wracked with sobs, your shoulders heaving, your hands pressed to your face to muffle the sounds. You were kneeling on the cold stone floor in nothing but your shift, surrounded by scattered beads and torn silk and the ashes of the only thing that had made you feel like yourself in weeks. And you had never felt so small in your entire life. You had never felt so alone.
And then he was there.
He knelt in front of you. His hands found your face, cupping your cheeks, tilting your head up so that you had to look at him. His expression had changed completely. The fury was gone. The cruelty was gone. In their place was something that looked almost like tenderness. Almost like love.
"See?" he said softly. Gently. As if he were comforting a frightened child. "See what you made me do?"
You stared at him through blurry eyes. You could not speak. You could not think.
"I do not want to be like this." His thumbs brushed your tears away, tracing gentle paths across your cheekbones. "I want to be a good husband to you. I want to love you, and cherish you, and protect you. But I cannot do that when you dress like a whore. You make me angry. You push me to do things I do not want to do."
You shook your head. It was a tiny, weak movement, barely perceptible. But he saw it.
"Yes," he said, and his voice was so certain, so utterly convinced of its own righteousness. "It is your fault. If you had worn what I told you to wear, if you had been a good wife, if you had simply obeyed me, none of this would have happened. I would not have had to raise my voice. I would not have had to rip the dress. You made me do this."
"I did not—" Your voice was wrecked, hoarse, barely audible. "I did not make you do anything."
"You did." He stroked your hair now, smoothing it back from your tear-stained face with a gentleness that made your stomach turn. "You know you did. You knew how I felt about those dresses. You knew I did not want you wearing them. And you wore it anyway, in front of everyone, flaunting yourself like a common—" He stopped himself. Took a breath. Softened his voice even further. "You chose to disobey me. And actions have consequences. You understand that, don't you?"
You did not answer. You could not answer. You were trapped in a nightmare, and the monster was stroking your hair and telling you it was all your fault.
"But I forgive you." He pressed a kiss to your forehead, and his lips were warm and dry, and you wanted to scrub the feeling of them off your skin. "I will always forgive you. Because I love you. Do you understand that? Everything I do, I do because I love you. If I did not love you, I would not care what you wore. I would not care who looked at you. But I do love you. I love you so much it drives me mad. And that is why I get angry. That is why I cannot control myself sometimes. Because I love you, and I cannot bear to see you make yourself look like a whore."
You were shaking your head again, but you did not know what you were denying. The words coming out of his mouth? The gentleness of his touch? The horrible, impossible reality of everything that had just happened?
"Say you are sorry," he said.
"I—"
"Say it." His grip on your chin tightened, just a fraction. Just enough to remind you that he was still in control. "Say you are sorry for what you did."
You were sorry. You were so sorry. You were sorry you had worn the dress. You were sorry you had opened the crate. You were sorry you had been happy, even for a moment. You were sorry you had ever come to Oldtown, ever said yes to his courtship, ever believed him when he looked at you with hunger in his eyes and told you it was love.
"I am sorry," you whispered.
The words tasted like ash.
"Good girl." He kissed your forehead again. "Good girl. I forgive you."
He pulled you into his arms. He held you against his chest, one hand cradling the back of your head, and you could feel his heartbeat. Steady. Calm. Satisfied.
"See?" he murmured into your hair. "It is over now. It is over. I love you. I love you so much."
You could smell the smoke from the fireplace. The ashes of your dress. The death of the girl you used to be.
"I will always take care of you," he said. "I will always forgive you. But you have to learn. You have to be better. You have to be the wife I need you to be. Do you understand?"
You nodded against his chest. You did not know what else to do.
"Say it."
"I understand." Your voice did not sound like your own. It was hollow. Empty. A shell of the voice that had laughed in the dragonpit this morning.
"Good girl." He stroked your hair. "Good girl. We are going to be happy together. I promise you. We are going to be so happy."
He held you there, in front of the dying fire where your dress was ash, and you cried into his chest until you had no tears left and when he finally pulled back and tilted your face up to look at him, you let him see the tears drying on your cheeks and the emptiness in your eyes, and you did not flinch when he smiled.
"There," he said. "That is better. That is my good, obedient wife."
He kissed you. Softly. Tenderly. The kiss of a lover, not a monster.
And you did not pull away.
Because you were learning. You were learning to be the wife he needed you to be. You were learning to smile when you wanted to scream, to nod when you wanted to fight, to say "I love you" when what you really meant was "I am afraid of you."
It was easier than admitting that you had made the worst mistake of your life, and you did not know how to undo it.
Part of 'The Whore' au but can be read as a stand-alone
The afternoon was quiet and golden, the kind of afternoon that seemed to exist outside of time.
You were curled up in your favorite chair by the window, your legs tucked beneath you, a heavy book resting in your lap. It was a history of Old Valyria, borrowed from the Citadel's vast library at Ormund's request, he had written to the archmaesters on your behalf, knowing how you loved to read about your ancestral homeland. You had been reading for the better part of an hour, lost in tales of dragonlords and sorcerers and the Doom that had ended them all, when a strange, sweet smell pulled you back to the present.
You looked up, Ormund was sitting at his desk across the solar, but he was not working. The ledgers and letters that usually consumed his attention had been pushed aside, and in their place was a small wooden box, its lid open, and a collection of items that you did not recognize. There was a small ceramic bowl, a thin-bladed knife, and a bundle of dried leaves that looked almost like the tea your mother sometimes drank, but darker. More fragrant. The sweet, herbal scent you had noticed was coming from them.
He was focused on his task, his brow furrowed in concentration, his fingers moving with practiced precision. You watched him for a moment, curiosity stirring. You had never seen him do anything quite like this before.
"What are you doing?" you asked, closing your book and setting it aside.
He glanced up, and a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Nothing that should interrupt your reading, my love. Go back to your dragons and your doom."
"You have interrupted my reading already." You uncurled yourself from the chair and crossed the room toward him, your bare feet silent on the thick Myrish carpet. "What is that smell? It is sweet. Like flowers, but… different."
He leaned back in his chair as you approached, making no move to hide what he was doing. As you drew closer, you could see the items on his desk more clearly. The dried leaves were a deep green, almost brown, and they had been crushed into small, even pieces. The ceramic bowl was shallow, and beside it lay what looked like a thin wooden pipe, ornately carved with patterns you did not recognize.
"Herbs," he said simply. "From Lys."
"From Lys?" You stopped beside his chair, peering down at the strange collection. "What kind of herbs?"
He picked up one of the dried leaves and held it out to you. You took it carefully, turning it over between your fingers. It was light and brittle, and the sweet scent clung to your skin. "I have never seen anything like this before," you admitted. "What is it for?"
"It helps me relax." He took the leaf back from you and dropped it into the ceramic bowl. "Calms the mind. Eases tension. When the duties of ruling become… particularly heavy, sometimes a man needs assistance letting go of them."
You watched as he began to pack the crushed leaves into the bowl of the wooden pipe, his movements slow and deliberate. "I have never seen you use it before," you said. "Not once. In all the months we have been married."
"Because I rarely use it." He glanced up at you, and his eyes were warm, crinkling at the corners. "It is very strong. Too strong for daily use. I only take it when I know I have a free day ahead of me—no meetings, no audiences, no duties that require a clear head. It is not the kind of thing one indulges in lightly."
"And today?" You rested your hand on the back of his chair, leaning slightly closer. "Do you have a free day?"
"Today," he said, "I have cleared my schedule entirely. No meetings. No letters. No interruptions." He reached up and caught your hand, lifting it to his lips to press a kiss to your knuckles. "I thought I might spend the day with my wife. If she is not too busy reading about the Doom of Valyria."
You felt a flush of pleasure at his words. "You cleared your whole day? For me?"
"For us." He released your hand and returned to his task. "You have been patient with me lately. I have been too busy, too distracted. I thought we deserved a day with nothing to do but enjoy each other's company."
"That is very sweet," you said, and meant it.
"But now I have been caught." He smiled, a self-deprecating expression. "You were supposed to be engrossed in your book. I was going to step onto the balcony, have my little indulgence, and return before you even noticed I was gone."
"I would have noticed." You settled onto the arm of his chair, your hip pressing against his shoulder. "I always notice when you are gone."
"I know you do." His hand found your knee, warm and familiar through the silk of your gown. "You are very observant, my love. It is one of your many excellent qualities."
You watched as he finished packing the pipe and lifted it to his lips. He struck a flint and lit the herbs, and the sweet smell intensified, filling the air around you. He inhaled slowly, his eyes closing, his shoulders relaxing almost imperceptibly. When he exhaled, the smoke curled upward in a thin, pale ribbon, dissipating into the golden afternoon light.
"There," he said, his voice slightly rougher than before. "That is better."
You were fascinated. You had never seen anything like this, your mother had never used such things, nor anyone else at court that you could remember. The scent was intoxicating, sweet and earthy and somehow familiar, though you could not place why. "What does it feel like?" you asked, curiosity getting the better of you.
He opened his eyes and looked at you. His gaze was slightly softer now, slightly more relaxed. "It feels like letting go of a weight you did not realize you were carrying. The sharp edges of the world smooth themselves away." He took another slow inhale, then offered the pipe to you. "Would you like to try?"
You blinked, surprised. "Me?"
"You." He smiled at your expression. "You look very curious, my love. And there is no harm in it. It is not dangerous—just relaxing. Very, very relaxing."
"I have never…" You hesitated, looking at the pipe. "I do not know how."
"Then I will teach you." He set the pipe down in the ceramic bowl and reached for your hand. "Come here."
He guided you off the arm of the chair and onto his lap, settling you sideways across his thighs. His arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you comfortably against him, and you let yourself lean into his warmth. This was familiar territory—sitting in his lap, being held by him, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek. Whatever nervousness you had felt about the strange herbs began to fade.
"There," he murmured, his lips brushing your temple. "Comfortable?"
"Yes," you admitted.
"Good. Now." He picked up the pipe and held it to his own lips, inhaling deeply. But instead of exhaling, he turned your face toward his with a gentle finger under your chin.
"Open your mouth," he said softly. "Just a little."
Your eyes widened, but you obeyed. He leaned close and pressed his lips to yours, and instead of a kiss, he breathed the smoke into your mouth. It was warm and sweet, and you inhaled instinctively, drawing it into your lungs. The sensation was strange but not unpleasant, and when he pulled back, you found yourself blinking in surprise.
"There," he said, his thumb brushing your lower lip. "That was not so difficult, was it?"
"That is not how I thought you would do it," you said, your voice slightly breathless.
He laughed, low and warm. "There are other ways. But I find this one to be far more enjoyable. Shall we try again?"
You nodded, feeling a flush creep up your cheeks. This time, when he inhaled and leaned toward you, you were ready. Your lips met his halfway, and the smoke passed between you like a secret. You inhaled more deeply this time, holding it in your lungs for a moment before letting it out in a soft, shaky exhale.
"Good girl," he murmured, and his voice was like honey. "You are a natural."
The world was beginning to feel different. The golden afternoon light seemed to glow more brightly, and the sweet scent of the herbs wrapped around you like a blanket. You felt your muscles relaxing, your thoughts slowing, the constant low hum of anxiety that you had not even realized you were carrying beginning to fade away.
"I feel strange," you said, and your voice sounded distant to your own ears. "But… in a good way. A very good way."
"That is the herbs." His hand was stroking your back now, slow and soothing, tracing the line of your spine through your gown. "They are doing exactly what they are supposed to do. Tell me what you feel."
You considered the question, letting your head rest against his shoulder. "I feel… soft. Like everything is soft. The light, the air, your voice. All of it. And I feel very warm. Very comfortable. I feel like I could stay here forever and never move again."
"That sounds lovely." He pressed a kiss to your forehead, and his lips lingered there for a long moment. "What else?"
"I feel…" You opened your eyes and looked up at him. His face was inches from yours, and in the golden light, he looked almost like a painting. The lines around his eyes, the curve of his mouth, the way he was looking at you with such tenderness—it all seemed more vivid than usual. More beautiful. "I feel very aware of you," you admitted, and your voice dropped to something quieter, more intimate. "Of your hands. Your heartbeat. The way you smell. Everything about you."
"Is that so?" His smile deepened, and his hand slid from your back to your hip, squeezing gently. The pressure of his fingers sent a shiver through you that had nothing to do with the cold.
"It is," you said, and the words came out more earnestly than you intended. "I am always aware of you, but right now it is… more. Much more. I can feel every place your body is touching mine. I can feel your breath on my skin. I can feel—" You stopped, your cheeks flushing.
"Can feel what?" His voice was a low murmur now, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. The sensation made you shiver again, a full body tremor that you could not suppress.
"I can feel how much I love you," you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. "It is like it is filling me up. Like there is no room for anything else."
"You are going to make me weep, wife. And I am supposed to be the one taking care of you."
"You are taking care of me," you said. "You are always taking care of me."
He kissed you then, slow and deep and full of feeling, his lips moving against yours with a tenderness that made your heart ache. His hand came up to cup your face, tilting your head to the perfect angle, and you melted into him completely. The herbs had made everything softer, more vivid, more intense, and his kiss felt like drowning and flying all at once.
When he finally pulled back, you were both breathing harder. Your lips felt swollen, your heart was racing, and a warmth had begun to pool low in your belly, spreading outward like ripples in still water.
"I think," he said, his forehead resting against yours, "that these herbs affect you even more strongly than they affect me."
"Perhaps," you agreed, but your voice came out breathless and uneven. "Or perhaps it is just you."
His eyes darkened at that, and his hand tightened on your hip. "Flatterer," he murmured, but there was nothing teasing in his voice now. Only heat.
