Currently watching: The Handmaid's Tale, Smallville, Perdiendo el Juicio, Gilmore Girls (again)
Current obsession: Starting my YouTube channel and reading fanfics (that last part never ends).
Currently reading: 1984 by George Orwell
Currently working on: My inbox, three series (one with Sam Winchester and the others with Dean Winchester).
Currently wearing: Jeans with boots, a black long-sleeved T-shirt, and a light green collared sweater.
Last search: Traductor
Favorite flower: Orchids. To be honest, I was never a fan of flowers, so I didn't really focus on them and never had a favorite, but after watching the movie “Secretary” with Maggie Gyllenhaal and James Spader, those flowers became my favorites.
currently watching: schitts creek, new girl, supernatural (rewatch)
currently reading: the Holy Bible & 1984 by george orwell (rereading)
current obsession: jensen ackles (never ending) & starting new fics
currently working on: new chapters of both of my dean series, jensen miniseries, jensen oneshot, mark oneshot, mark miniseries, soldier boy miniseries, soldier boy drabble
currently wearing: a white dress with tiny blue flowers along with a lace half-cut coverup with white high heels (coming from church, gonna change to go to a party)
last search: looked up my church’s website to make sure it started at a certain time since it had been changing lately
favorite flower: tulips will always be my fav but unfortunately bcuz i love cats so much (and i have plenty) i can’t ever have them again
thank you for tagging me, sweets!! @jays-bonnie-on-the-side
last song: tight by doja cat
currently watching: fullmetal alchemist, and supernatural.
currently reading: beloved by toni morrison
current obsession: jensen ackles, asoiaf, marvel, and supernatural (the usual lmfaoo).
currently working on: alicent hightower series, alicent hightower drabble, cersei Lannister fics, supernatural fics, soldier boy fics (shhh, it’s all a surprise).
currently wearing: teal blue sleep shirt and panties, that’s it lmfaooo
last search: well let’s just say (cough cough) erotica audios.
favorite flower: oh that’s a toughy, I love so many flowers!! but I have to say orchids, I just love alien looking flowers!!
tagging my lovelies: @melis-writes @frankcastleonlyfans
warnings: mommy issues, abuse, incest(kissing close relative), the reader is around 16yo
words: ~500
a/n: okay this has been in my mind like for a good two years (not kidding), so i decided to be brave and write it and oh god im scared that y'all will think im weird😬
As the eldest daughter you always accompanied your mother. Anywhere she was, you were right beside her. Never out of her sight.
The same applied to today.
Your father- The King has been talking to Ned Stark as he has been harmed. You were not paying attention at all, just staring at your mothers shoes. But when she said something as always you looked up and then it happened, your father has hit your mother right in front of Lord Stark and you, humiliating her. You didn't even realize when but you left with her.
When she headed to her chamber, you went with her. With pure rage she sat down on her bed and looked at you. Like she was looking for comfort. So that's exactly what you did.
Your whole life you have felt as you were an extension of her, you had the same ideas, behavior, looks even and whenever she was sad or mad you had to comfort her, when she drank too much- you took her cup and put her to sleep, whenever she was too angry to say something - you said it. That was your job. To be the other part of your mother.
You came closer to her, standing just where the bed started, and so she buried her head in your chest. Your hands flew to her back, making small circles, your lips touched the top of her head.
You expected her to cry, sob at least. But no. She was quiet, like she was just trying to feel you closer. She did though, she put her hands on your waist pulling you closer, a gasp escaping your mouth at the sudden movement. You felt as she inhaled your scent, taking in the moment of you two being alone. You both felt so close to each other.
After a while your lips left her head. Your hands left her back for them to be put on her face. You looked at her eyes. Trying to search what she was thinking in them. But you just couldn't tell, she wasn't mad anymore, nor embarrassed. She just...looked at you with admiration. Her hands slowly moved to your own cheeks, and she stood up slowly pushing you back so as you were standing right at the edge of the bed. "Mother-" You tried to speak, ask her if she was okay. But was she did was...new to say at least. Her lips crashed onto yours and you stood there like that, lips together, hands on each others faces for a few seconds. It felt like at eternity. It felt good. "Why did you do that mother?" You ask when she pulls away.
"Because I love you. You're the best thing i could ever ask for." She kissed your forehead and leaving you wordless she left the room mumbling that she's going for a walk.
