Having Helen and Clytemnestra be identical twins is genius because how poetic and fitting is it that Agamemnon, who used Helen as an excuse to start The Trojan War, who instigated the deaths of thousands and sacrificed his own daughter for his ambitions, only to fall by someone who bears the same face of the woman he politicized?
I loved everything they did with Agamemnon. With so little dialogue they established that this man was a perfectionist, that he lived for the aesthetic. Every decision he made was for the sake of the poetry of it over and above the actual consequences. He launched a war that caused the collapse of civilization to reclaim a woman who didn't even want to come home just because she shared a face with his wife, leaving said wife behind and murdering their daughter in the process. He demanded that he be there right front and center when they opened the gates of Troy. He never showed any emotion or affection to anyone except for the occasional stiff bro-hug. He constantly wore a literal mask with literal sculpted cheekbones at all times everywhere he went, and the one time he finally takes off his mask, the one time he finally relaxes and drops the larger-than-life persona he's been carrying, his wife murders him in righteous vengeance. They turned him into a walking cautionary tale about toxic masculinity and I am so happy with it. What a guy.
@dexer-von-dexer Yes it's the fact that everything Agamemnon did was profoundly performative, symbolized by the fact that we almost never saw him without his ridiculous armour obscuring his face. Odysseus was inside The Horse. Menelaus, his brother was inside The Horse. The only 2 bits of Agamemnon participating in the fighting we saw were 1. him posturing at the gates after the siege of Troy was already broken by other people doing the bloody shitty work for him, and 2. him murdering baby Iphigenia in exchange for the conditions he needed for his (literal) ego trip to Troy. And keep in mind Iphigenia was only sacrificed because Agamemnon fucked up in the first place offending Artemis. Yet this fucker still had the gall to feel slighted from beyond the grave and destroyed the rest of his children to satisfy his petty revenge. A loser for all time. He's not just toxic masculinity, he's the patriarchy. Fuck up and then make others, especially women pay the price.
i feel like the youth should be reminded that the point of shipping is not for a ship to become canon. the point of shipping is to collect all the canon crumbs like starved mice, run away cackling and make some fun little scenarios with them just for the hell of it.
"here's my original character, Man Who Sucks But Loves His Daughter Very Much" and it's a guy who worships at the altar of patriarchal violence and the woman he uses as an excuse and an effigy to absolve him
I subscribed to UNNAMED STREAMING SERVICE a few days ago and gave the login info to all my friends, as one does, but one of them went in and turned on 2-factor authentication and set the phone number to her own cell phone, locking me out of the account
It was an accident and we got it fixed but for a brief moment the betrayal and fury was so great I blacked out and was possessed by the spirit of like a 19th century naval officer, I was pacing around my room like "TO THINK THAT JUDAS HIMSELF NUMBERS HIMSELF AMONG MY COMPATRIOTS"
The crux of the anti trans movement is a war on bodily autonomy. They don't want you to have any agency over what you look like, how you dress, who you date, whether to have kids, etc.
They want total control over you. Not just trans people. Not just queer people. You. Everyone.
Trans people are just a scapegoat. They want total control over everyone's self expression. They want the right to mold you into their perfect little cog in their dehumanizing machine.
Happy Trans Day of Visibility. Our rights are your rights. Our destruction is your destruction.
Having Helen and Clytemnestra be identical twins is genius because how poetic and fitting is it that Agamemnon, who used Helen as an excuse to start The Trojan War, who instigated the deaths of thousands and sacrificed his own daughter for his ambitions, only to fall by someone who bears the same face of the woman he politicized?
summary: Ormund Hightower has been the guiding hand pushing you forward all your life. Teaching, shaping, and disciplining whenever necessary. His affections are unconventional and at times even violent, yet you cannot help but want his teeth in your heart anyway.
warnings: +18 mdni, explicit content, age gap, size difference, otk spanking, toxic relationship dynamics, reader is rhaenyra's daughter but has lived in oldtown for most of her life, power imbalances, could be said that reader is being groomed but she (like the writer) very much wants this evil man all on her own, light angst, mentions of canon typical violence, punishment, kneeling, begging, praise, sexual tension, clit stimulation, pillow humping, talk of maidenhood/virtue, bd/sm dynamics, ormund licks your tears, dry humping, oral sex f!receiving, possessive behavior, cruel devotion, discussion of marriage, jealousy, repressed feelings, body worship, virginity loss, dirty talk, face grabbing, scenting? girl idk, rough sex, multiple orgasm, creampie, collaring, lightly edited, images are purely for aesthetic purposes, reader has no physical description!
wc: 9.2k
note: if a single person asks for a part two………i may be….persuaded……..
[masterlist][AO3]
He's never liked you, that much was obvious in his stare alone.
You'd been sent to Oldtown with your cousin Daeron at your grandfather's request. Viserys had wanted it to be a sign of a united family. It had been done in a time of peace with pure intentions.
How would they have known of Ormund's hatred for Valyrian blood? How would they have known that a single look upon your face would have the man's jaw clenching and his hands curling?
For what it's worth, you truly believe he tried in the beginning. Tried not to allow his prejudice to cloud his judgment of you. But it was always there, like a curse held at the back of his throat. Too large to swallow, too cruel to speak.
He loved your cousin and treated Daeron as if he were born of his own blood. But though you were often found in the same trouble, Ormund's display of discipline was always a bit different when directed at you.
Not only a raised voice but a physical punishment, too.
A rough hand on the back of your neck. A lashing across your knuckles. Fingers curled tight around your jaw.
You'd let yourself believe that things would change when you became a woman grown. It is one thing to discipline a girl with the intent of guidance, but it is another thing to strike a lady.
The solution was to discipline in private.