He kissed you again, deeper this time, his fingers tangling in your hair. You clung to his shoulders, overwhelmed by the intensity of it, the taste of him, the scent of the herbs still lingering in the air, the way his body felt solid and warm beneath your hands. Every nerve in your body felt heightened, electrified. The brush of his thumb against your cheekbone sent sparks cascading down your spine. The pressure of his lips on yours made your toes curl.
When he pulled back this time, you let out a small, involuntary sound of protest. He smiled, slow and knowing, and his thumb traced the curve of your lower lip.
"What was that?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.
"Nothing," you said quickly, your face burning. "I did not say anything."
"You made a sound." His hand slid from your face down to your throat, feather-light, barely touching. "A very pretty sound. Did you want something, my love?"
You shook your head, but your body betrayed you. Your hips shifted on his lap, pressing closer to him without your permission, and you felt his hand tighten on your waist in response.
"Are you certain?" He leaned in, his lips brushing the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then the sensitive spot just below your ear. Each kiss was light, teasing, maddeningly gentle. "Because it seems to me that you are feeling something. Something more than just relaxed."
"Ormund," you breathed, and his name came out like a plea.
"Yes, my love?" His mouth was on your neck now, trailing slow, open-mouthed kisses down the column of your throat. His beard scraped lightly against your skin, a delicious friction that made you gasp. "Tell me what you want. I am listening."
You could not think. You could barely breathe. His lips were on your collarbone now, and his hand had slipped beneath the hem of your gown, his palm warm against your bare calf. He stroked upward slowly, achingly slowly, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin that made you tremble.
"I want…" You swallowed hard, trying to gather your scattered thoughts. "I want you to keep touching me."
"I am touching you," he murmured against your throat. His hand had reached your knee now, and his thumb was tracing slow circles on the sensitive skin at the back of your leg. "Is this not enough?"
"No," you admitted, your voice breaking on the word. "I want more. I want—"
He lifted his head and looked at you. His eyes were dark, heav lidded, full of desire and something tender and possessive all at once. "You want more," he repeated. "More of what? Be specific, my love. I want to hear you say it."
Your face was burning. The herbs had loosened your inhibitions, but not enough to make this easy. "I want your hands on me," you whispered. "Everywhere. I want you to touch me the way you touch me at night, when we are alone. I want—"
You could not finish. The words were too bold, too shameless. You buried your face against his shoulder, overwhelmed by your own boldness.
He laughed softly, and the sound vibrated through his chest. "My shy little wife," he murmured, his hand sliding higher up your leg. "The herbs have made you brave, haven't they? You would never say such things to me without them."
"I might," you protested, your voice muffled against his shirt.
"You might," he agreed, but his tone was teasing. "But I am enjoying this very much. You, sitting in my lap, trembling for me. Telling me exactly what you want. It is very… enticing."
His hand reached the top of your thigh and stopped, his fingers resting just below the edge of your smallclothes. You held your breath, waiting, wanting, your whole body taut with anticipation.
"Look at me," he said.
You raised your head from his shoulder and met his eyes. His expression was intense, focused, utterly consuming.
"Good girl," he murmured. "Now. Tell me again. What do you want?"
"Your hands," you said, your voice steadier now. "Your mouth. All of you. I want you to make me feel the way you always make me feel."
"And how is that?"
"Wanted." The word came out on a sigh. "Cherished. Desired. Like I am the only woman in the world."
"You are the only woman in the world," he said, and his voice was rough with sincerity. "You are the only woman who has ever mattered. The only woman I have ever loved like this."
He kissed you again, and this time there was nothing teasing about it. His mouth claimed yours with a hunger that made your head spin, and his hands were everywhere at once, in your hair, on your back, sliding up your thigh, cupping your breast through the silk of your gown. You arched into his touch, little sounds escaping your throat that you could not control, your fingers clutching at his shoulders, his neck, his hair.
"Ormund," you gasped against his mouth. "Please."
"Please what?"
"Please—"
But you could not finish. His hand had found the laces of your gown, and he was tugging them loose with practiced fingers, and the silk was sliding off your shoulders, and his mouth was following the fabric downward, kissing every inch of newly bared skin. Your breasts, your stomach, the curve of your waist. You were trembling uncontrollably now, your head falling back, your fingers tangled in his hair.
"Beautiful," he murmured against your skin. "So beautiful. Do you know what you do to me? Do you have any idea?"
"I—" You could not form words. His mouth had found your nipple, and his tongue was tracing slow circles around the sensitive peak, and coherent thought had become impossible.
"I love the sounds you make," he said, his voice a low rumble against your breast. "I love the way you tremble. I love the way you say my name, like a prayer, like a plea, like I am the only thing in the world that matters to you."
"You are," you breathed. "You are."
He lifted his head and looked at you, and his expression was so full of love that it made your heart ache. "And you are everything to me. Everything."
He kissed you again, slow and deep, and his hands continued their exploration of your body—touching, stroking, teasing, learning you all over again. The herbs had made everything more intense, more vivid, more overwhelming. Every touch felt like fire. Every kiss felt like a promise.
"Come," he murmured against your lips. "Let us go to bed. I want to take my time with you. I want to make you feel so good you forget your own name."
"I do not think I can walk," you admitted, your legs feeling weak and unsteady.
"Then I will carry you." He stood, lifting you in his arms as if you weighed nothing at all. You wrapped your arms around his neck and buried your face against his shoulder, your body still trembling with unfulfilled desire.
"I love you," you whispered against his skin.
"I love you too," he said, carrying you toward the bedchamber. "More than anything. More than everything. And I am going to spend the rest of the day showing you exactly how much."
House of the Dragon: Ormund Hightower x Targtower!reader
Rating: Explicit (MDNI)
WC: 2.5k
HOTD Masterlist
Tags/Warnings: Incest (second cousins), uncle/niece roleplay, age gap (reader is 19, and Ormund is in his late 30's), power imbalance, spanking, religious guilt, bathing, scent kink, fingering, penetration, masturbation, sacrilege. no use of y/n, reader is mentioned to have silver hair, no beta we die like Luke :(
A/n: IDK I'm just horny for Ormund, and anytime I can write uncle/niece, I'm gonna do it. I'm team neutral, so please don't bring black vs green dynamics onto my blog or fics. Comments, reblogs, and likes are always appreciated. Let me know if you'd like to be added to any tag lists! My asks are always open.
Summary: No one can test Lord Ormund's patience quite like you can.
Shimmer circled the stronghold, her pearlescent scales glittering in the dim light as the sun set in the sky. You were not meant to be flying out on her after dark, but you were never one for following the rules, Much to Ormund's ire. Hobert had given you a longer leash, spoiling you as your grandfather had in the Red Keep before you and Daeron were sent to ward in Oldtown. You tested Ormund's patience more than your dear sweet twin, Daeron. You liked to believe the Targaryen blood pumped hotter through your veins. She swooped down on your command, landing on the blackstones, alerting the guards to your arrival. You slipped down her wing, landing gracefully on your feet before striding with ease and confidence into the base of the Hightower.
"You reek of that beast," Ormund scowled the moment you set foot inside, peering down at you from the balcony. He removed the silver pomander from his doublet and inhaled the citrus and clove scent of the tightly packed satchel nestled inside.
"I've grown used to it; it does not bother me," you replied with a shrug of your shoulders, a long silver braid falling down your back. Those eyes remained on you like a hawk. While you thought only Targaryen blood rushed through your veins, he saw the Hightower breaking through. The Blood of the First Men. Mayhaps that's why he favored you and Daeron so. Mayhaps he wished to remove Aegon and Aemond from the succession and crown Daeron instead.
"I've had a bath prepared for you," he stated, beckoning you closer with a crooked finger as he descended the winding staircase to meet you halfway.
"How kind of you, Uncle," you said sweetly, peering up at him. He wasn't, not truly, but you preferred to call him that over cousin. Especially since the term got under his skin so easily. He grasped your chin firmly once you were close enough.
"We have talked about this. I do not want you flying alone, unprotected," he lectured, a disapproving look etched across his face.
"Shimmer may look pretty, but she is fearsome. She bit the finger off my nursemaid when she hatched."
"Only you would brag of such brutal behavior." However, his lips twitched in amusement in remembrance of the Hightower guard who grabbed your arms and sequentially lost his to the jaws of your pearly beast. Not even he could deny the thrill he got when you obeyed his orders to lay dragonfire to traitors of the crown. Mayhaps the one time he could stand the smell of burnt flesh.
You huffed. "If anything, I learned the art of brutality from you."
"You are a wicked girl. You should go to the sept and repent for your sins."
"Or you could correct my ways, Uncle."
"That is a dangerous game. We agreed to stop."
"Mayhaps I was too hasty in my agreement to that. I have missed it, I have missed you. Gods know I need a firm hand to guide lest I turn into a feral dragon myself," you whispered, peering up at him through your lashes.
"I should take my belt to you," he warned, fingers digging into the flesh of your jaw. He had never once struck you in your younger years and never dared to lay a finger upon your precious twin.
"While I kneel in front of the altar? Leaving welts over my skin for atonement?" You truly were a wicked little thing, and Gods, he would follow you straight into the Seven Hells.
A shiver ran through him, briefly closing his eyes as he imagined you prostrate on the hard stones in front of the blazing altar as his cane struck your tender backside. Welts blooming over your skin as he thrashed your dragonhide, seeing if he could make you break. He abhorred yet welcomed a challenge. His hand fell away from your jaw, and he clenched your upper arms, shaking you gently.
"Seven Hells, you drive me to the brink of madness, little niece," he groaned. What mortal man could resist your temptation?
You smiled, arousal gathering between your thighs, and suddenly your riding leathers felt awfully restrictive.
"Shall you punish me before or after my bath?" you teased.
"I suppose I can bear that wretched stench a bit longer." He hauled you off, one hand furled tight around your bicep as he dragged you down the halls and into your chambers, barking at the handmaidens to leave. He stood nearly a head taller than you, and it made your knees weak. You never cared for silly boys; you yearned for a man. When you had turned eight and ten, you tested the waters with him. He had been widowed two years before and had not taken a second wife yet. His children were more suitable to be your companions than he was. Yet that stopped neither of you from toppling into the forbidden. More taboo for him than you. Targaryens had long made a practice of incent.
You glanced over at the tub filled to the brim, steaming billows from it, and the retracted partition resting at the lip. It was decorated with numerous dragons in flight over blooming orchards with trees filled with ripe fruit. You loved it. It had been a gift from Ormund on your previous nameday. He rewarded as much as he disciplined. You could smell the scent of roses. He preferred you sweet to counteract your surliness. Your muscles ached for the warm waters, always enjoying a long soak after riding your mount.
Ormund wasted no time in ripping your riding coat open. It was made of green wool, lined with black silk, and kept fastened with golden buttons shaped like the Hightower. The sweat and smell of burnt meat were pungent on your clothing.
"Now what was that pretty dragon of yours burning?" he hummed, working your green tunic over your head, leaving your top half bare to his ravenous eyes. At least you and Daeron had been blessed with pretty dragons, well kept and gleaming, and not some of these rank beasts, like the one Aemond flew. Ormund detested the hoary bitch.
"She grows hungry during a flight," you replied simply.
"Answer the question. Have you been pilfering the livestock again?"
"A sheep, a pig. Though she longs for an aurochs."
"I'm hardly surprised. She has the same spoiled taste as her rider." He pushed you into the chair and knelt to remove your boots, wrinkling his nose at the mud and what was most likely dung clinging to them. The gag he let out was so dramatic that you had to clamp your hand over your mouth to muffle your laughter. He placed them outside your doors and ordered one of the handmaidens to clean them thoroughly. When he returned to the spot in front of you, he removed his ornate doublet and rolled the sleeves of his undertunic up his strong forearms. Veins prominent, and your teeth yearned to sink into him. To feel his blood fill your mouth and seep into yours.
You squeaked as he yanked your breeches off with such force that you had to dig your hands into the arms of the chair to keep from toppling out. He yanked you onto your feet, taking seat before yanking you over his lap. Your hardened nipples scraped over the fabric of his breeches as his palm rested on your upturned rump, gently kneading your flesh. The first crack felt like dragonfire searing your skin. A strained gasp toppled from your lips. You had goaded him into it after all.
Each smack lighted a fresh fire over your exposed skin. You gritted your teeth, doing your best to control yourself. Though you suspected he enjoyed it when you caused a fuss. Handprints blazed on your skin, and you nearly sighed with relief when his hand stilled. Shimmer's roar could be heard, shaking the walls as she mirrored your pain.
"Fetch me your hairbrush," he ordered, stroking the back of your thighs.
"N…no, Uncle, please," you begged, not sure you could take much more, even though moments earlier you were encouraging him to strike you with his belt.
"I want you to feel this on the morrow when you are in the saddle," he growled, squeezing your abused backside. "I want to bruise you."
Heat lapped in your lower belly, a twitch making your pearl ache. Slowly, you pushed yourself up with your hands braced against his strong thigh, retrieved the silver brush from your vanity, and watched his large hand wrap around the handle. Your knees nearly gave out. You hated it, yet you craved it. He was everything you needed. Everything you wanted; the full attention of a man who could control you when you needed it. He was your rider, and you were his dragon.
The strikes against your flesh cracked through the room, salty tears spilling from your eyes as your Uncle tenderized your flesh, cutting through that thick dragonhide of yours. It was divine.
"There, there, sweet niece," he cooed, stroking your abused flesh before gathering you in his arms and letting you sob into his chest. Yearning to crawl inside his skin, to dig your talons in. Despite the pain and humiliation, arousal clung to your thighs, and the smell beckoned him. Tangy and sharp, like a plum.