She doesn't do that with Joffrey or Myrcella... Why would she do that? Why did you like what she did?
i don't have time to write a full fic for this yet but i'm thinking thoughts about ormund hightower x targtower!reader. she was sent off to ward in oldtown to accompany her little infant brother daeron. first being mentored by lord hobert, she was raised upon the faith and everything holy.
by the time lord hobert passed, her attentions had already been occupied by him. ormund was her second cousin, though that hardly mattered when you were a targaryen. her glances and stares were not as subtle as she thought them to be, nor were the touches she tried to disguise as mere bumps and brushes, her fingers lingering too long when passing him tomes, her hips grazing his when passing in a corridor that was too spacious to require such things. despite himself, her poorly hidden affections did not deter him. she was beautiful in the way valyrians always were: cunning and tempting. but lord ormund was a man of the faith, and she was his ward. if he were to forget his morals for a day, he still would not give in, for her blood was tainted, and not worth breeding with.
she, however, was not content with the way ormund (pretended to) ignore her. the very gods she prayed to had bestowed dreams upon her, dreams of a future with the only man she had ever desired. lord ormund would be her husband, one way or another. odd trinkets were slowly left behind: a new handkerchief with initials embroidered in emerald thread, a fresh vial of perfume that smelled like her, little things to make her love known obvious. but ormund never acknowledged them. he never acknowledged her aside from when duty required it with the upkeep of her lessons or prayers within the sept. it angered her, truly, that a man could be so devout to the gods that seemed to have less and less mercy as time passed. they often mocked her now; during feasts with other houses, the ladies all giggly and bashful, with their eyes pointed towards the man that was hers.
mayhaps a more blunt approach would prove to be what was needed. she had no need to steel her nerves, for surely ormund wouldn't deny her. in her dreams, her visions, ormund belonged to no one but her. he would be his. she merely had to make it happen.
dressed in a gown fit and cut in all the right places, she went ormund in his solar. only upon entering the chamber did she realize that he was not there. but her eyes, too sharp to miss any details when it came to the man she loved most, noticed a small scroll on his desk by the hearth. curiosity (and a bit of jealousy) peaked, and she crossed the floor to pick it up, and took note of the rose wax seal. the words were written in a hand that was unfamiliar to her, but signed off at the bottom, was the signature of a lady tyrell. rage boiled, quick and overwhelming, like dragonfire swallowing a city whole. she read the lines. again, and again. and the parchment is ripped into pieces in her hands with a shout. lady tyrell had no business writing to her ormund. she could never love him like she did, she could never care for him as she would, he would never belong to lady tyrell like he did to her.
her time was running out, but she would have lord ormund by force if she must.
pairing: ormund hightower x targaryen-niece!reader (reader is alicent's daughter but no major descriptions given except hair)
warnings: dead dove do not eat. dark fic. non con. dub con. incest. (they're second cousins as reader is alicent's daughter) aged up characters. reader is twenty. faux incest. (reader was raised by ormund) . heavy manipulation. coercion. psychological abuse. alluding to grooming? (more so reader is brought up to think her targaryen heritage is shameful and also to follow the faith of the seven - no implication of him wanting reader as a child). drugging with aphrodisiacs. dacraphylia. choking kink (kinda). smut. virginty checking. murder and blood at the start. more book canon rhaenyra taking king's landing. reader thinks team black is evil but is brainwashed into believing so. 18+ MDNI
a/n: if you read the warnings and go ewww, no. leave and block me. if you read this, and go eww but yes pls, come and show me some love. this is almost 7k words guys but please enjoy. barely proofread im sorry guys it was so long and im tired.
you are responsible for the content you consume. make sure to read warnings before proceeding with any of my fics
It is quite the thing to never truly know one's father.
There was a time, you believe, when your wide eyes knew him, the white hair and the violet eyes. Days when you were a babe and the comfort of a voice you heard in the womb carried, and you felt a familiarity to him, a warmth when he held you.
But these are all assumptions you make.
You’ve never truly known Viserys Targaryen. You know the stories told to you by your governess, and on the odd occasion your grandsire tended to you in the years he resided in Oldtown, you heard of his greatness from him too.
Even sitting here, under the dim candlelight of the tavern, listening to the sweet melody the bard strums on his lute, you try to paint a picture of him.
Generous. Oh, kind.
These words have been shared by many, and even as the man sings them, as if speaking them into existence, you can’t picture the man he sings of. The man who sired you. The man that sent you away when you couldn’t even crawl out of your own cradle.
A man you only saw twice when you were brought back to King’s Landing. A man that only left the confinement of his chambers once in the three years you’d been at court. Only on the return of his eldest daughter, only to protect her claim to the Iron Throne. A man you barely recognised, grey strings of hair coming out in patches on his head, blackened teeth and a face eaten by disease. He looked like a man already dead, clinging to the last grips of life, decaying before everyone’s eyes.
For a second, you tried to picture him younger, you as a babe in his arms and your tiny hand wrapped around one of his fingers. Even then, sitting across from you, the picture could not come to mind. The mere mutter of the word father brings a different image, a man with short mahogany hair, loose curls and deep blue eyes. A statue cloaked in green, a sharp jawline and lips pressed together in a thin line.
Ormund Hightower, a man you haven’t seen for five long years, is the man you’ve pictured for as long as you can remember. The shape of him, standing over you, so vivid in your mind you’re sure you could picture him sitting across from you now.