Once, you'd gotten caught stealing wine from the kitchens in the dead of night. And when Ormund had been told of your transgression, he'd come to your bedchamber alone. Sat on the side of your mattress, fingers gentle as they stroked your cheek.
He shook you awake, and pretended at patience while you rubbed away the drunken stupor from your eyes.
And then he'd explain, "I am hard on you because I care. Because I see the potential beneath all your corruption. I understand it is not your fault you have such atrocity in your blood. I am only teaching you to overcome it. And you have much yet to learn, sweetling."
This is the first time Ormund takes you over his knee.
His palm lands sharp and hard across your bottom, five good times for each and every cup you'd stolen. He makes you count, and does not comment on the tears as they brim at the corners of your eyes.
The first time is the worst, because you hadn't expect it.
But by the tenth time it stops being a surprise and starts to become an expectation.
The routine is always the same. The sun will set, and he will slink into your chambers. Sometimes he doesn't even speak. He will simply stare down at you where you lay, head tilted, eyes dark, and you'll whisper apologies in the flickering candlelight.
He is meaner, you come to notice, when he is encumbered by duty. His strikes are harder and there are more of them. Sometimes he will spend hours in a day listening to petitions or dispersing soldiers or politicking with lords who come to him with future propositions.
On these nights, Ormund will groan low in his throat when you twist in his grasp, your legs flailing as you run from the impact of his tingling palm. But he will always wait for you to compose yourself, and then he'll lift his own leg over yours to bracket you in place, all before striking you again.
It is only after several months of this routine of discipline that you begin to wonder if it is less for your sake and more for his.
On one particular night, you're on strike eight out of ten, the number gritted through your teeth as you speak it aloud. Your breath comes fast and labored in your chest, lungs burning as you greedily drink up oxygen. Your muscles tire of pulling tight in anticipation only to melt in relief as the pain disperses across your skin.
It is later than usual, and you'd spent the day on horseback, and you're so exhausted that you fold your hands over one another and lay your head atop them. Face turned, you steal a glance up at Ormund to find his lips parted and his shoulders relaxed.
Posture far different than it had been when he'd closed your chamber door behind him.
You force your eyes to stay open as he hits you again, observing the look on his face.
Troublesome and argumentative woman you are, you're smart enough to recognize solace when you see it.
"Nine," you say, though it is more of a whisper than a fully spoken word.
Ormund notices.
His eyes find yours, gaze heavy and intense, as if he were seeing something inside of you that he could not put a name to if he tried.
This time, when his palm comes down against your cheek, it is hard enough that the sound echoes against the stone walls.
Your eyes squeeze shut and your ears ring and you can hear and feel and sense nothing but the heat of him beneath you and the pain he elicits. Breathing does not come easily. Each inhale is short and labored and choking.
"Count," Ormund says, the word low and demanding, the way he so often is.
You cannot catch your breath.
"Count, girl," he repeats. "Or we will begin again."
A spark of fear ignites in your chest, because you could not endure another ten lashes. Not like this, not knowing this is not even about the cruel words you'd spoken to your septa but rather for his own selfish respite.
"Ten!" The word is rushed. "Ten, ten, ten—!"
His hand smooths over your spine, as if to heal the ache he himself inflicted. "Very good," he whispers, shushing your cries. "You did so well."
The following morning, your flesh stings and bruises have already begun to form, but all you can think of is the way his praise had made your heart sing inside the cage of your ribs. The words echo in your mind, a mantra, a song, a poem.
The feeling is only because it is so rare to hear such things from his mouth, you tell yourself. It is not for desire. You could not desire a man like Ormund, could you? Who'd shaped you into the woman you are. Who saw such corruption in you and had spent the better half of your life trying to root it out.
But no matter how hard you try, you cannot shake the look you'd seen on his face. Like he'd enjoyed it.
And because you are stubborn and far too curious, you conduct an experiment to disprove your theory.
For weeks, you try very hard to be good. You go to your lessons without complaint, you listen to your septas, you pray to the seven and deny yourself excess in all forms.
You speak kindly. You cling tight to poise. You cast your eyes away when a man speaks to you and bow graciously instead of arguing or challenging a direction, no matter how stupid it may be.
You are perfect.
It is the longest you have gone without punishment in all your life.
But the stretch of time only lasts so long. And you wake late one night to find Ormund standing at your bedside, hovering.
Staring, with that same look he's leveled at you for years—not disgust, but something more complex. Something hotter. Searing.
You lift yourself up on an elbow and ask timidly, "Did I do something wrong?"
His jaw feathers as he clenches his teeth. "No."
Somehow, his answer is worse than if he had found a reason to punish you. Because this meant you were right, that his discipline was not only for you. It meant there was something else beneath it all.
It meant that this perverse craving in your chest that you have tried to fight off was not only yours. It was shared.
"If I've not done anything wrong, then what are you—?"
"Get up." He lifts his hand, motioning for you to remove yourself from the comfort of you linens, finally breaking the intensity of his stare.
And because you have been trained to heed his every beck and call, you do exactly as he says.
He sits at the edge of your bed, the way he always does. And you stand in front of him awaiting instruction, the way you always do.
Your heart feels suddenly too large, pushing against your bones.
He is supposed to say, kneel. He is supposed to say, over my knee. He is supposed to say, do you know what you've done?
Ormund does not.
Instead, he says, "Take off your gown."
You blink in surprise, unsure if perhaps this is a test. Maybe he's temping you, goading for a reason. Trying to get you to reveal yourself, to sacrifice your modesty so that he might prove you are just as wicked as he believes you to be.
"What?"
"Your gown," he says again, voice firmer now. "Take it off. Do not make me repeat myself."
You can hear the blood rushing in your ears and feel suddenly frozen. Afraid to move, afraid to say one thing when he truly means for you to do another, and—
Ormund stands suddenly and his hands are on you. Big and rough and mean, tearing the lace fabric over your chest so hard it leaves indents against your shoulder blades. Your nightclothes are thin and give so easily beneath his violence.