He carried you over to the bath, carefully lowering you into the balmy waters. Pink rose petals floated around you. You hissed softly as your sore arse grew used to the temperature before the pain began to subside slowly. He unbraided your hair, untangling it with the brush he had used to spank you with before having you close your eyes as he poured the water jug over your scalp. There was a mixture made of plant lye he preferred to use to clean your hair, gently lathering it up with his skilled fingers. After he rinsed it, he applied a thin lotion made from boiled goat's milk and jasmine to soften your hair.
His brow knitted together as he made you stand, before methodically scrubbing every inch of your body. The dip of the sponge between your thighs made you shiver. Ormund breathed in deeply, a soft smile crossing his face as the dragon stench disappeared from your skin. Your freshly scrubbed skin was glowing, and your hair gleamed like molten silver. Tenderly, he dried you off, skimming his fingertips over your abused bottom. Bruises were already forming, and he felt satisfied with his work.
He moved you in front of the mirror, turning you slightly so you could see the marks he had seared on your skin. You groaned, peering over your shoulder and knowing riding tomorrow would be painful. You took hold of his wrist, lifting his palm to your mouth and kissing the rough skin that had struck you moments earlier.
"Thank you, Uncle," you murmured.
His fingers tangled in your wet hair, pulling you close and crashing his mouth against yours. The air left your lungs, head spinning.
"You have me under a spell, niece. Sent by the Gods to torment me."
"I could think of worse punishments," you teased, panting softly.
"I no longer wish to sully you. I will take you to wife," he whispered, gazing into your eyes.
"Truly?"
"The least I can do is make you an honorable woman. I cannot bear the thought of another man putting his hands on you. You are mine." His fingers dug painfully into your sore skin. Mayhaps if he wed you, the Gods would forgive him for all his sins. To save a young maiden from toppling further down the path of ruin.
"I have always been yours, Uncle."
He lifted you into his arms, your strong thighs looping around his waist as he carried you toward the bed. You were placed on your belly, his mouth pressing soft, eager kisses down your shoulders and back, then over your reddened backside, a smattering of violet bruises decorating the areas he struck the hardest. His face lowered against the curve of your arse, nose nudging against your cunt, before he pulled away to remove his clothing. The fresh, clean scent of your skin made his cock stiff. How delicious and pure you smelled. His little dragon now a soft, docile lamb for him to ravage. He rolled you onto your back, pulling you close to him as his cock nudged against your opening.
"We will repent together in the morning, side by side, sweet niece. On our knees, begging for forgiveness," he whispered before plunging deep inside you.
"Yes, Uncle," you purred.
He set a steady pace, each thrust making the pressure in your belly build until finally it released. His cock glistened with your wetness as he spilled his seed onto the floor. He had sinned enough for one day; he would save that for when you became his wife, and he would fill you with many babes. Ormund held you in his lap once more, kneading your breasts and pinching your nipples until you had a second release with his fingers buried deep inside. Your nectar coated his skin, and there was a brief moment he wished to bottle the scent. To unscrew the lid and breathe in his niece's sweet ambrosia, fresh from her cunt. After, he dressed you in a silk nightgown and brushed your hair before tucking you into bed.
"It will be cold tonight, snuggle up. Pleasant dreams, sweet niece," he whispered in your ear, his voice making your flesh tingle as he tucked the soft fur around you.
The next morning, you dressed demurely in a pale pink gown with pearls around your wrists, dangling from your ears, and clinging to the hollow of your throat. You appeared as an innocent maiden, silver hair tightly braided around your head, covered with a netted pearl snood, as you knelt beside your Uncle and lit a candle, then snuffed out the match with a soft breath. You clasped your hands tightly together, bowing your head in reverence.
"May the Maiden forgive me for my lustful desires," you whispered. "May she protect me from them until I am married."
A smirk curved over Ormund's face, but he kept his eyes closed, head bowed thoughtfully in his own prayers.
"May the Father guide me onto a more righteous path and send proper punishment to correct me when needed," you murmured sweetly.
One hand furled tightly around your throat, squeezing pleasantly and forcing you to peer into your Uncle's blue eyes. "Again, until you mean it." He pressed your hands against the altar, bending you forward and rolling your dress up around your waist.
He unlaced his breeches, withdrawing his cock and stroking himself to the sight of your bruised arse and the sweet sounds of your prayers of repentance. His seed sparkled on the webbed bruising on your backside, swirls of green, purple, and dark blue. He adjusted himself without a word, leaving you to your prayers before sending his men to hunt down an aurochs for your dragon. He didn't need another hungry dragon testing his patience.
He has yet to turn and look at you, which was starting to make your blood boil. Believing septas over your word? Over his own blood?
“Thank you, for bringing this delicate matter to me.” His hands rested over the sword at his hip. Tapping at the hilt like he was considering the matter. You watched his jaw clench before he tilted his head and brow towards you. Now ready for your rebuttal. Your reason as to why the septas claim that you were no longer pure was untrue.
“he spoke to me first.”
“Yet you continue the conversation? Alone wish a man? Have the seven not guided tiu against exactly that?.” He’d accepted you and Daeron years ago, and you knew things were calmer here than in the red keep, you were greatful for Lord Ormunds kindness and guidance. You did not want him thinking you just tossed aside what’s been taught to you here.
“it was but for a moment, Cousin, you must believe me, nothing unseemly transpired.”
“Then you are still a maiden?”
“yes.” Your voice left no room for question. “I swear it to you and I’d swear it in front of the seven.”
“leave us,” his eyes did not move from yours as he addressed the women. “I shall determine what the truth of the matter is.”
“they sensationalize it.” You grumbled when the septas left. this was all ridiculous in your mind.
“then you can prove yourself honest?” He sat back in his cushioned seat and set a ringed hand against the wood of his desk.
“If I must, yes!”
You realized, delayed, how exactly your cousin meant for you to prove your maidenhead was still intact. His thick finger tapped at the wood infront of him.
“sit here, after your gown and everything else is off.”
“Ormund!?” He does not retreat at your appal.
Shame seared through you as you removed all your layers. It was stuck in your throat until you turned to face him and suddenly, just as his eyes cast over you, that ball moved lower…past your chest settling low in your stomach. Where it’s wasn’t shame at all anymore, but roaring need. Your thighs squeezed slightly when you got yourself up on the desk before him.
He waited a beat and then moved to speak again. You slivered your knees open the moment you saw his jaw tense. You knew he did not appreciate repeating himself. He could see just enough to know that the hair between your legs matched that on your head.
“further.” You shifted your hands to brace behind you and lifted time feet up so your heels pressed to the oak and your knees opened fully for him.
You were so warm but this point that the room felt cold against your most private area. Even the air that came though his nose as he leaned closer to examine you made your body clench against itself.
“You are quite aroused.” He remarked, stating his first finding. You were pink and swollen but from what he could tell it was just your body’s natural state, you did not look raw as he knew woman could get after coupling.
“Is that because you let some lord touch you in the hall? Did he kiss at your neck and make promises that you are far to smart to think he would actually keep?”
“no!” Your voice shook and your bottom squirmed a bit. The movement pushing your scent towards him. His eyes closed for a long moment, taking in a deep breath and holding it to soak up all of your scent that he could.
“ I did not let anybody touch me. I wouldn’t.” You gritted out. It was not lost on him that you were sat here now, propriety far from your mind as you let him view you. Your soft breasts and the line of your waist and hipszzzthag there urging him to touch you even to prove that the claims against you were untrue.
Ormund opened his eyes at your pleading and his brow raised. “Eager…like a whore is. Like a woman who knows what being this wet and getting stuffed results in.”
You shook your head in response, worried that any words you spoke would come out to heated. The truth was you did not know, but Lord Ormund would see to it that you understood by the time you left his study.
By the time that your cousins hands settled on your breasts you were breathing so fast it looked as if you’d just sprinted up the entire tower.
His thumb rolled over one of your semi hard nipples. “We all see how you dress when new lord come to visit…how you get your maids to pull the corset tighter so these sit at your neck.” He knew it was natural for a lady to want to be viewed as beautiful but he found it reprehensible that you had opted to flaunt what should be private.
The man’s eyes traced a path down your body for his hand to follow and you let out a shameful whimper when both of his hand stopped squeezing at your chest. You found you wanted more of his attention there.
As his hands trailed up and down your inner thighs, watching little beads of rural spread over your puffy folds be scoffed tk the edge of his chair, making his face quite level. Your heart jumped at how close he was, at how he could see and smell everything.
“I do not wish to be disappointed in you Princess.” He informed, a cheek settling against your inner thigh and his nose nudge into the crevasse between your pelvis and leg.
“you will not be, i swear i-it! His fingers, thick and sure, gliding up your slit made your voice tremble. His finger circling the button at the top of your womanhood made you forget how to even form words!
“you enjoy that?” He hums eyes looking from your lap to your face.
“use your words princess.” Something in the way he said that word. Princess. Made you moan, and it was not held back by your lips.
“yes…yes it feels strange…but good.” You admit as your eyes pool into ormunds as he circles your pearl for a while longer. He wanted to ensure you were quite aroused, incase what you you said was true.
The moment he pushed your leg open a bit more you knew what he was about to do. You knew where your maidenhead was and now that his fingers were aligned with your core you grew nervous.
“it will hurt-“ you worry and he leans forward, to the flattened and he flicks it over your clit to distract you from the forward motion of his finger.
“ahh!” You tense around him and a hand flys down to his shoulder to grip it. He was so lost in the taste of you that he almost let a second finger nuzzle into you.
“Let’s see,” he remembered himself, remembered that this was all suppose to be to check your virtues. He pressed his finger deeper, carefully moving it without you and he felt the soft skin that was still intact within you. Still proof that you’d been honest with him.
“Did you just want my finger in you? Your cunt in my face?” He questioned, retracting his fingers before he could get carried away and cause issue. “Is that why you flounce through the halls with men?”
“no…” you whine because he’s taken back up rubbing your clit and a very strange, strong feeling was building up.
“you enjoy it though…” his hand moving faster and he grabbed your hip to settle your bottom down against the desk. “You are going to cum against my palm aren’t you princess?”
You fall back flat against the desk groaning loudly, legs lifting up slightly unsure where to go because you wanted to close them but he was there, he was expertly dragging your first orgasm to the surface.
“Cousin-I…it’s strange!” He grins at the panic in your voice. The proof that you’d not even been sullied by your own hand.
“settle now…lest the septas to hear.” He warned. Fingers not wavering until you’d put nail marks into his desk as the climax burst through you.
⚔︎ ── From the day you were born, you had always been independent. Plenty of times had you pushed your husband away in order to do things your way. Yet, when you come back from Rooksrest, the only thing you want to do is seek comfort in his arms.
The wind whipped against your face as you soared above the clouds. Your braid, which had once been so tightly secured that it caused a headache, was now loose and unruly, with flyaways disrupting your view. Your silver locks had been dyed a brownish-red color, stained with the blood of the enemy. The blood had dried crusty and uncomfortably, with no doubt that it will be difficult to scrub off of your body.
The battle was all you could think of as you rode back from Rooksrest. What was meant to be an ambush against one of Rhaenyras dragons — if necessary — had turned into the potential demise of the King himself. Aegon had flown to the battlefield with no experience on the matter, trying to save what little respect, if any, the realm held for him. Truly, you had no experience either. Only being 10 and 9, you had never seen the realm in such a state. However, your dragon has, and you permitted him to act independently with you as an overseer. You could still smell the flesh. The immense heat of the flames crackled and popped, accompanied by the screams of those unfortunate enough to be caught in the inferno. It was a sound you wished you would never hear again, yet you knew you would. You would hear and smell it for the rest of your life, whether it be long or short. Thousands of lives were lost that day. Friend and foe alike.
Rhaenys Targaryen — The Queen Who Never Was — had fallen. Crushed under the weight of her own dragon as they tumbled down from the sky together after an attack from Vhagar. It saddened you to watch such a formidable duo as they struck the ground in a fiery explosion. She was undeniably brave, and you couldn’t deny her willingness to fight to the death for what she believed was right, even if she was fighting on the wrong side. You had left shortly after, climbing upon your dragon and ordering him to head back to camp. You were well aware of Aemond’s volatile nature whenever he became worked up, and frankly, you did not wish to witness his anger. You were lucky that he did not turn on you as he did his own brother, who lay burnt and ruined next to the half dead Sunfyre. Another beautiful creature soon to be claimed by the dark hands of War.
Your own dragon — who fortunately escaped unscathed from the tussle — screeched with restlessness as he soared over the hills. His large wings beat as fast as they could, and you could sense his eagerness to land and rest. You could not blame him. Your bones ached from being tossed and turned in your saddle. A deep cut had been inflicted on your shoulder by a soldier who had unexpectedly attacked you, only to be swallowed whole by your dragon. The healers would undoubtedly scold you for your carelessness or deliver another lecture on why the battlefield was an unsuitable environment for a woman like yourself, as they had before, and you would surely introduce them to your dragon. However, you could not predict Ormunds reaction.
“Bē konīr..” You whispered as your dragon soared even faster than before.
When you spotted the Hightower camp in the distance, your head rested on the front of the saddle. While it wasn’t home, far from it, you had grown fond of it. Nestled safely in the hills, surrounded by nothing but trees for miles, the camp was strategically chosen. It would easily conceal your dragon and Tessarion if necessary. Your dragon, with its dark green and white scales, blended seamlessly with the surrounding foliage, making it difficult to distinguish from the leaves and grass. While he was quite too big to fit in the surrounding forest, it would still be difficult for anyone who happened to fly above. Your dragons roar boomed loudly across the hills, echoing all throughout the camp. From your place in the sky, you could see the soldiers rushing about to prepare themselves for your predictably harsh landing. You reached back and further tightened the strap around your lap, gripping onto the reigns as you ordered your dragon to do one more circle around the camp to give them more time.