You wonder how he’s changed.
Have the grey strands taken root in his hair? Have the lines on his face drawn deeper over time? Would he look at you the same? Would he remember the girl that clung to his leg as a child, or the teenager that revelled in his approval of curt nods and brief words? Would he see the woman you have grown into?
You never thought you’d see him again; the night before you left him, he told you so. You’ve thought about it often, the fat tears stinging your eyes and falling across your cheek. The sobs you desperately tried to fight back as you gritted your teeth, ones that broke through your chest and left you quivering as you threw yourself at him behind the closed doors of his studies.
Unbecoming of a woman, you knew that, especially one that was well versed in your faith. You thought he might disapprove of the way you acted, shake his head and tell you so. Yet he didn’t; he let your hands find his shoulders, nails dig into the tunic, piercing into the skin underneath with no complaint. His arms wrapped around you, one hand placed firmly at your back, rubbing soothing circles into the small of your back.
We always knew this day was coming; he reminded you before pulling you away, placing his hands on your cheeks to hold you from him. This is your duty, where mine is here.
You wish you had told him how you wanted to say— wish that in that moment you begged him to let you reside here if just for a few more years. But you have always been destined to return to court, to marry into a noble family and draw new alliances for your family.
Yet in your five years away from home, away from the only family you’ve ever really known, a marriage never came to fruition. Offers came, many were discussed, and one proposal sat over your head for a year, but then came the death of the King, Viserys, and the placement of your eldest brother on the Iron Throne, and House of Arynn decidedly didn’t want to align themselves with usurpers. You’d never say it out loud, but you’d been happy, even if it was only prolonging the inevitable.
Wars bring bountiful amounts of marriages. But wars also bring death, and while you always knew that, you’d never been privy to the sight of it. Not until over a fortnight ago, when you’d been yanked from your bed in the night, forced to leave the confines of the Redkeep with one trusted guardsman with you.
Blood paved your way through the streets of King’s Landing, the Goldcloaks turning on the King’s Guard, shoving their swords deep into their backs. Even at the dead of the night, and on the brink of winter, it had been awfully hot, sweat beading on your head, and at every glance in a different direction you could see why: the glow of a fire bright from above, around almost every corner. The streets of flea-bottom had been a battle to get through, and if it hadn’t been for Ser Ronard protecting you with his very life, it may have been your body bleeding out on the cobblestones.
You dread what they could have done to you. Stripped you, beaten you, and molested your dead body.
They are animals, Ormund’s voice rang in your head and even now as you remember, you feel the ghost of his fingers as they brush your hair behind your ear. Nothing like our common folk.
Don’t they even deserve the mercy of the Gods? You’d asked him.
That is for the Gods to decide.
Ser Ronard clears his throat from beside you, pushing the bowl of stew towards you.
“Eat,” he commands.
You don’t look up, shaking your head.
“My Lord will have my head on a stick if I bring you to him thin as bones,” he grunts out, fingers reaching out for your chin but you flinch out of reach. He points to the bowl once more. “Eat.”
Your hand reaches out for the spoon, stirring the slodge in the bowl. It doesn’t smell right but the last few days you’ve managed to stomach worse just to fill the pit in your stomach.
“It’s not so—” Ser Ronnard twists his head to the window, eyes pinching as if to concentrate.
You don’t hear it at first but the hooves trotting against the ground come quickly. Fast and many.
“Up.” Ser Ronnard is yanking you up by your elbow before you can think, pulling you towards him and charging through the tables towards the back of the tavern.
But the way becomes easily blocked, the townspeople turning against you within an instant, and then you feel it, the hood of your cloak being torn down and your thick locks being lifted for all to see.
“It’s her,” someone points, shouting from beside you. “They are after her.”
These rats are fast but Ser Ronnard is faster, unsheathing his sword within a moment, the sliding of metal being heard like a ringing in your ears and then a slice, the man’s hand falls from your head and onto the wooden floorboard.
“Go.” He tells you, shoving you away and placing his body between you and them.
Them. Vermin. Traitors to the crown. Supporters of Rhaenyra the cruel.
The thoughts are all you can think as you run into the open night, ducking out of the way of light from torches and taking for the trees.
Days and nights spent dressed in beaten-down cloaks and hopping between one town to the other just to keep yourself hidden could all be for nothing. Rhaenyra’s men had been at every town, every tavern, every nook and cranny you had come across. You’d been glad for your dark rouge hair, the thickness of it making it easy to hide the tuft of silver. Easier to blend in with the common people, the rats that swarm these towns.
They support her. You’re not safe with any of them. Ormund had taught you that, had reminded you of the enemy in his many letters. She who shares your blood and your father’s face is not to be trusted.
There’s an evilness in your eldest sister, and your uncle, a taint in the blood. It runs in you as well, but lucky for you, Ormund has been there to protect you from it.