You do not stop him. You don't even try.
You don't want to.
Before you can fully process what's happening, you're standing completely bare before him, white fabric pooled at your feet. Your nipples harden beneath the night's cool air and your heart hammers in your ribcage.
He is not shameful in his assessment of you. His eyes are greedy and roaming, leaving no part of you untouched, starting at the curve of your throat and the the swell of your breasts, and eventually lower down to your navel and the space between your legs.
Ormund stares, and his lips part on a hollow sigh. His hand comes up to cup his jaw, squeezing hard, trying to rub the tension away.
You want so badly to hear the thoughts in his mind but know better than to ask.
Does he think you're beautiful? Does he like the shape of your body? Does he enjoy the softness of your skin, or the scent of honeysuckle oils at your pulse point? Are you womanly enough for him?
Does he want you? Does he think of you, the way you have him? Do you appear in his dreams, too?
He clears his throat, the sound masculine and powerful, startling you out of your reverie. And then he sits back down on the edge of your bed and says, "Kneel."
You do.
"Over my knee."
This instruction, too, you follow.
Warmth blooms low in your belly at the texture of his leather breeches against the top of your bare thighs.
He doesn't ask if you're aware of your transgressions, because there are none.
Ormund sets one hand on the small of your back, and the other comes to rest against the globe of your arse. His hands are calloused. Rough. Hardened from the weight of a sword.
And above all, they are…delightful. Delicious. "How—" you swallow thickly. "How many?"
His hands are gentle as they stroke your skin. Feather light and mistakenly devoted. Ormund leans forward, lips a breadth away from your ear as he answers, "As many as I'd like."
And then his hand comes down sharply, the sound of skin against skin a piercing echo.
A whine leaves you, and it takes a moment to gather yourself enough to choke out, "One."
He hits you again, and again, and again—and each time those delicate touches in between last just a bit longer. As if he is able to find peace in your punishment, granting him the gift of softness.
Everything feels hot. Your skin, your hands, the place between your legs. It throbs and aches and grows stickier by the minute.
You think he must see it. He must. Each strike has your spine arching, exposing you even more, the number more of a moan on your lips than a cry.
It is around number six that you begin to feel him harden beneath you.
The swell of his cock presses against your belly, right beside your navel. Growing larger with each loud echo.
He does not mention it, and neither do you. But your head feels fuzzy with the truth of it.
Ormund settles around strike fifteen. You are certain it will be painful to sit tomorrow, but you can't find yourself in it to care when he traces delicate patterns over your warmed flesh with the tips of his cool fingers.
The praise comes after some time, when your muscles relax in his hold, when you stop expecting one more strike to befall you.
"You always look so beautiful in the aftermath," he mutters. and you feel yourself smiling, despite your better impulses. "Pretty, obedient little girl."
His hands knead at your sore skin, squeezing the pillowy flesh and spreading you open. You look up to see him staring at your most intimate place, likely seeing the wetness that's gathered.
He then does one more thing you don't expect.
With only the pad of his thumb, Ormund slides his finger through your slit.
The touch is firm and so unforeseen that it sends a jolt straight to your heart. You let out a true cry this time, but not of pain.
Of pleasure.
You're so sensitive that your muscles clench at the contact, so lost in the feeling that you hardly hear the low groan that rumbles through his chest.
And then he's pushing you off of his lap onto your bed, and standing to his feet. He does not even spare you a parting glance over his shoulder as he says, "Enough for today."
You do not see him again for some time.
In fact, Ormund leaves Oldtown entirely the next morning and he takes Daeron with him. It is only from your septa's that you learn they've set on a quest to deliver goods to the Citadel.
Usually Ormund will mention as much to you over supper with your cousin, and you cannot help thinking the reason for his sudden and unannounced absence is due to what transpired between you the night before.
And to yourself only, you admit his absence has made you yearn for him.
You cannot quiet the thoughts in your mind each night, the longing for him, the hope that he will simply appear at your bedside with a heavy hand and that familiar stare.
But he never does, and left to your own devices with thoughts of his touch invading your every thought, it is not long before you try desperately to abate the need yourself.
In fact, you form a new routine of your own.
It starts as desperate rocking against nothing, but you learn rather quickly just how much better it feels with your linens wedged tight between your legs as you do.
The bulk of the fabric presses deliciously against your center, and each roll of your hips has your vision turning black around the edges. You can think only of Ormund—your mentor, your disciplinarian, the hand that shaped you.
You think of the force behind his strikes and of his low groans and of his sweet, sweet praise. You think of the darkness in his eyes and of his strong jaw and the way the muscles in his shoulders flex when he moves.
Even his gait makes your belly squeeze tight in desire—the surety in his steps, his confident posture and the way he towers over you. Always so big and hulking and intimidating.
Sleep only comes to you each night after you reach the peak of bliss. After a fog clouds your mind and your vision goes all starry.
You think if Ormund were to see the things you'd been up to in his absence, you don't believe fifteen strikes would be nearly enough.
He would tell you it is a sin to indulge lustful fantasies in this way. That your pleasure is reserved for your husband, meant to be given at his discretion.
But you've never been a perfect listener nor a rule follower. If there is anything in your life you are certain of, it is that.
You allow yourself to freely walk about the tower in his absence, too. The rookery and the kitchens, plucking fruit or cheese from nearby trays and sending ravens to your cousin Helaena in the Red Keep.
You visit the stables to pet the horses and even make friends with a bastard boy who'd recently come to Oldtown from Casterly Rock.
When Ormund does finally return, you're there to greet him in the great hall with a flicker of delight in your chest.