Your descent was far from graceful. Your dragons feet hind legs the ground first, delivering a booming impact that shook the ground. Dust swarmed your vision as his fore-claws bit into the dirt, carving deep furrows before his momentum finally died down. The final powerful beat of his wings blasted warm air across the field as he finally landed completely. Your dragon violently shook its body, tossing you back and forth on its back.
“Lykirī.” You hummed, reaching out to gently caress his scaly neck. Your dragon turned his head back to look at you, letting out a whistling sound as your eyes met his. Carefully unhooking yourself from the saddle, you slid down his side and onto the ground with a thud. Your feet hurt from the impact, yet you pushed forth towards the camp. Tessarion, who was confined in his makeshift cage, eagerly protruded his head as you passed by, cooing as you went.
The soldiers who lined the tiny dirt path bowed respectfully as you strolled past them, removing your riding gloves and holding them in your right hand. A few soldiers lingered, their eyes fixed on you as you made your way to the council tent. You were sure you were a sight to behold. Covered in blood and ash from the battle, your riding leather bore cuts and singed marks on the torso. A few soldiers even cheered as you marched by, and you couldn’t help but raise your chin higher in pride.
“Lady Hightower.” Daeron greeted you, bowing his head in respect. You could see his eyes grow wide at the sight of you covered in blood, but you raised your hand to stop him.
“It is not mine. Do not worry.” His shoulders seemed to become less tense at your words as he nodded. You caressed his cheek lovingly before allowing him to open the curtain of the tent. Upon entering the tent, you were greeted by the surprised gazes of the lords seated at the main table. You could feel their eyes rake up and down your body, their mouths closed tightly in thin lines. At the head of the table sat your husband.
Ormund Hightower sat with his legs crossed, his face unreadable as he took you in. You almost could sense a hint of humor in his state. Before you could even speak, he beat you to it.
“Leave us.” His words were unyielding, leaving no room for argument. The various Lords could do nothing but bow to you on their way out, muttering a curt my lady with it. You nodded to them in return, watching to ensure they all had left. When the final one excited and the curtain flapped closed behind them, you returned your gaze back to your Lord husband.
“You smell of dragon and death.” You snickered, unsheathing your sword before dropping it onto the table.
“I wonder why, husband.” He followed you with his eyes as you rounded the table, coming to sit upon it to his left.
“Not all your blood, I hope.” When you did not answer, he stood. His hands hovered as he looked you over, and when he finally made sight of the wound on your shoulder, he sighed.
“I will have the healer come and dress it.” Your hand shot out with force, grabbing his bicep to hold him in place.
“Stay with me, for now. I cannot stand to be alone.” Ormund simply looked in your eyes for a moment before nodding and moving to stand in front of your knees.
“Well? What news do you bring me?” His hands rested gently on your outer thigh. Not squeezing, not gripping, just resting. A sign to show you that he was with you.
“Rooksrest is ours. Gwayne and Cole are taking care of the Lord of the castle.” Ormund nodded as you spoke, his ringed thumbs caressing you gently.
“Aemond is brazen and foolish, so full of his own ambition that he is blinded by it. Rhaenys Targaryen is dead. And her dragon, Meleys, as well. Caught in the jaws of Vhagar.” You blinked rapidly as you tried to get the vision out of your mind. “Aegon is gravely injured. As is Sunfyre. He surely will not be able to fly again.” Ormund went still.
“Aegon? Why would they allow him to fly out?”
“They didn’t,” You spat, shaking your head as you looked to the side. “The idiot flew on his own accord. Tried to uphold whatever honor and bravery he had and failed in the process. His armor was forged into his skin, Ormund.” Your eyes fluttered upward to meet his, and the tears you had fought so hard to suppress finally broke free.
“I can still smell it, Ormund. I can still hear it.” His large hands reached up to gently caress your cheeks.
“Tis the price of war, sweet girl. No one enjoys such things. Yet we must preserver for the sake of the realm.” You grabbed the hands that were on your face and held them.
“I will call the healers and have them clean your wounds. Then I will have them draw you a bath. You reek of dragon.” You laughed, shaking your head at his jest. Ormund smiled before reaching down to plant a kiss on your cracked lips.
While the war raged around the both of you, none of it could reach you. Not while you were here, in your husbands arms.
Maekar's return after Ashford is marked by guilt, fears and self-isolation. Your presence might be his only comfort—if he allowed it.
pairing: Maekar x second wife!reader
☞ 4.7k words, cis fem!reader, no y/n, grief, angst, hurt/comfort, descriptions of injuries and illness, implied age gap, emotional sex, v fingering, p in v, riding, big stubborn man has to be vulnerable and hates it, explicit, 18+ only
Masterlist – on Ao3
I.
Their arrival is accompanied by a vicious spring storm.
Heavy rains beat against the castle walls, drench the balconies until you're worried Summerhall may simply wash away. Rough Stormland winds howl their requiems as you wait for him to dismount, the imposing figure of your husband, still not quite certain what to say. You fiddle with the sleeves of your gown, smooth out the silk of your skirts, as though any of it mattered.
"My lady, you should not be outside yet," the maester whispers by your ear. You ignore him, watching the party trudge through puddles, the muck on their feet splashing to their shins.
The courtyard is emptier than it should be without his sons.
He ignores you, at first, can't even meet your gaze and limps right past you. It's what you expected and yet it leaves a sting somewhere in your chest. No one makes a mention of it, though you take note of their pitying glances, the way the stable boys busy themselves with the horses, servants carrying travel chests inside avoiding your gaze. By the time the maester grows restless, another remark already on his tongue, you've gathered your wits and stepped back inside.
Maekar doesn't reappear until the fire is already burning low in the hearth, your chambers soaking up the warmth as the storm continues to ravage the lands. You would have called for a servant to do it but he silently adds more logs, stokes the embers and sits by the fire, staring into the kindled flames.
You make no sound, just take him in from the bed. Even in the half-dark you can see the tight line of his shoulders underneath his tunic, tense like the perpetual frown in his brow. It sits deeper tonight, over bloodshot violet eyes, the fire sharpening the lines of his face like blades.
You've seen him angry, you've seen him defeated, but you've never seen him like this.
Feeling your stare he glances back briefly, only to find your eyes open. He avoids your gaze again, returns his attention to the amber sparks in the fireplace.
"Aegon is–"
"I know," you say. "The maester told me."
"I should have told you. I know how you love that boy."
There is nothing to say, then, no words that could ease his pain, no consolation or comfort, no way to mend what's broken. It feels as surreal now as it did when the missive arrived, yet to see the evidence of this tragedy written on your husband's face is another matter entirely. Baelor is dead, slain by his brother's own mace, and Maekar has to live with the weight of this guilt on his shoulders for the rest of his life.
"Forgive me for not being there," you eventually whisper, though you know as well as he does that your health would not have allowed you to travel to Ashford to attend the funeral, not with how the cough sits locked in your lungs.
Maekar doesn't reply, stares back into the flames. A long moment passes, a pause in which the distance between you stretches longer than ever, time only measured by the crackling of the fire as the logs slowly turn to ash.
"You should rest," he says eventually, and you decide to give him the space he craves.
─── ⋆⁺‧₊ ✦☽✧☾✦ ₊‧⁺⋆ ───
II.
He's still bruised.
The maester attends you both now, though Maekar shoos him off more oft than not, sending curses with him every time he slams the door. Most days he avoids you just as readily, takes his meals in his study and spends his time Gods know where. He only allows your eyes to rest on him in the dim light of the early mornings, when he dismisses the servants and dresses himself, wincing with every movement.
You wonder which of the wounds were inflicted by his brother.
One morning, stuck between the need to comfort and the fear of rejection, you find the heart to rise before he can withdraw, approaching him by the wide window. The storms have finally ceased and yet it remains cool and damp in the Stormlands. A shiver spreads beneath your nightgown and when Maekar notices your steps he freezes, his jaw tensing so tightly that you can see the muscles clenching at his neck.
You reach for the healing balm the maester brought in before being rudely chased off. You gather some of it on your finger, wondering at the milky-thick consistency. "Allow me?"
Maekar offers you half of his face, reluctance spread across his features. His left eye is framed by a deeply purpled bruise, barely hiding a cut underneath. More fissures litter his face and now that you're up close you almost flinch away from the brutality he must have suffered as well as inflicted. It is no news to you that your husband is capable of worse, nor that he has met it in the fiery fields of the rebellion. And yet, most days, when you feel his gentle touch and the softness of his hands, it is easy enough to forget.
"Does it still hurt?" you ask, brushing your finger over the bruise to spread the ointment.
"It's nothing," he says, voice gruff and dismissive, but you notice the pained tension in his square, white-bearded jaw, the way he struggles to keep still. He's less himself, half restrained, half breaking apart, emotion seeping from each cut no matter how he tries to shield his eyes.
You carefully spread the white substance on his skin, a herbal smell hitting your nose that's not entirely unpleasant. His eyes meet yours for but a moment but you notice the red rims around them, the thin sheen of water at his lashes. Whatever occupies his mind is unkind, you have no doubt.
"You should have the maester look at your leg again," you whisper.
"Have I given the impression that I'm in need of unwanted counsel this morning?"
His words hit you where he wants them to but you refuse to let him intimidate you. By now you know his moods aren't aimed at you. That he's merely deflecting, trying to hide away the truth of his emotions. "Perhaps you might try to hide your limp if you refuse to accept my concern about it," you quip.
He scoffs, lips pressed into a tight line, but he keeps still enough as you apply the balm to the rest of his wounds, or, that is, the ones you can see. Once you're satisfied you try to rest your fingers on his skin, to cradle his scarred cheek and seek to bridge whatever chasm has opened between you. Maekar turns away as though burned, avoiding your gaze once more.
"Love–" Your words catch in your throat as you begin to cough, the damp air biting into your airway, clawing its way into your lungs. You heave, clutching your chest as you struggle to inhale enough air not to choke. It's a pathetic display, halfway bent-over, wheezing like a sick dog in the streets.
Maekar reaches for your arm before his long fingers spread over your back as he tries to calm you, rubbing, patting, holding. You can hardly feel any of it.
"Is it getting worse again?" he asks.
You shake your head, caught in yet another fit, trying to calm your erratic breathing enough to ease back into a proper rhythm. Maekar shifts on his feet as you slowly come back to yourself, his hand finding your elbow, steadying yet shaking. His nerves have left him.
"Where is that fucking maester when you need him?" he half-shouts.
"I'm alright," you press out, trying to breathe through the burning sensation below your breastbone.
The maester appears a second later as though he'd been waiting by the door to be summoned. Knowing him, he might well have been listening in on the conversation and soon half of Summerhall will be aware of your talk.
"I thought you were taking care of her, you fucking quack. Why is she still coughing?"
"My prince, the weather has been especially cold for spring–" the maester stammers, rubbing his hands together in unease.
"I don't care about the bloody weather," Maekar snaps. "You'll figure out what to do or I'll send you back to Oldtown a head shorter."
"Yes, Your Grace. Of course."
Maekar's hand leaves your arm, coldness seeping back into your skin. The maester busies himself with some other concoction he keeps in your chambers, a coughing syrup that has so far done little to help you through your sickness. If you're on the mend then it is thanks to the girls in the kitchens, warming you soup, more so than to him.
"How long has it been like this?" Maekar asks, jaw set so tight you can see his bottom teeth.
"You would know if you weren't hiding away," you snap, rubbing your aching sternum.
His lips press into a thin line. "How long?"
"It is the cold winds," you say but, when you glance back into his eyes, you note the way they glisten, that his voice is not stern for you disobeying but out of concern. Your frustration lifts, making way for an affection you've missed. "I promise I'm on the mend, love."
"Good," he relents, though his narrowed eyes take you in a moment longer, bereft as they have been of any gentle sights, you have no doubt. His neck still sits tense, a swallow visible above the collar of his doublet, and then his whole expression softens in an instant. "I cannot–" He pauses. "I cannot lose you."
Then, without another word, he takes his leave.
─── ⋆⁺‧₊ ✦☽✧☾✦ ₊‧⁺⋆ ───
III.
He refused to marry you, at first. Lady Dyanna had passed many years before but he'd had no need of another wife, no need of any more heirs. It was an unlikely match. Your lord father had been displeased with some of the crown's decisions, threatening to disrupt their more and more fragile relationship, so in turn King Daeron had offered him an advantageous marriage to heighten his influence and bring your families closer. Your father, wanting for sons, only had daughters to offer and after some time at court he left you the choice.
Despite his age, despite his reputation, you chose Maekar.
It took him some time to accept that you truly cared for him, even with the countless glances, the way you kept lingering when he was close, the conversations that followed. When you told him you weren't interested in his sons but in him he called you mad.
Perhaps he'd call you mad again now, for loving him even more than then.
You've kept to your bed since his admission, resting per the maester's orders, though the coughing fits have become rare and few in between. Since then you've been dwelling on Maekar's words. I cannot lose you. The way his voice broke as he said it, the grave depth of his eyes as he left.
You find it hard to unravel the intricacies of his grief with his perpetual silence on the matters of his heart. He's never been very forward with them, proud and stubborn as he is, hasn't been telling you too much of the painful parts of his past. You remember the more joyful stories of his childhood, his early years as a knight that forged so much of his pride, training with his brothers and his bastard unlces, stories of growing up with them, of him and Baelor in particular, as alike in skill and interest as they differed in temperament. Two of the greatest knights of the realm, famed for their achievements on the Redgrass Field, only Maekar never managed to step out of his brother's shadow.