But he’s not here now. He’s nowhere to be seen in the dead of the night as you hide between the bushes. Nowhere to be heard as Rhaenyra’s men surround you and whistle for you to come out. Nowhere to be felt as one of them drags you by your ankle to get you out.
All you feel is the damp ground underneath you, mud taking its root under the your fingernails as you desperately try to scramble away and the man’s hands as they fight against your kicking legs.
He had been right, they’re all savages, every single last one of them. All awful beasts that do not care for the likeness of your blood, not the ones that bow to the false Queen Rhaenyra.
“You wretched—” You try to scream, but his foot catches your ankle, throwing you over onto your front without so much as a struggle.
You kick back, and with your nails digging into the soil you try to crawl forward. But he doesn’t let you, and you feel your feeble attempt be stopped as you feel his hands now on your back.
He’s on top of you, weight pressing you down into muck and you hear it, the tearing of your clothes from behind you, loud as he fumbles with his trousers to release himself.
“No,” you plead, tears lodged at the back of your throat. Your hand falls out in front again, dragging your heavy body slightly before you’re pulled back again. “No, please.”
Savages. Worse than you could have ever imagined.
He groans, not out of pleasure and for a second you’re not sure why, as he becomes still behind you. But then you feel it, blood dripping onto your back, and the weight of him being pulled off before his lifeless body is dropped by your side.
“Up.”
The voice doesn’t quite register; it takes a second before it is piercing through the ringing in your ear, and even then your body can’t quite familiarise itself with it. But your body recognises those hands pulling you up, and the feel of the wide shoulders as they encase you. You don’t relax; you can’t, but your arms fall around him, gripping him with a tightness that borders on suffocating.
“I’m here,” his voice soothes you, lips caressing the shell of your ear, his warmth breath against your skin making you shiver. “I’ve got you, my love.”
In your years growing up in Oldtown, you rarely went a fortnight without seeing Ormund. As the years passed and you grew older, he became a prominent figure in your life. The man raised you, alongside your uncle Gwayne, so it’s no surprise the man was always present in your day-to-day life.
But since your arrival at Tumbleton, Ormund has not visited you once.
You hear him, though- the echoes of his voice travelling through the empty halls, and his footsteps in the dead of the night when he paces outside your room. You know the stress he’s under; while you may never quite understand the strategies of war, you can understand the position he’s in. Daeron only holds a small dragon, barely grown, and you yourself have never bonded with a dragon. His final hope resides in your brother, but since his abrupt departure in King’s Landing, you don’t know where he resides or where he will go next.
Ormund and his men are alone.
It’s something you come to make clarity with as the maids tend to you in the bath. This luxury is not promised; tomorrow it could be taken from underneath you.
You hiss when one of the maids’ hands drags the cloth against your bruised hip, twisting your head to look at her. Plain clothes and face, no striking features that remind you of the maids back home. She could be a traitor, you think. A pretender.
You snatch the cloth from her hands but your hand stops for a second, eyes flickering between the other maids that surround you.
You go to bark but swallow, cowering like a beaten dog. “I can tend to myself,” you tell them in a meek voice.
“Of course, my princess.” They all mutter, bowing before clearing out of the room at once.
They stop before the door, bowing once again before scuttering out.
Ormund.
You notice him, dressed in dark green breeches and a pale white tunic, so thin you can see the defined muscles of his chest, all the way to the dark trail of hairs that travel down—
You twist your head away, eyes closing as shame takes over your body.
“My Lord, I—”
“Did he touch you?” Ormund questions, and when you turn around, he’s stood over you.
“My Lord—” you shake your head, shifting forward in the water as if bracing to get out. “I—I don’t—”
“ —Did he touch you?” Ormund’s hands are clenched by his side, fists drawn so tight that they are white. He bends down, falling to his knees and hands coming to grab onto the wooden tub. “That—“ he clenches his jaw, and spits out the next words through gritted teeth. “Did that beast touch you?”
“He didn’t—“ your words get lodged into your throat and you can feel the sob stuck in the back of your throat, clawing to make its way out as you bite it down. “I swear it.”
His eyes darken, the blue irises almost fading to black as you look at them. It brings you back.
Memories of the man before you making you bow before the Maiden for forgiveness, to the Mother for mercy on your own soul.
It’s not your fault, he’d tell you, but you need to pray for mercy to not end up like your savage ancestors.
You’d weep, knees digging into the stone floor of the sept, his hand pressed against your shoulder to keep you down.
The words try to break free from your throat now, to explain but tears flood your vision and panic takes over. He didn’t touch me, I swear it, you wish to scream but your voice makes no sound.
“Keep still.”
You do exactly that as his eyes keep you transfixed to the spot, his cold gaze not allowing you to move an inch as his hand reaches underneath the water. You feel it, his soft hand against your knee, slow at first as they part your legs before making their way up between your thighs.