He looks the same as when he'd left. Strong, masculine, confident. His skin is maybe a bit more sun-kissed than before, and his normally polished leather boots are caked in mud.
Yet still, you cannot help but smile when you see him. You'd worn your most beautiful dress, a gown of emerald velvet and white lace, low cut with a jeweled bodice. He'd complimented you on it once, several moons ago, and it has been your favorite ever since.
When he comes to stand in front of you in greeting, you bow low. "My lord," you say. "I am grateful for your return."
His eyes stay glued to yours when you rise, his pert mouth turned up at the corners. "I am grateful to be back," he says, taking your hand in his and bringing your knuckles to his lips.
Ormund's kiss is chaste, but it feels anything but. The simple touch of his hand has your belly flipping and your face heating.
He does not linger long, though you wish he would. But there is much to tend to in the keep, things that have simply been awaiting his return.
The cooks prepare a feast that night. A massive spread for both Ormund and the knights that traveled with him.
Ormund sits at the head of the table and Daeron sits to his right. You are placed on the other side of your cousin, who spends most of the night recounting tales of the Citadel to you. Of the towering stacks of books and the tomes bigger than his head.
He tells you in a whispered tone just how old the Grand Maester truly looks. "Ancient," he explains. "With tufts of graying hair and eyes that no longer see."
You laugh and giggle together about it, indulging your childish whims that always manifest whenever you are near him.
Daeron tells you, too, about the ambush they'd suffered from raiders who's been lying in wait off the King's Road.
"Uncle Ormund nearly died from a stab wound," he whispers, and it makes your heart give a sudden lurch. "He fought bravely. Slashed the raider clean in two, if you'd believe it."
This makes you mirth fall. You have never considered his loss before this moment. Ormund has always been there, a steady presence in your life.
Just the thought of it—of losing him, it does not sit well in your gut. Though hated by him as you are, you could not imagine...you could not imagine.
Ormund does not speak to you, but you can feel his stare. Heavy and warm on the side of your face. You wonder silently if he'd missed you as you have him.
Had he been thinking of that night, too? Of how it had felt to be bared before him? Of the heat you saw in his gaze?
Had he thought of you with a blade pressed to his belly? Had it truly gotten that close?
Ormund makes a toast to his men near the end of supper. To their valiant efforts that contributed greatly to the trade and to their protection.
Your maidens ready you for bed that night and spend a little longer scrubbing you clean at your request. They dress you in white silk and by the time they leave, the fire in the hearth has dwindled to cinders. The excitement in your chest is a roaring flame, however.
But, Ormund does not come to you.
You toss and turn restlessly, hoping to hear the creak of your chamber door or footsteps on the stone just outside.
Yet, there is nothing. The night is still, as it has been for the last several weeks.
You lie there with a longing in your chest, an ache between your legs, and your head filled with a thousand questions.
The setting sun has long since given way to the moon by the time you leave your bed.
Ormund's chambers are on the other side of the Hightower, but you are more and more certain with every step you take.
Ser Roy of Oldtown stands guard outside his door, the way he does most nights. He bows low when he sees you, eyes cast away from the too thin fabric of your gown. "My lady."
"I wish to speak to him," you say, trying to muster the strength to keep your voice from wavering.
"He did request not to be disturbed lest there was an emergency," the knight tells you.
"I don't care," is your simple response, because it is true. "Please, ser, step aside so that I might—"
Ormund's door opens, the heavy weight of it daunting.
He looks at you and stares. Hard and knowing.
Your breath gives way at the precision attention, all the jumbled thoughts in your mind untangling like a pulled thread before promptly vanishing. There is…something new behind his ire for you. Something you might call intrigue, if you didn't know any better.
Ormund does not take his eyes off of you as he speaks. "Find something to busy yourself, Ser Roy," he says, eyes searching your face now, flickering from your nose to your cheeks and then to your mouth. "And do not come back," he adds to the knight.
Roy nods stiffly and doesn't argue. He, too, knows better.
The clang of his armor disappears down the corridor, and before long it is just you and the man who haunts your insides. Heart and head alike.
He smiles down at you. A true smile. Small, but real, and it weathers your resolve in an instant. Because it's a kindness he does not give freely or often, but he is here now, giving it to you—who you'd thought he'd hated.
But this doesn't feel like hatred to you in the slightest.
It's heavier. Sharper. Sweeter.
In the end, it is you who breaks the spell, pushing past him and into his chambers. You recall all your cousin had said about the journey to the Citadel. How blades had been drawn and blood had been spilled and the thought of it makes your eyes sting.
Ormund closes the chamber door behind you, but you face away from him. Staring into the crackling flames in the hearth, trying and failing to fight the tears that brim in your eyes. "Daeron told me there was an…altercation on the King's Road," you say. "He speaks tales of blood and death. Is this true?"
His heavy footfalls sound in your ears. Ormund nears you, yet you still do not turn to look at him. "It is," he answers simply. "These are dark times, as you well know. Darker yet to come."
The idea of it—of war, of famine, of the rot and loss that he speaks of, it makes you terrified. You've seen men die before, in jousts or tourneys, even on the way here to Oldtown. But thinking of Ormund in the middle of it all?
Finally, you turn to face him. He is closer than you'd expected. Only a single step away, focus narrowing as he sees the tears in your eyes. "You could have died."
"But I did not." His head tilts curiously. "Where do you place your ire?"
"In you!" You should not yell. You know this, and yet the venom in your mouth refuses to be washed out. "It is from someone else that I'd had to learn you'd been attacked on the way to the Citadel. From another I'd learned you'd taken a wound that very nearly could have put you in the grave. And even those details I'd had to overhear from one of your men when it should have come from you!"
He watches it unfold; your rage surfacing, all masks of poise absent. He does not stop you or speak a warning into existence, he only watches with curiosity on his face and something far more intense alongside it.