But he married young and you prefer to avoid the subject of his widowhood, the pain that swept over his family as the Lady Dyanna passed. It is not for jealousy but for the gap she left and how slow it is to close, the way their youngest have clung to you instead, the girls in particular, and Aegon, ever inquisitive and charming, yet lost without his mother.
Maekar never gave you the impression of being a substitue but the phantom of his grief swung in his words that day. He lost his first wife, he lost his brother, his sons are too far gone from his grasp. He cannot lose you as well.
And yet he is doing everything in his power to keep you as far from him as possible.
You feel the warm rays of a bright spring sun when you decide to end your confinement. Maekar is nowhere to be found, so you ask for your maidservants and begin the tedious ordeal of being washed and dressed for the day. The maester appears after some time, warning you not to leave the castle, but you know that the fresh air will clear your head.
You busy yourself, a cautious walk in the gardens, a lengthy visit to the library, a lonely supper in the solar. You feel more like yourself, passing the time with a book in front of the hearth until you find your husband returning to your chambers.
"I hear you've been up," he says with a hint of accusation as he notices you sitting there, opening his cuffs with clumsy fingers.
"I can hardly stay in bed forever," you reply, closing your book.
For a moment you observe him as he undresses, impatiently throwing aside his doublet, tearing at the collar of his tunic. You rise to face him, reaching for his hands that so stubbornly, shakily fiddle with his garments.
"I'm in no mood for company," he says.
"Do you wish to withdraw from me forever?" you counter, holding his hands firmly in yours so that he cannot tear them away.
He falters, then, his lips pulling into a taut line. He can only wear the shackles of that day for so long, you think, before they pull him under. And when his eyes meet yours you see the determination in them, the pain, the suffering, yes, but it is his insistence that takes your breath away.
"I did not mean for it to happen," he says, at last. "I know, some men will say that I meant to slay him. But I did not. I did not."
"I know," you whisper, pressing his palms to your heart. "I know, my love."
He sighs, shakes his head in his own incredulity, and you notice the tears in his eyes that he's so desperately trying to hold back. For a moment he pulls away, his broad back to you now like a wall shielding him from all attempts at comfort. But then he cracks, sinks down until he heavily meets the bed. He buries his head in his hands, inhaling air so harshly that his shoulders begin to shake.
You walk up to where he's perched, stopping just in front of him, carefully placing your hand on his trembling arm to see if he allows it. Maekar looks up and his mask slips, his lips quiver as his eyes fill with steady tears and he breaks apart right into your arms. You place his face against your belly, holding him there, gently stroking his hair, his back, anything you can reach. It's a cruel kind of revelation to see him like this and you question your Gods as to why they would ever do this to him, lead his hands to such tragedy, take his sons from him, corrupt all that he loves and leave him so shattered.
His hands clutch you tightly, almost painfully, before he reels back, startled by his own release. Maekar looks up at you, eyes blood-shot and concerned, searching for any type of reaction. You grab his hands and place them back on your hips, run your fingers over his strong forearms, up his shoulders.
"You've scarcely touched me since you came back," you whisper. "Do not stop now."
"Why would you want me to touch you, foolish girl?" he asks. "Have you not learned what these hands are capable of?"
You lift one of them and press a tender kiss to its back, your lips lingering on his heated skin. "These hands have been gentle with me more times than I can count," you say. "I'm not afraid of them."
"Perhaps you should be," he says through gritted teeth but doesn't withdraw.
Instead he pulls you forward and onto his good leg, burrying his face against you once more. Only this time he is not crying, no, his lips attach to your skin almost violently, kissing from the soft curve of your breast all the way up to your neck where he lingers, tongue and teeth, marking a scorching trail. You shiver, clinging to him with your hands in his silver hair.
You've always thought that his beard on your skin felt unexpectedly soft but tonight it prickles alongside his hot-fanning breath, kiss after kiss, until he finally breaks away for air. Only when he leans back to meet your gaze do you understand just how much he needs you, has been needing you, but was too proud, too hurt, to ever consider asking.
"I love you, Maekar," you say, holding his broken gaze, lost in the way his eyes shimmer with tears and need alike. "Nothing will ever change that."
He doesn't reply but lifts his chin, urging you to bridge the gap once more, to prove how much your words are worth. You don't hesitate, though you force yourself to be slower, stalling for just a moment, your hands gentle where they hold his face, to make sure he knows, understands. Maekar gives a desparate exhale, a tear falling from the corner of his eye and along the bridge of his nose, landing, at last, where your lips finally connect. You taste salt and fire and urgency, woven not just into his kiss but into the way his hand envelops the back of your neck, forcing you as close as possible.
Patience escapes you, then. Fingers fiddle with his loose linens, revealing slivers of his bruised skin, all while he plucks at your dress without a care in the world, tearing it open with all his strength until you feel the cool air pressing your shift to your skin. The fabric falls away as he turns you onto the mattress, half-mad, pushing his breeches off his hips and crawling between your legs. He continues to mouth at your neck, unobstructed now, hiking up your shift until he can remove the last bit of fabric between you.
He's always preferred having you in such a way, skin on skin, with unrestricted access to your body, but it feels especially vulnerable now when you feel his full weight on you, hands wandering along his blemished skin, effusions of fading purples and greens, scars and half-fresh wounds alike. All this pain accumulating, on the inside and outside of him, ready to tear him apart. You're intent on keeping him together.
You wrap your legs around his midriff as his hands wander along the soft planes of your body, heels pulling him in deeper.
"Fuck," he whimpers, his hips stuttering into yours until you can feel him hard against your core. "You're not ready to take me yet, love."
"No matter," you reply but he shakes his head.
You feel each callouse on his fingers as he slides them deep into your cunt, thick and dextorous, the hands of a weathered knight, one and then two digits. When you beg he starts to move them in a painful rhythm, holding your gaze for a long time, inhaling every gasp and whine you gift him for his sweet torture. His sudden patience drives you mad, after weeks of absence, and you begin to urgently roll your hips into his hand. Maekar doesn't tease you, not tonight, but there is a certain glimpse of satisfaction in his gaze that he can't hide.
"Missed me?" he rasps as he reaches your ear, sharp teeth toying at your earlobe. "Fuck, I missed you, as well."
His warm, quickening breath tickles your skin but you can't hide away. You're beyond replying, so focused on his fingers, your approaching peak tensing your body, your legs and stomach taut and shaking. His thumb comes to rest at your pearl and you keen, allowing the waves of your release to finally burn through you.
"Gods," Maekar exhales against your ear, followed by a pinched sound somewhere between a laugh and a whimper.
He leaves you aching, then, withdrawing his fingers and slotting himself between your legs even as you flinch. His hand comes to loosely wrap around your neck, angling your face so that he can crush his lips to yours. You feel your own wetness on his fingers as he tilts your chin this way and that, his teeth working on your bottom lip before his tongue smoothes over the crack.
"Love–" you whisper, bucking your hips desperately until you feel his hard member pressing against your thigh.
"I know," he says, changing the way he's resting on you with a hiss of discomfort. "I know, my heart."
"Are you sure–"
"Shh. Don't shame me."
You press your lips together, intent on not making him feel as powerless as he must have felt before. Maekar adjusts, arranging himself until you feel the head of him pressing against your entrance, slowly easing in. The stretch is almost overwhelming. You watch as his hair falls into his face, the concentrated, tense expression as he gasps for air and composure alike, the need to draw out the moment fighting the urge to give in and love you as fiercely as he desires. You reach up and brush a sweat-heavy strand of silver behind his ear. He leans into your touch, releasing a strained breath.
"You don't have to hold back for me," you whisper.
"I know," he says. "It's not for you. I'm–"
He falters, glancing into your eyes, lips parted, then pressing them together as the muscles in his jaw flex and he begins to rock into you in slow waves. You keep your hand on his cheek, your eyes on his, never breaking that intimate connection now that you finally found it again. Soon he slumps forward onto his elbows, resting more of his weight on you as he picks up his pace, taking you harder, deeper, the sound of his skin meeting yours echoing in the chamber.
Your eyes flutter shut as your pleasure builds and it's just as well when Maekar presses his mouth to yours, the kisses rushed and clumsy and uncoordinated, but you would not part from him even if you could. He's always been an attentive lover, eager, possessive, surprisignly patient and thorough, relishing the intimacy just as much as the pleasure you would provide each other. Tonight he's almost desperate, trying to find something, anything, to fill the hollow that his grief must have left in him.
His breath comes hot and heavy against your mouth. A moment later he groans, pained, then his hurt knee gives out and he collapses on top of you.
"That bloody leg," he curses, shifting his weight away from the pain.
"Allow me," you whisper, encouraging him to move to the side. "It'll be more comfortable for you, love."
He scoffs. "Are you trying to tell me that I can't satisfy my wife?"
"Don't be so stubborn," you reply, pushing at his shoulder, as though you had any chance of moving him. "You know that is not what I meant."
At the end, after another muttered curse, he rolls onto his back on his own accord, grunting and stretching out his hurt knee. You move with him until you straddle him, taking a moment to adjust after the interruption.
Maekar is a broad man, though softened with age he is all muscle underneath his battered, scarred skin, wide shoulders, a strong chest, hips and thighs that easily hold your weight. Your fingers follow the trail of his silver chest hair down to his belly, grazing the bruises and cuts that litter his skin like landscapes on a map. His cock is weeping against his abdomen and you reach for it, stroking along his length until you find the reddened tip and carefully guide him back inside of you. He's observing you for a long moment, then, his hands roaming the curves of your hips and waist, toying with your breasts, gasping and grunting as he pinches.
"Is this alright?" you ask.
He merely nods and as you move he can't shake the urge to move along with you, his hands guiding your hips roughly, working against your soft skin, no doubt leaving bruises of his own. You don't mind that he needs some semblance of control in that moment and allow him to set the pace, to buck his hips to meet every one of your strokes, even if it forces him into you so deeply that it borders on pain. The pleasure grows faster, then, with him on display for you, your hands stablizied on his chest, buried in softly shimmering hair, nails leaving red marks whenever he pushes you forward.
"I'm–" you whisper, inhaling a sharp breath as the tension inside of you becomes too much. "Maekar–"
He grunts in understanding, his hands wandering from your hips to your back and pulling you forward until you lose your balance and collapse on top of him, soft chest to chest. He's mostly recovered, stemming his heels into the bed and thrusting up into you so harshly that you fall over the edge, your face burried against his neck, panting, crying out. Shivers tear through your body as the heat of your peak fully engulfs you. His hand comes to rest on the back of your head, fingers running through your hair almost tenderly as he follows. In that moment his arms wrap around you tightly, even while you feel his release, the familiar warmth of it seeping between your legs. You're not ready to let go either. In that moment it feels like all that's holding you together is the other.
"Say it again," he whispers then. "For me."
It takes you a moment to recover enough to gather his meaning, what his mind is so stuck on. When you do you press a line of kisses from his neck to the corner of his mouth, lingering by his lips. "I love you. I love you."
A long breath escapes him, his eyes closing. When he reopens them you follow with more kisses—to his cheeks, his chin, his lips. Your husband looks at you with red-rimmed eyes, still wounded, still vulnerable, but not in the way that he looked at you before, like he doesn't deserve to feel your hands on him, like he's not worthy of your love. Instead he looks moved, perhaps even grateful.
As you slip away from him, your body still tender, he assures that you're not going too far, pulling you close to his chest until youre bodies are flush once more. His nose brushes yours, kisses stolen between every tickling breath, the quiet settling fully around you until the crackling of the fire returns to your senses.
"How is your cough?" he asks after a while.
"I believe I'm quite recovered," you whisper and he huffs a laugh in reply.
"I should think so as well."
You watch as he closes his eyes, the weariness of weeks finally allowed to settle. He looks more at peace than he has since he arrived and you feel a deep sense of relief. For a while you gently comb through the silver-gold of his beard, past pox-marked cheeks, over the lines of his lips that are now not quite so tense, his jaw not clenched quite so hard anymore. You have no doubt that this wound will never quite heal, that it'll never be fully enough to just be there for him. But for now, as he's falling into a restful sleep, it is all that you can offer.
I hope you enjoyed this story! As always, I appreciate any likes/kudos, comments or reblogs ♡ Masterlist
⭑.ᐟ Expectations (Day One): Drop Dead ── Brendon ‘The Shark’ Park
summary: it’s day one of the ‘to do list’ to get your number back: park does pilates. (wc: 1.0k)
pairing: brendon park / f!reader
content: humour. pilates princess!reader. grumpy x sunshine. pilates class (no exercise mentioned bc i have never done it before) park is self-assured that pilates is a walk in the park. (1) new nickname added to the roster.
Brendon Park prided himself on almost always being correct on a wide array of topics. This stretched from his prestigious work as an Orthopaedic surgeon, to personal opinions on subjects that didn’t always bleed into his work—despite it being his whole life.
His knowledge was sought after in a place like the PTMC. Park the Shark was a household name in one of the many hospitals dotted around Pittsburgh, purely down to his learned expertise on human anatomy.
So, it came from left field when he had been utterly wrong about Pilates.
Being a man of honour—and a slight incline to do whatever you wanted him to do—Park managed to upkeep his promise to arrive at the Pilates studio you had punched into his calendar the afternoon prior, when he had sauntered into the Pitt with the hopes of a second chance at your number; only to be met with a ‘to do’ list for the week that could be seen as squeamish to a man of his repertoire.