Like a good girl, you take it, biting on the inside of your cheek and keeping your cries to sniffles. His fingertips feel larger than they look, running along your inner thigh as they make their way up and up—
You gasp, and his hand stop against you, cupping your mound with his palm against the top and fingers reaching against your hole. Even with how much you want to, you keep your legs open, fighting against the urge to close your thighs against his hand.
“This is where he would have touched you,” he tells you, through a heavy breath. His finger reaches down and the tip aligns itself with your hole as he continues, “This is where that savage would have taken—“ His eyes fall close, and he lets out a strangled breath, a moment, before the tip of his finger breaches your hole, forcing it open.
You try to keep still but your hips fall back, hands bracing against the sides of the tub as if to escape. But his hand comes against your shoulder, pressing firmly down to hold you in place.
“I need to be sure.” His finger deepens then moves side to side while you hiss and cry at the feel.
“It hurts,” you whimper, scrunching your eyes closed. “Please, he didn’t—“
His finger pulls back, sliding out of your walls as he hushes you, “It’s okay.”
It doesn’t feel okay. His hand rests against your thigh once more, and you can’t help but squeeze your thighs together, trying to force him out.
“You did good.”
—And yet you’re trembling in the warm water, unable to open your wet eyes. Your hands grip onto the edge of the tub still, not sure whether to jump out or to force yourself back under the water.
“Look at me,” he commands, and you feel his wet fingers grip your chin.
You do.
“You did so good.” He smiles, a small proud grin as he wipes the tears that fall against your cheek. “You understand why I had to do that?”
You nod. Unlike your ancestors, you will not be ruined by your own savage tendencies.
“I missed you,” he whispers, face inches from yours, breath fanning against your face.
So close you could kiss him.
Your body goes rigid at the thought.
It’s your blood, you remind yourself, you can control it.
“Didn’t you miss me?” His eyebrows draw together, and his lips twist into a frown.
“Yes,” you let out on a choked sob. “I missed you. I missed home.”
“And home is?” He asks, voice soft and melodic.
“Home is Oldtown. Home is with you,” you tell him.
His hand shifts, cupping your cheek and his forehead falls to rest against yours. He’s close, so close, you hear him as he inhales deeply, breathing in your scent. “That’s my girl.”
A fortnight has passed and still no word from Aemond, and no sight of Aegon.
Disappointments, you hear Ormund scream from the other side of the hall. Idiots, all of them.
You’re not making it any better, not that you can help it. But for the last few nights you’d fallen with a strange fever, sweats pulling you from your sleep and your body burning for no reason at all. Sometimes you have an appetite, and other times none at all. None of the maesters can be sure of the reasoning for it, prescribing you tea at every hour and hoping it will pass. The tea does nothing, and another brew sits cold on your bedside.
They’ve pleaded with Ormund to keep his distance. Told him they don’t want whatever ailment has taken over you to pass to him. Not in the midst of a war. Not when your lives are on the line.
Yet he visits often, not trusting the maids that tend to your bedside or the maesters that have been appointed by his own deceased father. Not to look after you.
Ormund sits now, slouched against his wooden chair, legs spread wide with you perched by his feet, a cushion underneath you for comfort. Rage radiates off him; you can feel it in the way his thighs tighten underneath your head, and you try your best to stop from moving around. But you are restless, mind fogged and skin littered with bumps across your body. You can’t help it, lulling your head to the side to look up at him again.
He sighs, a large breath through his nose and his thighs tighten once again.
“I thought you were trying to sleep?”
You look up at him through wet lashes, fluttering as if to keep them open. You want to sleep, your mind clouded with a tiredness you’ve never felt before but your body is restless and you shift against him to find some sort of comfort.
“Hmm?”
You whine, head rolling around again till your forehead is pressed against the inside of his thigh. “I can’t.”
“I should ask the maesters to brew some tea.” One of his hands falls to the back of your head, fingers combing through the strands, and the feel of the tips of his fingers scratching against your scalp causes you to shiver.
“No more tea,” you mumble against his breeches.
“You barely drank the last.”
You hear a scuffle on the other side of the room, maids following his command you imagine.
You lift your head again, and it takes a second for your vision to clear and for you to fully see him.
“Please,” You whine, but he doesn’t listen— he doesn’t look down.
You want his attention— no, you need his attention. You need him to look down at you, to acknowledge your pleads.
Your hands drag themselves up from his knees, fingers running along his thick muscles before wrapping around the tops of his thighs. His muscles tighten, harder than before and he finally looks down at you, nostrils flared and jaw clenched.
“Amused?”
Your hands slide down, releasing your grip and you lean back slightly, dropping your head. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what took over me. I—”
His face relaxes and his head lulls back as he takes another languid breath. “You can’t help it.”
You hum, tilting your head to the side.
“I hoped it wouldn’t come to this.”