"I have longed for your return for weeks! You leave without a word and take my cousin with you, leaving me to sit all alone and wonder if perhaps I'd done something wrong or worse—disappointed you!" Your tears fall freely down your cheeks now, but you are far past the point of sparing yourself any embarrassment.
Ormund raises his hand to your face, cradling your head in his palm. His thumb strokes gently across your cheek, swiping your tears away. "Is it for me that you weep, sweetling?"
Yes, you want to say. Yes, of course it is. He is everything to you and has always been. "Do you have any idea how I would have mourned you?"
His eyes soften, and it soothes something inside of you to see it. Ormund leans forward slowly, carefully so as not to frighten you.
And you stand there, frozen in the gentle hold of his hands, as he licks the tears from your cheeks. His tongue is warm and soothing against your ruddy skin, and it feel so intimate that it makes you shiver.
He then kisses your eyelids. The left first, followed by the right. "I cannot promise to tell you of each of my wounds," he says, voice softer than it's ever been before. "But I can promise to warn you before I leave the tower again. I thought you'd be glad to be rid of me after all I've done, in truth."
"Glad?" The thought does not register in your mind. "I could never be glad of your absence. I confess, I…I hate it."
"Is that right?" Ormund takes a step back, and you see him inhale a shaking breath as he does. "More than you hate me?"
You wish you could deny the words, but you cannot. You've hated him all your life—the man who'd always looked at you as if your very blood was wrong, who'd never hesitated to raise a hand to you, who'd been cruel and rigid. The man who denied you the softness you've always craved unless you'd earned it.
You do hate him.
But yes, you hate his absence more.
"There is another matter," he says, not giving you time to answer his question.
Perhaps because he did not care to hear the answer, or perhaps because he could not bear it.
"I am told you'd been quite disruptive while I was away," Ormund says. "That you'd stolen and spoken with a sharp tongue. All things I could forgive, considering the worst of your misdeeds."
Your brows furrow. "And what was the worst?"
"I have told you a hundred times to stay away from the stables," he explains. "So, imagine how unexpected it was to hear that you'd been spending far too much time with a boy who works in the very same stables I've warned you against."
Your stomach twists at the sharp tone of his voice. A stark contrast to the way he'd spoken to you only moments ago. "He does magic tricks," you say. "We were not being inappropriate."
"Magic," he spits. "Is that what you'd sell your virtue for? Your maidenhood? Worth nothing but a few tricks?"
"What? No! I—!"
"It does not matter if you truly did it," Ormund interrupts. "All that matters is the way it might seem to the passing eye. A whisper in one ear turns to truth in the mouth of another."
"But I didn't do anything! There was another, in the stables," you argue. "An old woman mucking out the stalls. Ask her, she can attest we were simply brushing the mares and—!"
"He did not touch you?"
"No, my lord. On the seven above, I swear it."
You see something rigid relax in him as you say the words aloud. His posture softens, his hands unfurl. Ormund wets his lips and says, "There is still the matter of precedent. I told you not to do something, and you went ahead and did it anyway. On this much we can agree, yes?"
"Yes," you echo.
He nods thoughtfully, steps closer to his four poster bed, and says, "Come."
You do not know quite why, exactly, you feel your heart slow as he says it. The word is rehearsed and familiar and puts you at ease in all the places you've felt wound tight for weeks now. You stand in front of him and await further instruction, and Ormund does not hesitate to give it.
"Remove your dress."
That spark of excitement returns. You obey wordlessly, unlacing the fabric just enough to pull the silk over your shoulders. It falls down your body like water and pools at your feet.
And then, finally, he says, "Kneel."
You do.
Ormund does not sit on the edge of his bed for several moments. He simply exists in the space you've created, drinking up the power he holds over you. He's still fully clothed, wearing a black tunic and leather breaches, towering over your naked body that awaits his instruction.
When he does finally sit, he speaks a word you have not practiced before but it invokes something primal in you all the same.
"Crawl."
You do.
Ormund's chest heaves as you keep your eyes firmly on his, closing the space on all fours. And when you're close enough that you're right between his spread knees, you lay your cheek against the inside of his thigh.
He squeezes his eyes closed, whispering under his breath, so quiet you'd have missed the curse on the tip of his tongue had you not been paying attention.
His throat bobs as he swallows and exhales slowly. When his eyes find you again, there is something akin to wonder in them. "Over my knee."
You assume the practiced position and find yourself slick between your legs before he's even touched you. But you know he sees it, too, when he squeezes your flesh and spreads you open wide enough to feel to cool air touch your cunt.
"Ten," he says lowly. "Because I can see now that you were only acting out in response to my lack of thought for your isolation."
Ormund does not give a warning. He never does. He simply raises his hand and brings it down sharply against the swell of your cheek. The impact is painful and soothing all at the same time, and though your breathing stutters you feel your chest loosening.
You count each and every one in perfect succession, skin growing raised and warm to the touch. You cannot be sure if his hand comes down harder each time or if perhaps you've just grown more and more sensitive.
By the sixth strike, you're throbbing. Your hips move of their own accord, desperate for something to be wedged between them. Your toes curl and your feet cross at the ankles, thighs squeezed together as you try to abate the need.
By the eighth strike, you can feel Ormund's cock pressing against your belly, hard as stone. You cannot bear to look at him, not like this. Because you think you might lose all sense of self if you do, might kneel and beg for him to touch you. To violate you.
"Nine," you hiss, fingers curling in his sheets. You can feel everything, everywhere, all at once. Not just his hand and the way he hits you but his other, pressed firmly to the small of your back to keep you in place. You can feel the leather beneath you and his breath as it fans across your spine. You can feel the cool air that drifts in through the open window pane and the warm lick of the fire across the room.
You can feel your blood in your veins, the air in your lungs, the holiness in your body.