At this point, parked in a half empty car park in the tightest underwear he could find in his scrummage of his neatly organised underwear drawer, and a loose pair of basketball shorts paired with a basic white tee that was more for your visual pleasure—and the hopes to cut the ‘to do’ list in half by selling his body—Brendon Park wasn’t even doing this for the love of the game.
He was doing it for you.
Plus, how hard could Pilates truly be?
It looked like some light and fluffy fairy-bullshit to someone like Park the Shark, who lifted weights so heavy that his eyes would be bloodshot by the end of the intense workout. Besides, he watched a handful of Instagram reels of the intended workout he was subjecting himself to, and it was safe to say; Park snorted.
You met him outside the front of the building, and Park came to two conclusions as you gleefully bounded up to him.
1.) He’d never lose you in a crowd because you had enough keychains on your car keys to make your own version of jingly sirens. And, 2.) Your ass looked even better in a Pilates outfit than the usual scrubs attire you adorned when he saw you.
You gave him a warm look, “I said you don’t have to whore yourself out for my phone number, Shark.” fingers point to the t-shirt clinging to his carved muscles, “This is slutty. I love it.”
“I don’t think I’ll accept that compliment.” Park responds coolly, even with his heart thumping against his chest with all this personal time he was getting with you. He doesn’t say much more until you’ve entered the building, “What is the duration of this class?” he asks once you’ve walked past the door he held open for you.
“About an hour?” you think, “It’s pretty hardcore. We can get coffee after, they’ve got their own station—sort of a life saver.”
“Uh-huh.” Park says, border-lining sarcastic and it makes you lift a brow in response.
You smile at another attendee before speaking again, “Am I sensing some mockery, Sharky?” you look up at him easily towering over you as you walk, “Because I’d dial it down, riiight about now.” you lilt.
“I’m not mocking your hobby, sweetheart,” Park defends honestly. The last thing he wanted was for you to think he’d ever scrape the barrel of humour and throw a negative connotation over an activity you enjoyed—however, it didn’t prevent him from believing there was zero requirement for a caffeine hit after a fluffy workout.
You approach the room the class was being held in. Dimly lit with an ambient sunset lamp that created a pretty, soft glow of an orange hue on the back wall; Park, naturally, takes up the rear as you saunter in to disrupt the serenity with your fifty keychains.
(Holy shit. Was he perverse in thinking he would like to walk behind you forever?)
You throw a radiant smile over your shoulder, “Alright. Let’s see if you are calling me sweetheart after this.”
Park scoffs, “I’m just stating that, for someone like me, this can’t be hard.”
Wrong.
Brendon Park had met his match in that Pilates class.
His shirt was saturated from exertion, and he quickly came to the realisation that wearing a white t-shirt was simply premature naivety that he just…wouldn’t sweat that much in an hour. The cotton fabric clung to his muscles and was less white and more his shade of nude. The hair that had been in its usual style—something he took longer to do in the mirror this morning—was completely undone; curls beginning to coil from the dampness at his scalp.
The Pilates instructor seemingly decided that, that particular class would be rendered to severe, military style punishment that had Brendon Park’s body folded in ways that had him thinking that his sturdy bones may snap.
He had read somewhere; not to eat before class. So, he did anyway. (And, regretted the 6AM eggs and protein shake instantaneously.)
The worst part? You weren’t suffering near as much as he was.
Sweat beaded your hairline, and your chest did rise and fall at a quicker pace than a leisurely stroll would have done; it was just that you weren’t doubled over on the bright pink matt you had brought along.
“I’d pat your back,” you start when Park cements his forehead to his borrowed matt from the class, “But, you’re next level sweaty. No offence.”
Park slowly raises from his spot, eyes scrunching shut from the ache in his torso. He peels one eye open to stare at you, “How do you still look that beautiful?” he asks in a sharp tone, lifting the hem of his shirt to wipe at his drenched face.
Your eyes drop to his exposed flesh and then back up before he notices, “It’s a burden. Truly.”
“Fuck, sweetheart.” Park huffs out and drops his head back.
Stomach erupting with warmth at the nickname, you grin, “What?”
HOME IN THREE DAYS. DO NOT WASH ormund hightower x wife!reader
synopsis: returning victorious from the battlefield, the lord of oldtown, ormund hightower, sends a most intricate request to his lady wife
warnings: mdni. spoilers for dance of the dragons, canon divergence, timeline that makes absolutely zero sense but it’s called fanfiction for a reason okay guys pls don’t come at me, oral (f receiving), mentions of war and death, ormund is lowkey a perv, piv, emotional sex, touch of breeding kink, religious motives
word count: 6.8k
a/n: honestly after writing this, all i have to say is enjoy 😭 (and thank you for all the ormund girlies for putting me onto this idea) there are two direct quotes from george martin so ofc all credits go to him 4 that
You are seated in your solar when the letter arrives.
The messenger carrying the sealed parchment bows his head low before placing it into your hands.
“A message, my lady, from your Lord husband.” He declares, the heavy wool doublet covering his frame bearing the flame sigil of your house.
You offer a brief nod of dismissal. He retreats in silence, leaving you with a handful of your highborn companions and servants in the sunlit chamber. You can feel the weight of their wandering eyes and curious gazes trying to discern what exactly your husband has sent. They long to catch a glimpse of the ink, doubtless to trade it for gossip later over their embroidery.
“That will be all for today, thank you.” Your eyes turn to the perfumed women in their vibrant, colorful silks. Your tone leaves no room for argument, and truth be told, none would dare disobey the lady of the castle.
You can see the light dim behind their eyes, their spirits deflating at being dismissed and denied a glimpse into your private marital affairs. Yet, they all rise quietly, murmuring the proper courtesies and offering to remain at your service. You thank them, as politeness dictates.
Finally, the heavy oak doors thump shut behind them as the last of the ladies files out. Only then does the tension in your shoulders ease, the careful, rigid posture you were taught to maintain since childhood melting away. The remaining household servants are as silent as stone, and they know better than to sneak glances at the parchment. Not that most of them possess the letters to read it anyway.
You shift quietly, settling into the silken cushions where you have sat for hours. Your ringed fingers make short, careful work of breaking the green wax seal; the parchment parts with a soft, crisp tear.
Yet, before you even unfold the missive, it is the scent that finds you first. It is the unmistakable, intimately familiar fragrance of your husband’s scented water—the blend he carries with him everywhere.
In the early days of your marriage, you had often made his habit a point of jest, teasing him for clutching an incense filled thurbil like some prissy lady of the court. But through years of shared bed and counsel, you had come to accept it as an essential part of him; your husband simply possessed a rare appetite for the finer things. For sweetness, mostly. In time, you had even learned to love it, for it spoke so entirely of his presence.
Safe to say, the parchment is utterly drenched in it.
You feel an involuntary quickening in your blood—a sudden warmth spreading through your belly at the sheer intimacy of the vapor. He knew precisely what he was doing, all but bathing the very pages he intended for your eyes.
A breathless laugh nearly escapes you, imagining Ormund clad in heavy steel, quill in hand amidst the dirt of the commander’s pavilion, deliberately dousing the sheet with his essences while soldiers marched and shouted just beyond the canvas.
“Always so mindful,” you murmur to the empty air, for the servants remain as silent as stone and would scarce understand the jest regardless.
Your eyes skim over the lines, a familiar sense of comfort washing over you at the sight of your husband’s heavy script. You fail to stifle the smile that softens your lips.
Much of it is the usual talk of how dreary and dull the campaign has proven. He makes mention of the Queen, his cousin Alicent, his other cousin Gwayne, and Ser Criston Cole, the Lord Commander whose host they are soon to join. He writes, too, of the battle at Tumbleton that is likely to follow.
At that, your heart squeezes painfully in your chest. Ormund is one of the finest soldiers and commanders in the realm, but he is a mortal man still; his flesh can bleed, and his bones can break. And after all it is only natural for a wife to fear for her husband.
Naturally, he complains bitterly of the camp—the wretched stench of unwashed men, muck, and horseflesh that hangs thick over the pavilions. In his words it is utterly unbearable.
He speaks of his squire, prince Daeron as well. Noting that he can spy the nervousness in his young nephew, though both the boy and Tessarion stand ready for battle.
Ready to take the Iron Throne itself, should Prince Aemond fall and the burden descend to them—since word has reached the camp that Aemond has proclaimed himself Protector of the Realm. You care little and less for who sits upon the Aegon's seat, you only pray for your husband to return to your arms in one piece.
And then, at the very end, he closes the letter with something that steals the breath straight from your lungs.
Home in three days. Do not wash.
A sudden heat flushes your cheeks a deep crimson.
He is so terribly sure of himself, so entirely confident that no harm will find him, that Tumbleton will be won, and that he will ride back to Oldtown safe and whole. It is so undeniably Ormund.
You bite your lip, the warmth in your belly turning to a dull ache, knowing all too well that a safe return is a promise no man can truly make while the Dance rages on.
At the end of the parchment, he had signed his initials in a bold, dark hand: OH
You softly traced the ink with the tip of your finger, as if the stroke of his quill could somehow bridge the leagues between you. Yet as the moment of sentiment passed, you quickly folded the sheet, pressing it tight within your fist.
Rising from your seat, you paced over to the hearth. It made your heart ache to tear the missive into fragments, but you cast the pieces into the embers nonetheless.
You watched as the parchment caught flame, curling and turning to gray ash, even as your husband’s familiar fragrance still hung heavy upon your tongue. Alas, you knew the scent of water could never compare to the musk of his skin, or the steady thrum of his heart pulsing beneath your fingertips.
A sudden, dark thought pricked your mind—a fleeting wonder if those ashes were the last pieces of him you would ever hold should he fall in the Reach—but you fiercely willed the shadow away.
No, your Ormund would return to you. Or he would die trying.
You inhaled sharply, steadying yourself. The letter had to be destroyed. Its contents were far too scandalous for any prying septa or maester to accidentally stumble upon.
Clasping your hands behind your back, you turned your gaze to one of the remaining maids. “I shall be having no need of the bath after supper today.” you declared.
The woman’s eyes sought yours, a flicker of confusion crossing her face at the unusual command, yet she quickly lowered her head. “As my lady commands it.”
“Very well.”
And with that, you turned your back on the hearth and set off toward the quiet sanctuary of your bedchambers.
It is perhaps, the first day that is the easiest.
You go about your usual duties, overseeing the keep and holding audience with the lesser lords in your husband’s stead. You seek out the sept nestled within the great stone walls of the Hightower, lighting tallow candles and praying to the Mother for your husband’s safe return.
Your hours pass largely uneventful. No fresh ravens from King’s Landing or the battlefield arrive to disturb the peace.
The realm is still in great peril, locked in the throes of a bloody succession, yet you are among those rare, fortunate few whose daily lives do not yet feel the cruel shift of war. Your husband’s absence is the only true sign that the world is bleeding.
It is only when twilight deepens into night, and the hour for your evening bath approaches, that you must dismiss your handmaidens once again.
“But, my lady,” one of the elder women frowns, her hands clasped nervously over her apron. “I mean no insolence, but… you have foregone the hot waters since yesterday morn—”
You cut her off with a look as sharp as Valyrian steel, and she freezes instantly.
“I should find it most pleasant if you did not question my choices,” you say, your voice clipped as you force a veneer of stiff politeness over the reprimand. “Thank you.” You offer a single, final nod.
“Of course, my lady.” A sudden heat flushes her cheeks in embarrassment at her own boldness. “Forgive my insolence.” She mutters.
You hum in cold acknowledgment before bidding her lay out your linen shift so you might change for the night.
Thankfully, none of the others dare question you further, leaving you to slide into the great, empty bed in silence.
On the second day, the irritation truly begins to fester.
It is not even the scent of your own sweat or the slight, muskier heat of your skin that unsettles you most, but rather the heavy, lingering glances from both the highborn ladies and the serving girls. The lords fail to notice, of course. Men are blind to the subtle shifts of the solar. But women... women possess a hound’s nose for such things.
“Forgive my curiosity, my lady,” one of your companions ventures during the mandatory hour of afternoon wine and needlework, her spine stiff and a sharp, a calculating glint in her eyes. “But are you... quite well? Has some sudden ague or illness been troubling you these past few days?”
A few of the younger girls stifle titters behind their silk handkerchiefs, while a seasoned lady snorts softly at the sheer boldness of the question.”
“Nothing has troubled me,” you reply coldly, your gaze sweeping over the circle like winter frost. “And I confess I do not fathom what should prompt such a thought.”
“Of course not, my lady. Forgive me.” she murmurs quickly, dipping her chin and retreating back into the safety of the embroidery circle.
Yet, the silence does not last. Once their heads are bent back over their frames, the murmurs begin—whispers that your wits have been murked by the absence of your lord, or that you have simply grown neglectful of your proper duties as wife now that his eye is far from Oldtown.
One or two even dare breathe the word slothful. But they are only whispers, drifting like smoke through the high stone arches.
You owe them no accounting of your lord’s desires. So you let them whisper.
But without a doubt, it is the third day—the very day your lord husband is expected to ride through the gates—that proves the worst.
It is not the ever-growing musk of your unwashed skin that irks you most, but rather the heavy black raven that arrives with the morning mists, bearing tidings of a grim victory at Tumbleton.
The greens have triumphed, or so the parchment claims. In a twist of monumental treachery, the Dragonseeds—Rhaenyra’s own dragonriders—had turned their fires upon her own host.
Yet, despite the grand declarations of victory, the remaining lines are stripped of any joy.
The sack of the town has been anything but a noble affair. It has been an exercise in absolute butchery. Houses put to the torch, infants slain, and women—even holy septas and silent sisters were not spared— being subjected to the brutal whims of a victorious, drunken army. It is a horror to even contemplate, let alone witness.