You jump at the sound of the maid placing the tea pot down beside you, eyes falling to her as she pours a cup.
Ormund takes it from her, placing it out in front of you.
“Drink,” he commands, and the second you hesitate he presses the cup to your lips. “Drink.” The firm tone of his voice willing you to his command.
The heat of the tea is bearable, but still a tad too hot as it floods your mouth with its bitter taste. You imagine this is what dirt tastes like, but there's a hint of citrus that helps you swallow it down. You don’t want it, but he pours it into your mouth anyway, eyes glued to yours, eyebrows pinched together, telling you without words to obey him. You do, willing as much liquid as you can down before it comes too much, hot liquid burning your skin as it spills from the confines of your mouth.
He takes the cup away when you start to cough, pushing the cup back into the maid’s hand before giving her a curt nod to leave.
You try to push off him, giving yourself space as you choke on the last bits of liquid that have become trapped in your throat, but his hands come around your arms, keeping you locked in place.
“Breathe.”
You try, letting out a shaky breath, willing the tickle in your throat to dissipate. Eventually it does and you blink back the tears that have swarmed your waterline.
“Good girl,” he whispers, hands pulling you towards him. “Come.”
“I shouldn’t,” you tell him, but your body betrays you, crawling upwards until your head is resting against his shoulder and your legs are perched over his. “The maesters—” the words become muffled as you bury your head in the crevice of his neck. “ —you’ll get sick.”
“That’s my burden to bear.” His voice is soft, and his hand gentle as it falls against your thigh. “You are my burden.”
“Yes,” you answer him, not out of your own volition but a certain pull deep inside of you that speaks to him— that heeds his call.
His hand moves, trailing up your thigh and back down again, the material of your cotton gown following his slow movements. You hum, unbeknownst to you and another sound follows, a low rumble from the back of your throat you can’t place, but you know isn’t right.
“I’m sorry— I—” the next noise is louder, a desperate whimper and you feel a wave of heat flush over your body, dampening your skin.
Everything feels strange so suddenly. The material of your gown feels uncomfortable, almost scratching your skin every time you shift about. His hand— You’ve become deeply aware of Ormund’s hand pressed against you, heavier than before and almost soothing as it glides up the back of your thigh.
You want more, that you’re sure of, but you’re not sure of yourself or the words to ask for it.
What is it you want? These clothes off your body. His hand higher. His hand against your bare skin. Your thighs clamp together at that thought and you feel slick oozing from you as you rub your legs together.
He grasps the back of your hair, detaching you from his neck and forcing you to look up at him. His brows furrow together, but his expression is kinder than before. But it changes, eyes hardening and his muscles becoming stiff underneath you as his eyes trail down your body. Your chest rising and falling, your nipples pebbled underneath your gown, the way the material becomes almost transparent from your wet skin.
A part of you grasps, his darkened gaze and the way his mouth parts as you try to steady your rapid breathing.
Sinful girl, he must think, poisoned by your own blood.
“It’s exactly as I thought,” he states, eyes dragging themselves back up to your face.
“It’s my blood, isn’t it?” Just like your sister. Your elder brothers. Your ancestors. Ormund had been right all along. “Am I going to die?”
He pauses, his hand on your lower thigh tugs your skirts up, allowing the chill of the night air to touch your skin. It feels good, a sort of relief, but only temporary.
Your body freezes when the material reaches higher, lifting over your ankles, shins and then towards the middle of your thighs.
“I think I know a way to help you.” He swallows, and you watch as the bulge in his throat protrudes. “But—” his hand falls against your sweat-covered skin and you let out a small gasp, your skin burning under his touch. “—you need to understand.”
“Please,” you let out between a broken cry. “Please. Please. Please.” You repeat until the words jumble together.
The tip of his fingers slides beneath the material of your gown, and your hand darts out towards it. To stop it, or to push it away, you’re not entirely sure.
The air has shifted; you sense it completely now as you look up at Ormund. The man that raised you, that took care of you as his own, is touching you— his fingers drifting up to a place the septas taught you was for only your husband.
“Your blood craves its own,” he tells you, and you can’t quite understand what he speaks of “But if I’m right—” he bites down on his words, the tips of his fingers hovering up your thighs and over your stomach. “If I’m right, I can help you.”
How? You think to question him but the word doesn’t reach your lips. “Please,” is all you have him, the single word taking over your senses and your mind.
“Your blood…” his eyes widen, and his brows raise as he speaks. “…it wants its own.”
Your mind reels and his teachings ring in your head.
Incestuous savages.
It makes sense. Your body’s call for kin. Your brother and your sister married. Your elder sister and uncle. Even your father married his cousin.
Blood magic and curses, your ancestors have forsaken you.
Your eyes flutter up at him, tears flooding your vision at the thoughts. You can feel it, that very affliction that runs through your veins. Your senses are heightened and your body is burning for a touch of another.