"One more," Ormund says. "Breathe, girl."
You obey, sucking in a slow breath of air and letting it fill your belly.
He strikes you on the exhale, and this time his hand stays against your tingling skin.
"Ten," you whimper. It feels as though your bones melt in his hold. The tension in your muscles dissipates, fading to nothing.
Just one touch would be enough. The pressure has become a mountain inside of you and it's on the verge of collapse.
"Are you…enjoying this?"
You cannot lie. Not to him. "Yes," you answer breathlessly.
He hums, a sound at the back of his throat that you're not sure is because he's pleased with you or because he's appalled. You half expect him to strike your backside again.
He does not.
Instead, his hands drift slowly down the back of your thighs. And as his thumbs move, they slide through your slick and your spine arches back of its own volition.
"Oh—" You grit your teeth, trying to hold back the moan that threatens. But it feels so good, better than anything else.
He lifts one hand, and you expect it to hurt when he touches you again. Ormund instead curls his fingers inwards, spreads your knees, and strokes his knuckles through your syrupy folds.
This time there is no chance at holding back your sound of pleasure. It rips through you, deep and heady, goosebumps spreading across your skin.
"So sensitive," he muses, more to himself than words spoken to you. "You've always been such a sensitive girl."
You press yourself backwards, chasing the sensation of his hand. He gently strokes you again, soft enough you'd convince yourself it's a touch of love if you believed he were capable of such a thing.
His knuckles graze over your clit and what was once warmth in your belly now spreads like wildfire beneath your skin.
"Please," you whimper. "More, please. I'll be good, I'll be—I'll be so good, I promise."
"Of course you will be," he says. "You're my perfect girl."
The word clangs around in your emptied mind. Perfect.
Perfect, perfect, perfect—
Ormund smooths his hand over your cunt, the pressure and roughness of his touch dizzying. He then presses his thumb directly to your clit and you feel all the blood in your body rush to your center. "Do you know what you're asking of me?"
"Yes," you answer truthfully. "I want it to be you. I need it to be. No one else…" You swallow.
"Speak, sweetling," he encourages.
"No one else makes me feel like this," you admit, turning your head to look up at him.
And what you see is catastrophic to your aching heart. Because you've known Ormund all your life, but you've never seen him look like that.
Despaired, hopeless, a slave to the thoughts that plague him. There is such longing in his eyes that it makes your stomach flip. But beneath it all there is understanding—like he relates far too well to your words to ever deny them.
"I could ask for your hand," he mutters. "Though your mother will likely deny me for my allegiance to my cousin and my house."
"So take me." The words come unbidden, a treason in their own right. "Steal me away. Hold me captive, a prisoner of a war not yet waged."
Something dark and searing flares behind his eyes when you speak.
"I am yours," you admit, and you think it may just be the truest thing you have ever said. "The way I have always been."
Ormund growls low, a frustrated sound at the bottom of his chest. He leans forward and presses his forehead to the space between your shoulder blades. "You are, aren't you."
Not a question.
He sighs, breathing in the scent of your skin deep into his lungs to soothe himself.
You are unsure of what comes next, once the truth of your feelings for him has been laid out in the open.
It feels raw. Like your chest has been cut and your ribcage cracked so he might see your very insides.
What happens next is a kiss upon your shoulder.
Gentle. Devoted. Faithful.
There is a deep crease between his brows, and you can feel evidence of hesitation in his hands.
"You are troubled," you observe aloud. "Is it because of me?"
He winces as if you'd struck him. As if the words were far more painful than anything he's ever done to you. Ormund's jaw feathers, and he breathes in deeply before saying, "Of course not. You have never…"
He shakes his head, swallows, and tries again.
"Understand this; my feelings for you do not come from a righteous place. I should feed you, guide you, protect you, and do nothing else. You should not be here now. I should not want this. Or—or you."
"But you…do?" It sounds mousy as you ask it, said with an unsure tongue.
"I do," he admits in a hoarse whisper.
There is pain in his eyes as he says it. As if this feeling has been sitting in the depths of him for some time, and only now does he allow himself to succumb to it.
You move. You are uncertain and cautious as you do, but you will strength into your limbs anyway. Climbing into his lap, straddling his hips, winding your hands around his shoulders and tugging gently at the hair at his nape. "You don't have to take," you say, so close now you're breathing in his air. "Not if I give."
His stare is heavy and dark. Full of more longing and lust than you have ever seen exist in a man before.
You close the distance. Ormund freezes, unmoving as you press your lips to his experimentally. He tastes of smoke and cedar, of steel and blood, of safety and familiarity.
He tastes of home.
When you pull back, his chest heaves and his hands curl into the sheets. The thought crosses your mind that he is angry with you—furious, even.
But Ormund does not shout or raise a hand to strike you.
He grabs you by the back of the neck and crushes his mouth to yours. Less experimental and less nervous than you were.
Ormund kisses you like he's starving.
His lips move against yours, soft and wanting. And when his tongue slips between them, he moans into your mouth as he tastes the inside of it.
It is a battle of a different kind. He bites and sucks and licks, and you try to meet his fervor. You are just as desperate, but Ormund is untamed. A feral dog let off its leash.
Your center throbs and you whimper, rolling your hips on top of him to abate the feeling. He is still fully dressed while you sit naked in his bruising grip, and you suddenly want nothing more than to feel his bare skin beneath your fingertips.
When you tug at the buttons of his tunic, Ormund's hands find yours to assist your clumsy movements. He is much faster than you are, and tugs the garment over his head the moment he is able.
There, along the left side of his abdomen, is a jagged wound.
You pause to press your fingers tenderly to the angry, red skin. His muscles are strong and hard beneath your touch. Though the stitches are removed now and the wound is mostly healed, he still winces at the pressure of your fingertips.