You feel a sharp pang of selfishness when your eyes skip past the carnage, desperately searching for a single name. When you find it, confirming that your lord husband lives, unwounded, and is already riding hard for Oldtown with a vanguard of his personal household guard, a ragged sob of relief escapes your throat.
The Dance is far from ended, and the realm will continue to bleed. But the battlefield would have to wait. There are plenty of hungry lords and capable men who can take your husband's place in the mud, if only for a night.
By the time night falls, your husband has still not arrived in Oldtown.
No news has reached the gates, and no scouts have brought sign of his riding party.
Your entire day has been spent pacing the drafty halls of the Hightower, seeking out any task to keep your mind from fracturing with anticipation.
You have seen to it that the entire household is in order, the stones scrubbed clean, and every tapestried hall set aright. You have ordered a plentiful feast prepared to greet his vanguard. You even went so far as to take up your needlework, in a desperate attempt to stave off the madness of the wait.
Alas, the effort ended miserably; shaky fingers and an unsteady mind are poor tools for fine embroidery. Sitting with your highborn companions proved more tedious still, and you dismissed them scarce a quarter of an hour into tea-time.
The whole of the castle is charged with a heavy, restless air, every servant and man at arms waiting on a knife's edge for the return of their Lord.
Your nails are bitten down to the quick, and you have endlessly twisted the rings upon your fingers. When the handmaidens arrive for the evening, they practically beg to prepare the bath.
“But the Lord Ormund—” one of them ventures, her voice hesitant.
“Do you suggest you know the needs of mine own husband better than myself?” Your patience is utterly frayed, and you can no longer keep the sharp edge of your tongue from snapping like a whip.
“My lady.” she murmurs, bowing her head in hasty obedience before scurrying away.
“And take away this boar meat. Leave the arbor gold,” you command, and the remaining servants quickly clear the table.
You turn to the household guards standing post at your door—the men in steel who have trailed you through your duties all day. “Leave the chambers. Let no one inside. You are to enter only to notify me when my Lord husband is at the gates.”
The man in the iron half-helm nods, drawing the thick oak doors shut. The heavy latch falls into place, leaving you alone in the awful, suffocating silence. Waiting.
What must have been minutes felt like hours. Time takes on a strange, twisted shape when one is locked in such nervous anticipation. Yet, the sands in the glass trickle down regardless.
Left with nothing but the loud thrumming of your own thoughts, you tried to lose yourself in a leather-bound history, though you managed scarce a few pages before the letters swam before your eyes.
You smoothed the heavy furs and linens upon the high bed perhaps a dozen times.
You combed out your hair, adjusted the laces of your linen evening shift, and even debated opening the door to ask the guardsmen if they had forgotten your command. But you checked yourself, knowing such frantic fretting would be incredibly unbecoming of the Lady of the Hightower.
And still, in that agonizing stillness, the unmistakable musk of your own unwashed flesh caught up with you. It was no longer a mere unpleasant odor. It was a heavy, ripe scent that hung thick in the small hours of the night.
For a fleeting second, you debated calling the servants back to prepare a hasty basin of hot water before Ormund arrived.
But his written instructions had been absolutely clear. Home in three days. Do not wash. He had kept his part of the covenant; three days had passed and he was riding back to you, whole and alive. It remained only for you to hold up your end of the bargain.
You sought the sanctuary of the castle sept once more, then retreated back to your chambers, the chill air of the drafty stone corridors offering a strange, cooling comfort against your sticky, stale skin.
By then, the hour of the owl had long since passed, and still there was no sign of your husband.
You wanted to wait for him—desperately so. You wished him to find you awake and waiting, so that you might see with your own eyes that the Stranger's steel had spared him.
But exhaustion and the tumultuous toll of the day’s anxiety were fast catching up to you. All that frantic pacing, coupled with a belly empty from a lack of appetite, had sapped the last of your strength. With every blink, your eyelids grew heavier and heavier, like lead.
You tried splashing your face with cool water from the basin and flung wide the shutters to let in the midnight breeze, but even the salt and tar air of Oldtown drifting up from the harbor did little to rouse you.
Defeated by weariness, (alas reluctantly) you finally laid your head atop the silken pillows, burying the heavy scent of your unwashed skin into the linen sheets, which your maids had surely doused with an extra measure of rosewater.
You were drifting in that liminal, strange place where one is not entirely awake yet no longer asleep when you heard it—the distinct, muffled grunt of a guardsman greeting his lord, and the heavy creak of oak hinges before the thick door closed once more with a dull thud.
You just barely managed to stir, shifting clumsily beneath the furs to sit up and rub the sleep from your tired eyes.
The chamber was drowned in half-darkness. Most of the candles you had lit hours ago had long since guttered out; only a handful remained ablaze, casting a scarce, flickering amber light across the stone walls.
Even through the gloom of the late hour, you could make out the great shadow of his figure moving about the room, his movements weary but urgent as he unbuckled and discarded the heavy sword-belt from his hips. The Valyrian longsword of his house Vigilance, which he cherished so deeply, fell to the ground with a dull thud.
“Ormund?” you breathe. The name is both a prayer and a question.
A desperate thing you need to hear spoken aloud to believe. You need to know that it is truly him standing there before you, alive in the flesh, at the foot of that shared bed which has stood cold for far too long.
Your vision is still blurred with sleep, but the moments that follow unfold with such fierce intensity that you know you will remember them for the rest of your days.
In two long, hurried strides, he collapses onto the silken sheets atop you.
Once again, it is his scent that finds you first.
Except this time, it is no spiced water or pleasant courtly incense, all of that is buried beneath an overwhelming stench of dirt, stale sweat, and the unmistakable, coppery tang of blood. Whose… you pray to the Gods, is anyone’s but Ormund’s.
Your hands scramble for leverage, finding the damp nape of his neck and gripping him so fiercely that it must bruise. The skin there is slick—either with the sweat of the road or from some futile, hurried attempt to wash away the field of battle before reaching your chambers.
Perhaps it is both. But you care little and less. He is your husband. Your Ormund, here in the flesh, breathing and alive, smelling of what all men smell of when they have looked upon the face of death and survived.
A sudden rush of tears gathers in your lashes, and a ragged sob threatens to tear from your throat at the pure, blinding elation of his presence.
Narrowly escaping the butchery of Tumbleton and witnessing thousands of men yield up their lives has awakened something primal within him. You can feel it in his shallow, ragged breaths, and in the way his calloused hands grip the bare skin of your arms, even through the heavy layers of your linen shift.
His touch will surely leave marks—blooming into dark blues and purples on the morrow—but you do not care. You would let him carve a place for himself inside your very ribcage if he wished it.
You feel that same desperation as he buries his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling the heavy, ripe musk of your unwashed skin like a drowning man catching his last taste of air.
“Ormund.” You speak his name again, clearer this time, the certainty finally settling into your bones. He is here. With you.
You card your fingers through his tangled hair, which hangs damp and messy with sweat, pulling him closer still—impossibly close, until there is not an inch of air between your bodies.
He is heavy, his armor-stiffened frame nearly crushing you into the bedding, but you do not mind. If the ceiling were to collapse upon you now, you would die content.
“I prayed...” you murmur against the rough stubble of his cheek. His eyes remain closed, his lips silent; he says nothing, needing these few stolen moments of quietude to wash the horror from his mind. “I prayed every morrow and every twilight to the Seven, begging them to return you to my arms,” you confess, your voice shaking with the weight of the tears you can no longer hold back.
A half-choked laugh escapes him at your words, a brief flash of delight breaking through his exhaustion at the knowledge that you kept him in your prayers, that you had spoken to the Seven with his face in your mind.
Gentle Mother, font of mercy, save our sons from war, we pray, stay the swords and stay the arrows, let them know a better day. Gentle Mother, strength of women, help our daughters through this fray, soothe the wrath and tame the fury, teach us all a kinder way.
He nearly groans at the thought, the holy words a stark contrast to the butchery he has just left.
Instead, he buries his face lower, pressing his lips straight against your collarbone. He inhales the deep, unmistakable scent of your skin—the salt of your sweat, the rich, built-up musk of three days without the basin. To a highborn court, it might seem uncouth, but to him, it is simply, purely woman. And woman means alive and real.
To breathe you in is to know he has escaped the cold clutches of the Stranger and found sanctuary in the arms of the one he loves.
What is honor compared to a woman’s love? What is duty against the feel of a newborn son in your arms... or the memory of a brother’s smile? Wind and words. Wind and words. We are only human, and the gods have fashioned us for love. That is our great glory, and our great tragedy.
In this singular, breathless moment, Ormund feels the truth of those words more fiercely than ever before.
He has won his share of victories, commanded hosts, and broken lances in grand tourneys, but none of it compares to this. Nothing in the Seven Kingdoms or the lands beyond could make him feel more entirely alive than the strain of narrowly escaping the slaughter, riding his stallion hard through the night even as his thighs ached and his sore muscles screamed at him, begging him to simply stop, to yield to the weariness. But he could not. He would not.
Not when you were waiting for him in the Hightower, his lady wife, keeping your quiet vigil until he could return to the warmth of your shared bed. Your shared life.
“Husband,” you nudge his head with a gentle hand, attempting to draw him back only for his grip to tighten. “I have not...” Your cheeks flush a hot, sudden crimson. “I have not bathed,” you admit quietly, the confession tasting heavy on your tongue. “It is most unbecoming of a lady—”
For the first time that evening, he raises his head and pierces you with his gaze. Those familiar eyes, which you have looked upon a thousand times before, are lined with a solemn, bone-deep tiredness, frayed at the edges by war.
Yet, at the very same time, he looks utterly, fiercely alive, the sharp line of his nose and the strength of his jaw all too intimate.
“You received my letter.” He states, his voice gruff and thick with the dust of the road. His fingers do not cease their exploration, trailing over every inch of skin and linen they can find, before his hand bunches up the heavy fabric of your shift within his fist.
“I did.” You reply softly, your eyes dipping toward the sheets, but you feel the firm pressure of his thumb and forefinger catching your jaw, forcing your chin up into stillness.
“Look at me.” He commands. The words bear the weight of a lord, yet they sound far more desperate than any commander who has just tasted victory should ever sound.
You can see it takes everything within him to restrain from simply crashing his lips against your own. “I have ridden hard across the Reach to be here. I have escaped the cold clutches of the Stranger, I have left my men and my host behind, all to return to your side. To rest in your arms. And no one, not the septons, not you, dear wife, not even the Gods themselves will forbid me the luxury of gazing upon you or breathing you in.”
Before you can offer any further reason or protest, his calloused hands bunch the linen of your shift upward, pulling the fabric past your hips and exposing your bare skin to the chill air of the chamber.
Beads of perspiration still cling to your brow, and your fingers instinctively seek leverage, carding through his tangled auburn locks as he bends his weight down between your thighs.
“Husband—”
He groans at the title, his mouth pressing fiercely against the soft flesh of your inner thighs. He marks you with the heat of his lips, tasting, touching, and inhaling sharply as the ripe, unwashed musk of your intimacy and sudden arousal mingles in the heavy air.
“Gods be good,” he rough-whispers against your skin, just loud enough to pierce the quiet of the room. “No host, no King—not even the Seven themselves could have kept me from this. From you.”
He takes his time, deliberately savoring every stolen second, his tongue tracing the tender skin just on the cusp of your heat while he buries his face deep against you.
“I thought of you,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your thighs as he presses a trail of slow, heavy kisses upward. “I thought of you every single wretched hour upon the road. Amidst the reek of horseflesh, muck, and dying men. Amidst the blood of the field, and the fires of the dragons.”
The confession is a heavy, ragged thing, and your breath hitches sharply—not merely from the mounting pleasure, but from the raw weight of his words.
“I closed my eyes and thought only of your smile, your touch... the sweetness of your cunt.” As if to prove his point, he presses his face entirely into the soft folds of your womanhood, inhaling your deep, concentrated musk before his tongue flicks out with a sudden, devastating stroke.
An unrestrained cry escapes your lips, echoing off the high stone arches.
“Only you... my lady wife...” he mutters against your wetness, his tongue exploring you with a fierce, starved hunger. “I prayed to the Mother to keep you whole... prayed to the Father to make your womb fruitful and clean, so that my seed might finally take root within you.”
At his words, a sudden tremor ripples through your entire body, and your thighs instinctively clamp tight around his head as the heat begins to break over you.
“Ormund!” You cry his name, the sound laced with a desperate, breathless heat that echoes shamelessly through the quiet bedchamber.
The household guardsmen standing post beyond the thick oak doors will have surely to play the fool on the morrow, but you care little and less for the gossip of smallfolk.
You can think only of your husband—of the wet fire of his tongue between your thighs and the bruising grip of his fingers pinning your legs wide to keep you open to his hunger.
He works you apart with a starved intensity, making you unravel from the seams, pulling you apart thread by thread as the coil in your belly tightens to an agonizing point. Ormund had ever been skilled at bringing you to your peak with his mouth, but tonight the familiar rhythm is entirely transformed. Gone is the careful, courtly teasing of a lord in his solar; this is something primal. Fierce, and animalistic. Born from the mud and blood of the battlefield.
Seven forgive us, the thought flashes like a desperate prayer in the dim recesses of your mind.
He is not merely pleasuring you; he is quite literally drinking you in, drenching his face in the ripe, unwashed scent of your climax and indulging in every slick, heavy stroke.
Your vision begins to swim, the amber candlelight blurring into streaks of gold as he drives you ruthlessly toward the edge.