“I may not have Targaryen blood,” he whispers, and his hand drops, landing on your breast, fingers splayed over it. “But you and I share the same blood. I think it could work.”
Your body freezes, his eyes falling to his finger as it moves flicking over your hardened nipple.
The man who raised you. A man you see is more akin to you than your own father, own mother, own brothers and sisters.
“You’re married,” you grit out through clenched teeth. Like that would make it any worse.
His hand shifts from your hair, wrapping around your neck before pulling you dangerously close. You could kiss him, or he could kiss you. As if sensing your thoughts his grip tightens and you find yourself wheezing for breath.
“Or—“ you gasp, hand reaching for his.
He looks down at you, lips frowning and jaw clenching once again into an almost pained expression. “I’d do this for you. Forsake my honour, for you.”
Fat tears slide down your cheeks in sheer horror but your body reacts in a different way, thighs clenching when his finger flicks over your nipple again.
“I could save you.”
He’s right. Every part of you reacts to him like some bitch in heat, craving his touch. Even if your teachings from the seven tell you different. They don’t understand this, they couldn’t possibly grasp the idea of this. Neither could you. It’s only here seeing the way your body trembles and bucks into his touch do you see how right he is.
You don’t want to die.
“Please save me,” you ask him only loud enough for him to hear.
“My girl.”
The words travel through you and you can’t help but shiver against him.
You close your eyes, bracing for the impact of his lips against yours at any moment but it doesn’t come. Only when your eyes open, do you feel his nose against your throat, inhaling your scent like he’s gasping for it.
His lips come after, grazing against your neck, just under your chin where his hand doesn’t cover and then upwards till they finally meet your lips.
It’s not at all how you expect it —but then again you never had much time to imagine much —he’s tender at first, his lips caressing yours, taking his time as he moves against your mouth. Open-mouthed pecks to the corner of your lips, and then your bottom lip until his lips meld into yours and you forget to breathe.
He pulls away, his hand sliding from your throat and his thumb finding your bottom lip, pulling it apart from the top.
“Let me help you.”
He dives forward this time, not so kind as his lips find yours for a second time. Your lips move, not with his but almost against him, intending to push him away. It doesn’t work and your lips part as you feel his teeth nipping at your skin— to speak, only for his tongue to shove against yours, forcing your words into a whine.
What would you have said anyway? No, don’t do this. A part of you still screams, your hand falling against his own as he gropes your breast. But then your thighs shift and you find yourself melting into his body.
Wouldn’t it be easier to forget. Wouldn’t it be safer to let him take care of you?
Ormund’s arm comes underneath you, hoisting you up and himself with you, never once allowing his lips to leave your own. It feels good— dangerously good as his saliva drips into your mouth and his tongue slides against yours. Is this how your ancestors felt the first time they lay with their own blood?
Your back hits silk sheets and cushions as Ormund places you down, breaking apart from you. You lift yourself, hazy eyes searching to find him, only to freeze when you see him undressing himself at the end of your bed.
You fall backwards, letting your eyes fall closed for a moment.
Better to not look. Better not to think.
You feel the weight of the bed dip by your feet, and your body moves on autopilot, heels digging in to push yourself further up the sheets. You’re stopped though, one hand finding your ankle yanking you right back down.
He tuts, and you feel the weight of him over you, crawling till he’s hovering directly above you. His hand lifts your skirt, throwing the material up until it’s bunched around your waist.
“Do you think I want to do this?” He questions, and you feel his breath against your face. “Hmm?”
You shake your head.
“Look at me when I’m speaking to you,” his voice stern as his forehead presses against your own. “Look at me.”
Your eyes open to a blackened gaze peering down at yours.
“Do you think I want to do this?”
“No,” you answer, tears clawing at the back of your throat. “You don’t want to do this.”
“I’m doing this to help you,” he whispers, lips pressing against yours again. “I’m doing this to save you.”
He lowers himself against you, and you realise how bare he is as you feel his harness against your inner thigh. You’re not sure how you pictured it, but the length of it against your thigh brings fear to your mind.
“Let’s get this off.”
You feel the gown being torn from your skin, and you find yourself lifting your body off the bed for him to pull it off your shoulders.
You don’t even have time to think before you’re being shoved down, lips finding your own and thighs being pried open. His body falls between your legs, hips pressing down against yours and you feel him there. Hard, thick and leaking.
But you also feel yourself. Slick covered thighs that fall around his hips and a drenched cunt that oozes with the feel of him sliding against it.
He was right, he’s always right.
Your hips buck up to him, and you can’t help the way your body reacts, your hole clenching around nothing as the tip of him catches your entrance. Your body wants this, it’s leaking all over him and when he pulls away, you let out a pathetic whimper.
“Hush,” he whispers against you, breaking his lips away from your own. “You’ll get what you desire.”