Without thinking, you lean forward and press a soft kiss to the scarred skin.
Ormund melts beneath your affection. And then he brackets his arms around your waist and turns you both, laying you flat against the mattress. He kneels between your legs, seeming so large and intimidating from the new angle.
His hands find your face, feeling your skin. They move slowly over your bones, down your neck, over the swell of your breasts, your navel, your hips. As if he were trying to memorize this particular moment by sight and touch alone.
"I have thought of this more times than I could ever say," Ormund tells you. He settles low, hovering over your body, pressing his mouth to the hollow of your throat.
His lips follows the same path as his hands, peppering wet kisses over your skin and leaving goosebumps in his wake.
"Your taste, you scent, your sweetness—I have dreamt of it," he continues. His tongue circles your navel once before moving further down. And when he kisses your pubic bone, Ormund pauses. Looks up at you through dark lashes, his stare soft but still no less intense. "Is this where you ache, sweetling?"
The words feel filthy and depraved and so delicious that you whine. "Yes," you tell him, squirming. "Will you kiss me there?"
A malevolent smirk forms on his pretty mouth. "More," he answers.
And with no warning at all, Ormund licks a stripe through your heat, tongue flat and soft and so very wet.
It sends you reeling. The sensation, the sensitivity—him. "Oh, gods, I—"
He does it again, this time licking back down as well. Ormund moans low and the vibration of the sound spreads through you mercilessly. Again, and again, and again, his tongue laves through your apex. You feel yourself clench, muscles pulled taut.
Your spine bends off the mattress and your hands come to his head, fingers twisting in his soft curls, pulling his mouth impossibly closer.
When he takes your clit between his lips and sucks gently, your vision blurs. Everything else in the world fades to nothing, every sensation muted apart from the pleasure his warm mouth brings.
Ormund is relentless. He doesn't stop, even when you're writhing and gasping for air. His face flushes and you can feel his stare on you even when you can no longer keep your eyes open.
It's far better than linens between your legs, far more intense. It doesn't take long before you become a trembling mess, legs shaking around his head, heels digging into his spine as you scramble to find some sort of purchase.
And then it happens—a searing pleasure, ripping through you mercilessly. Light flashes behind your eyes and your spine arches and your fingers tighten in his hair.
He licks and sucks you through it, making those sweet, rumbling groans all the while, as if this is more for his pleasure than yours.
The bliss is blinding and fizzles out slowly, leaving remnants of euphoria behind. Only then does he settle, tongue slowing as it slides through your wet heat with less pressure now.
When he finally pulls his mouth away, his cheeks are flushed and his lips are glossy with your arousal. "Better," Ormund whispers. "Far better than I ever could have dreamed."
You can hardly react to his praise, too lost in the feeling he'd given you. "I did not know it could be like that," you admit, breathless. "That it could be so…"
"Perfect," he finishes for you. And you think, yes. He is perfect.
Maybe not in everything, but for you.
Ormund crawls over you until you are face to face once more. He is heavy on top of you, muscles thick and smothering in the best way. His length presses against your hip, so hard now you can feel the pulse of it.
He kisses your mouth but this time it's slower. Softer. The taste of you lingers on his tongue, sweet and intoxicating.
His hands cradle your face far gentler than another ever has. It is dizzying, the way he can bring such pain and still grant such ease.
You wriggle your arm beneath his abdomen, reaching for the metal of his belt buckle.
Ormund groans, but you feel the way his lips turn up just slightly against yours. "Greedy girl," you says, pulling away to nuzzle your cheek with the tip of his nose. "I have warned you against overindulgence endlessly."
He speaks true, but you have never listened to his warnings. Have always bent the rules until they break, have retained a sharp tongue and a love for all that might destroy you.
Including him, you suppose.
"Will you deny me, then?"
"No." Ormund shakes his head. "Never in all my life."
It eases something in you to hear the response. To know this is a sin you share, a mirrored reflection of one another.
He leans backwards, just enough to unbuckle his breeches and remove them. His cock is larger than you'd anticipated. Thick and veiny and flushed at the tip, hanging heavy between his legs and decorated with a thatch of dark, coarse hair at the base.
Ormund kneels in front of you, staring hard, watching you take all of him in for the first time.
He's beautiful, you think. Strong and powerful and profound. Your mouth waters at the sight of him, your brain going fuzzy again, carnal impulses beginning to take hold.
"I can be gentle," he says. "If that is what you need."
But it's not gentle you want. You want him—with all his sharpness, with all his anger. The totality of it; his heart, his soul, his body. If it hurts, you think it is meant to. "What I need," you whisper, "is you."
He watches you for a moment, eyes searching your face, trying to find hesitance that doesn't exist. And then he nods, leans forward to kiss your temple, and says, "You will tell me if it becomes too much."
You swear to him that you will.
Ormund takes his cock in his hand and slides the head of it through your center, coating his length in your wetness. Each stroke of him over your clit has you sighing, hips canting towards the sensation.
He lines himself up at your entrance, and your attention is so focused on his movements between your legs that it startles you when he uses the other to grab your face.
Ormund's fingers curl tightly around your jaw, forcing your head back, forcing you to look at him. "Eyes here," he says, voice firm.
And then, gently, he begins to push in.
The stretch of him burns, but it is not terrible. It simply aches, and you whimper a distorted version of his name but he does not stop. He keeps going until he's fully seated inside of you, so deep you swear you can feel him in your belly.
All the while, he keeps his big hand around your jaw, squeezing so tightly it momentarily distracts from the throbbing of your cunt.
Ormund touches his forehead to yours, breathing in your air. He says, "You are so fucking perfect."
And it makes you moan.
He starts to move, slowly at first. Pulling out of you tenderly just to slide right back in. A few strokes, encouraging your endurance. Sweet and soft and loving.