“Come for me, sweet wife...” his voice buzzes low against your skin, and you feel as though your entire body has been set ablaze. “Let me taste you... bury me in your scent...”
His words, matched with the fierce, unyielding work of his mouth, finally topple you over the edge. You break with a ragged cry of his name, your fingers knotting tight in his hair as you instinctively grind your weight against his face.
He does not stop. Continuing his relentless strokes even as the climax ripples through you and you ride out the peak of your release. The firm muscle of his tongue drives through your sensitive walls, your juices slicking his cheeks and spilling onto the linen sheets beneath.
Your thighs tremble so fiercely you are certain your legs will no longer bear you. At last, after what feels an age, he comes up for air, though he keeps his face pressed close against the soft mound of your womanhood.
The damp hairs there are heavy with the rich, concentrated musk of your arousal, and you feel the hot expansion of his chest as he breathes it deeply into his lungs.
“Always so good for me...” he murmurs, pressing a final, lingering kiss against your skin while you are still reeling, your pulse hammering in your ears.
Through the faint buzzing in your head, you fail to notice him reach for a square of clean linen discarded by the bedside. You only realize his intent when you feel the cloth pressing against your center. You hiss softly at the contact, your flesh still far too tender from the peak of your release.
“Ormund?” Your eyebrows furrow in the gloom. “What are you—”
“Shh, let me,” he hushes you, his voice thick, and your wits are far too scattered to offer any true protest, nor do you truly wish to do so.
You feel the slow, deliberate swipe of the linen through your folds. You think at first he means to clean you, but as he pulls the cloth away and brings it directly to his nose, the truth settles into your mind.
He is gathering the very essence of your release, letting the fabric drink it deep so that he might preserve it—a token of your flesh to carry with him into the mud and smoke of the next campaign. A soft moan escapes you at the sheer, desperate intimacy of the act.
Yet, you have little time to dwell upon it as his hands are already framing your waist, urging the linen shift up and over your head, before he turns to frantically strip away his own heavy doublet. You lend your shaking hands to the task, helping him loosen the laces until the wool drops somewhere to the floor.
Your bare breasts are caught in the amber glow of the candlelight, and you watch Ormund's gaze fix upon your perked nipples. Reaching out, you catch his calloused hand and guide it to your flesh. He takes the weight of you, squeezing and caressing the soft curve with a starved sort of reverence.
Alas, his patience has reached its end. The heavy, rigid evidence of his hunger presses hard against his breeches, and he makes hasty work of the laces, cursing softly under his breath as he discards the last of his garments into the shadows.
He takes his manhood into his palm, giving it two firm strokes before lining himself up with your entrance. You bite your lip, your body slick and more than ready to welcome the familiar, heavy stretch of him filling you up.
“Tonight,” he murmurs, his words catching you off guard in the dark. “If the gods should grant me, as their humble servant, a reward for serving the Realm and the true King... I pray it be the planting of a son inside your womb.”
His hand reaches up, his calloused thumb gently brushing a stray lock of hair from your damp forehead. “Do you understand, sweet wife?” he whispers, leaning down upon his elbows, his weight pressing you into the bedding as he kisses the corner of your lips. “That you will grow round and swell with child... so that the next time the war calls me away, you will ever have a piece of me with you.”
Before you can muster a breath to reply, he drives forward, pushing deep inside and bottoming out with a barely suppressed groan. A sharp cry escapes you at the sheer, sudden width of him stretching your sensitive walls.
He gives you no time to adjust to the intrusion, mercilessly beginning to pound into you, the cords and tendons in his neck straining with the sheer force of his movements.
Your head is thrown back against the pillows, and he chases your mouth with his own, sealing your lips in a desperate, hungry kiss—a fierce clash of teeth and skin. In his starved frenzy, you are certain he would eat you alive if he could, losing himself entirely within your flesh to wash away the memory of the sword.
“Please, Ormund!” you cry his name for what feels the thousandth time that evening. Your nails claw at his bare skin, gripping his back in a desperate attempt to pull him closer still, and this time it is you who buries your face against him, inhaling the sharp, earthy musk of his sweat-slicked skin. “I need you to—”
“Hush, sweet girl, I know...”
He slows his frantic thrusts for a brief moment, focusing his strength to set a steadier pace, finding a deeper, more deliberate rhythm. With every long, unyielding push, he ensures you feel every single inch of him.
The old endearing term brings a sudden flock of memories rushing back to you—sweet, distant memories of the days when he was still courting you in the high gardens of Oldtown.
“I know...” he whispers hoarsely against the column of your throat, and your thighs lock tight around his hips, anchoring him to you.
“Give me your seed, husband,” you manage to gasp against his ear, the ragged shakiness of your voice betraying the depth of your undoing. “Please, by the gods—I need you, I need it inside me—”
He groans fiercely at your words, at the sheer intoxication of being buried deep within your warmth after weeks of staring into the dark abyss of death.
He feels the sudden, heavy quickening in his blood, signaling that his release is near. He is a man of formidable stamina, possessed of a soldier’s hard-bitten body, but tonight he is reduced to a mere mortal. Acutely aware of the frailty of his flesh and the preciousness of this life.
He manages only a few more messy, desperate thrusts before you feel the sudden, hot pulsing of his release spilling deep inside you, the thick ropes of his seed coating your inner walls.
You wrap your arms and legs even tighter around him as the phantom touch of his climax triggers your own second peak of the night, your body shuddering in perfect unison as you hold him fast, willing him never to let you go
When you part at last, you are both a tangled mess of limbs, reluctantly breaking your interlocked lips to catch your breath. Ormund rests his heavy head onto the pillow beside you—his rightful place—and does not hesitate for a single beat before pulling you securely into his side.
Your soft breasts press flush against the hard, unyielding plates of his chest as he idly cards his fingers through your tangled hair.
For a long while, you remain wrapped in silence, the quiet of the chamber filled only with your heavy, ragged breaths, the musk of your passion and shared lust thick in the air. You glance up, noting the faint smile that softens his tired eyes.
Finally, it is you who speaks first, breaking the serene calm of your shared silence. “Never, ever even dare to leave me again.” You push yourself up slightly, cupping the rough stubble of his cheek with your palm.
He presses his face into your hand, planting a heavy kiss there. “You know I cannot promise such a thing, sweet wife,” he replies solemnly. “Duty...”
“Your duty,” you begin shakily, your voice thick with emotion, “is to be by your wife’s side. Here in Oldtown.” You finish the thought, tilting your chin slightly.
A huff of quiet, weary laughter escapes him at your words.
“You think I jest—”
“No, my sweet wife, it is not you I laugh upon. It is simply...” He pulls you back down against his bare chest, his embrace iron-tight. “It is simply that duty is no simple matter. My family needs me, needs us. The realm and the King—”
You know he speaks the truth. You know he is bound by an unbridled sense of holy purpose and devotion that is utterly unbreakable, with his love for you coming second only to the honor of his house. At times it angers you, but a part of your heart understands that it is a thing so deeply ingrained into Ormund's bones that he cannot help it.
“Who will defend honor, hm? Righteousness, justice—” he reasons softly.
You sigh, the fight draining from you. “All I wish...” you begin, all your barriers and defenses melting away from your gaze, leaving your rawest emotions laid bare before him. “All I mean to say is... I wish it did not have to be you.”
He smiles at that—one of those easy, confident smiles that are so entirely him, making your chest squeeze with a painful fondness. The green silk of the pillows beneath your head suddenly feels as soft as a cloud, and you let out a long breath, settling back into the quiet.
“I know... sweet girl... I know...” That is all he offers, knowing too well that he cannot give you the false comfort of a lie.
After a few moments, you feel his calloused hand trail down from the curve of your hip to where the slick evidence of your coupling still lies fresh. He plunges a finger between the folds of your center, gathering the mixed cream of your releases. At the sudden intrusion, your hips instinctively buck against his hand.
He beams at the movement, a flash of white teeth in the gloom. “Always so jumpy for me…”
You can feel the battle-worn stiffness and the lingering shadow of death finally washing out of the room as he brings his hand back up to his lips, not hesitating for a moment before pressing his fingers into his mouth to taste you.
“You are utterly depraved.” You manage to whisper, watching him lazily lick the pads of his fingers.
He ignores the reprimand, choosing instead to anchor you even closer into the warmth of his chest.
“We will bathe on the morrow, together,” he promises, his voice dropping into a sleepy rumble. “Oh... and remind me, sweet wife, to order a thousand squares of linen from the merchants, so that every last one of them might be drenched in your scent.”
“Ormund.” You let out a breathy laugh at the sheer absurdity of the idea, but as you gaze into his dark eyes, you realize he is entirely serious.
“This way... I shall carry a piece of you with me into the field. Everywhere. Always.” he reasons, pressing one last, lingering kiss into the crown of your head. Finally, his heavy hand moves lower, his palm flattening out to trace the soft skin of your belly. “And you of me.” he whispers against your ear.
warning(s): he’s a perv, scent kink, sniffing, oral (fem receiving)
He has his weaknesses, ones he’s too proud to admit. Though despite them all, there is one thing that pride has not taken from him, the very sin he indulges in often.
You.
Ormund is calculated, he’s a man worn by battle and adept with his armies as he is his actions, much less his affections for his lady wife. And for all the things that may drive him mad, it is your scent that he can’t get enough of.
Long days and sleepless night serve for one thing. Need. And it has only grown, and still it grows. Once he finds you, alone in your bedchamber, after traipsing long halls and mindless knights to get to you. His embrace claims you, tucking you into him as heavy, long arms hold you. Your hand pressed against his chest, as hard as his armour through he is without it, left in only his doublet.
The kiss is soft at first, tentative and longing, and then it deepens, tongue sliding along your lip as his hand sinks into your hair. It has been too long, however long it has been. Weeks, a day, an hour. It’s too long no matter.
His nose rubs along the curve of your jaw, dropping slowly, teasingly over the hollow of your throat and even slower into the dip of your neck. Inhale. Warm air breathes across your skin, sharp enough to make your shiver, his fingers fingers digging in at your waist where you whine.
“How I have missed this..”
But he doesn’t stop there. He continues. The fingers at your waist curl inwards, bunching at the thin cotton of your nightgown as he backs you into the nearest surface. The bed, the chair, his desk, he doesn’t care. He can’t think, he’s too far intoxicated already. So much so you feel it. The heaviness of his breath, the aching tent forming in his breeches.
And you’re lifted into said surface in his arms with a huff, so fast it makes your head spin.
“There you are..”
His knees open your thighs, caging you in as he steps before you, still pressing close enough to take you in, thumb stroking over your cheek as the other traces up your thigh. Up and up and up until he reaches your aching heat.
Only then does he move downward, right where you need him, right where your fingers tangle through his sandy hair to urge him, beg him. He obliges, quietly, selfishly. Because this is indulgence, this is every part his pleasure as it is yours.
To sink his face into his wife’s cunt while you cry and shake around him.
But he slows as he kneels, bending at the floor to tug you right to the edge of the wooden furniture. And you keen, arching your back where you feel the want on his breath. The friction rubbing between you that inches you closer. Your nightgown rides over your thighs, barely covering you, but shielding you enough, just so the fabric sits right over your slit.
“Perhaps you taste just as sweet as you smell hm?”
His lips purse into a kiss, sloppy and chaste right over the wet line of your cunt. A shudder wracks your body, wetness pooling in a damp circle as his tongue teases you further, tracing, testing, nudging his nose into your swollen clit. Exactly where he wants to be.
“I should think I need to remind myself, don’t I dear wife.”
Ormund rocks his head forward, mouth enclosing round your heat shamelessly, burying his face into you as his hands clamp down at the flesh of your thighs. It’s lewd, it’s sinful. But a groan breaks free from his lips, inhaling once more. It’s all of you, everything at once and it has his cock leaking inside of the tight, cruel material of his trousers.
His tongue flicks sharper then, faster, collecting your taste through the lace and cotton before he’s had enough. Before he’s shoving it right up to your hips and bringing you back down onto his face again. Wet muscle swirls and licks through your folds, sucking down hard onto your clit and sliding down to poke and work open your weeping hole. Moans spill free from your lips, legs curled over his shoulders and tensing as he brings you closer to your peak.
He beckons you, dragging with long flat licks up and down through your cunt until you’re bucking into his face, spreading your wetness onto his chin and releasing onto his mouth. Though he doesn’t stop, not until you’re coated on his tongue, the familar tang of sweetness and sweat, his nose rubbing onto your swollen bud while you shake. And he doesn’t pull away, not completely, instead he kisses up your thighs, licking your juices from his lips and your skin with a loud pop.
The cloth he takes from his pocket is souvenir, dabbing away at the droplets he didn’t lick up from you, where your thighs are soaked in your own sweetness.
So, he does what he should, as a husband, and as a gentleman, or he tells himself. He swipes the remnants from your skin before folding it once over. And again, compacting the little cotton handkerchief before bringing it to his lips, and then his nose. And through your bliss and lidded eyes, you see it, his own rolling back from the scent that lingers on the cotton, a shudder ticking in his shoulders.
So depraved, and all of you. Just like he wants, and has already sworn to have over and over again. A scent far more delicious and intoxicating than any pomander or perfume.. one he can’t be without.
loving taglist: everyone go and thank @amphib0e right now for the idea of this delicious little number 💗
ormund hightower needing to have a handkerchief with his wife's signature scent with him when he goes to King's Landing to survive the absolute stench that reeks there, pressing it to his nose between council meetings... or maybe a patch of her used smallclothes that he cut himself would be better. carrying his wife's smell whenever he goes. surely it helps.
i can't remember who the real enemy is... @aysamuka - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
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