"Feels so—so full," you say, whimpers falling from your lips.
Ormund pulls out again, nearly all the way this time. He still forces you to look at him, and you can see the desperation enter his eyes mere moments before he slams his cock in deep.
There is nothing soft about it. Nothing sweet.
Your vision goes blurry and the air vanishes from your lungs as if it'd never existed there in the first place. The force of it aches so deliciously you feel pressure begin to form behind your eyes. "Oh god—!"
He does it again, pulling out almost completely before slamming back into you. "My perfect girl," he mutters against your lips. "Does it hurt?"
"Yes." Your hands find his shoulders, fingernails digging into the thick muscle .
"Do you wish for me to stop?"
That familiar warmth spreads someplace deeper than before. Not just your belly but in your womb. "No, please don't—don't stop."
Ormund turns your head just enough to press his own against the side of your cheek. He inhales the scent of your skin and a low growl reverberates in his chest.
Finally, blessedly, he picks up the pace. Hips grinding hard against yours, finding a rhythm that feels somehow both satisfying and violent. He breathes shallowly against your cheek, pressing kisses to your jaw that feel so tender in comparison to the way he fucks you.
And when he reaches between your bodies with his free hand to find you clit, you think you might die. It's too much, too sensitive. Your toes curl and your spine arches, pressing your breasts against his chest. The only word you seem to have held onto in your bliss is, "Please. Please, please—oh god, please."
"You beg so prettily," he says. "Almost like you were made for it. Made to kneel before me. Made to be mine."
The possessiveness in his tone alone has you teetering on the precipice of release. You'd given yourself freely to him, willingly—but Ormund still manages to take. Your innocence, your purity, your heart.
You're falling. Bliss blinds you, thighs trembling, nerve endings coiled and white-hot. His name falls from your mouth and Ormund kisses you hard to swallow up the sound.
"Yeah," he murmurs. "There you go, sweetling. Give it to me. My perfect girl."
He doesn't stop, even when tremors rock through your body. He keeps fucking his cock into you without remorse, fingers moving over your clit in tight circles, ratcheting your pleasure higher and higher until you feel like you might burst with it.
The pace of his hips falters, and then he's groaning low against the curve of your neck and laying wet, open-mouthed kisses against your pulse. With his cock buried inside of you, he fills you with his release, painting your insides all sticky and white.
Ormund gives a couple of slow thrusts, chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath, before gently pulling out of you and rolling to his side.
It is not you who reaches for comfort first.
His arm wraps around your waist, hauling you across the mattress and into his warm embrace.
You nestle beneath his arm, head resting against his shoulder. He is so large and the heat of his skin is so comforting. Familiar in some ways, despite this being the first time you've ever been so close.
That same warmth that emanates from him seeps through your bones and touches your fast-beating heart. A delighted giggle escapes you, and you can feel Ormund's mouth turn up into a smile against your forehead.
He tilts your chin up so you're facing him. "What is it that you find so amusing?"
You shake your head. "Nothing, just...I am—I am happy."
His smile softens into something heavier, but no less pleased. You don't believe you've ever seen him look this way. So vulnerable. Benevolent, even.
Silence settles for some time. And you would be content to stay here, skin tingling in the aftermath of bliss, safe in his arms. But there is something weighing on him, and you can feel it in the stiffness of his hands that stroke gently over your hip.
When you can stand his distance no longer, you ask, "Is there something wrong?"
He doesn't answer right away, which frays the edges of your comfort. But then he says delicately, "I have something for you. A gift."
"A gift?" You prop yourself up on an elbow. "From the Citadel?"
"No," Ormund answers. "I'd had it made for you some time before my journey. But I—it is not a…kindness, exactly. More a token of my own grotesque worship of you."
Your brows furrow in confusion. "What is it?"
Ormund untangles himself from the sheets, unkempt and messy now below you. He crosses the chamber to his wardrobe and pulls open a drawer.
It is hard to see from so far away, but you watch as he takes something hesitantly in his hand before returning to the bedside.
"I…I sometimes believe that I have been shackled to you by the gods themselves," he begins. "Fated to bend my own morals in response to my longing for you. I am but a wolf coiled around a lamb and there will never be anything else, not for me."
You don't understand. It makes a million questions form in your mind, none easily answered.
Ormund swallows thickly. "I am a slave to your affection," he says. It makes your chest pull tight. "I do not deserve your softness but I will never turn it away so long as you continue to give it."
He extends his hand in front of you, opening his palm to display the prettiest necklace you've ever seen. Made of glittering emerald stones and a silken black ribbon.
You reach out to touch it on instinct, and Ormund lets you take it from him. But as you do, witnessing the lack of length, realization dawns on you. "This heralds a collar," you say.
Ormund nods slowly. "I only wished for you to be…possessed by me, the way I have been possessed by you."
A response does not come easily.
There is a part of you that knows this is not the way of things. A man should love his lady. Should be kind and respectful. He should certainly not place a collar around her neck as if she is owned property or a family pet.
But there is…something else, too. A part of you where desire sparks at the thought of being so wholly his, of surrendering to whatever fate may befall you so long as it is done by his own hand. There is peace in it. And certainty.
"I'd told myself to get rid of it a thousand times, but there has always been a hope within me that perhaps one day you might return my wretched affections," he says. "It is yours. But if you are to wear it, you must do so willingly."
The decision feels heavy. Weighted.
But you do not need long to decide.
You hand the necklace back to Ormund, who takes it hesitantly from your grasp.
And then you turn, facing away from him but looking over your shoulder to ask, "Will you tie it for me?"
He smiles, and there is something deeply fragile in it. Almost boyish, as if this is the first time in all his life he has ever felt truly loved by another.
Ormund kisses the back of your neck and sets the ribbon in place around your throat.