Then you feel it, his tip sliding against your folds with precision, slowly and then even slower over your sensitive nub. Your body reacts literally, mouth falling open into a whine or a moan, you’re not certain you can separate the two but it makes him smile. You feel it, lips widening against your cheek and it leaves you confused, opening your eyes to be sure it’s true.
Your lips fall open to speak, to question him but the words die on your tongue as he lines himself up against you before sliding in with one full thrust.
His lips fall open on yours, a sigh escaping him while a cry escapes you.
It hurts. Your walls feel like they’ve been forced open and the wetness does nothing to prepare you for him. Tears kiss your cheeks and your teeth grind against each other, forcing the sobs down.
He moves, dragging his dick out your walls before he’s shoving himself in.
“It hurts,” you let out through a choked sob, your whole body freezing underneath him. Your hands find his shoulders, pushing him back but his torso is like a stone wall that won’t let up —except from his hips that roll as he slowly slides in and out of you.
“Shhh.” His lips press into your cheek, then the corner of your parted lips. “It’ll feel better soon. I swear it.”
—So, you try to keep quiet, sucking in harsh breaths and letting out shaky sobs that have your body frozen against him. It hurts, and you feel like your walls are being torn open from the inside and he keeps going.
In. Out.
In and then out.
Your breathing steadies and your chest begins to settle. The pain is still there, but it’s faded and when his cock drags against your walls, you feel yourself tighten around him.
“See,” you hear his voice in your ear, and his lips follow, settling below and kissing the delicate skin there.
“It feels—”
“I know,” he replies, his voice different— grittier. “Told you didn’t I?” —and you hear it again, caught in a groan, coming from the back of his throat. “Making you feel better?”
You nod, a sick moan spilling from your lips is the only answer you can give. Slick is pouring out of you again, and you forget that it was ever painful to begin with and you also realise when he speaks once again, it does something to you, nipples becoming oddly more sensitive and cunt squeezing him.
It does something to him too, you feel it in the way he changes his pace, and his hands fall down to your hips to keep you glued to the bed. He’s only doing this for your own good, you remind yourself but the way his thrusts become faster has you thinking differently.
“Please,” you plead with him, legs falling around his hips, hooking behind them. “My Lord, plea—”
“Sire,” he snaps, teeth pressing against your skin. “Please, sire.”
His hand comes around your throat, and he presses his forehead against yours, lips parting.
“Please, what?”
“Please—” your words get caught as he delivers a nasty thrust against you.
“I didn’t hear you.”
“Please, sire.”
You let the words out between a gasp, before he’s shoving your thighs down further, his cock reaching a point so deep inside you that you swear you can feel him in your stomach.
“Please,” you beg between strangled sobs. “Please, sire. Please. Please…”
“My good girl.”
Your walls tighten and you’re sure if your body could have its way it’d keep him there, his shaft stuck inside you, every ridge and vein imprinted into your very walls. You should feel ashamed at the thoughts, and maybe when you recover from your sickness you will, but right now all you want is to break underneath him.
—And some part of you does, a tension in your stomach snapping and a body-numbing feeling taking over you. Blood rushes to your head, and your vision becomes cloudy as you look up at him. You think you’re saying something, lips open and tongue moving. Maybe not even words, maybe a string of sounds that blur into one.
Then relief.
A relief washing over you that you haven't felt in days, all while his cock continues to rut into you with a vigour that borders on cruel.
It’s him giving you this relief, his cock spilling inside of you, letting out steady ropes of his seed until you’re full of him. It feels good and your restless body relaxes underneath him, taking everything he has to offer you. Every bit of him until your moans turn to gentle sighs and there’s nothing left for him to give.
“You feel better, don’t you.”
He doesn’t ask, he states it like he already knows like he can read the expression on your face. You wonder what you look like right now, hair tangled and face covered in a mix of dried tears and sweat.
You nod, and your eyes close for a second.
“Yes,” you answer him. “Better.”
And you think that’s it, the end of it.
But as the seconds pass you become acutely aware of how he’s still buried inside of you and how hips, even though they turned into an almost slow drag, haven't stopped moving for even a moment.
“We should keep going then,” he says, and his weight becomes heavier, more relaxed as it falls on top of you, trapping you completely underneath him. “Keep going till you’re cured.”
You open your mouth to speak, to protest—
“ —Till we are certain.” His hips shove into yours, rougher than before and you feel his seed drip out your walls and over his cock. “We want to be certain, don’t we?”
Your lips close, words you were about to say becoming a distant memory as you nod in agreement.
Because Ormund is right. He’s always right and your walls leaking out all over him proves it.
Better to be certain, then to wake up craving more.
summary: sam and dean are back! starring in your favorite tv shows. all thanks to a bored archangel with more time on his hands than he knows what to do with.
tears, fears, and lost years ⚠︎
summary: you and sam were always close- really ever since you met. youve seen each other at your highest and lowest, through apocalypses, demonic possession- everything so why is he so mad at you for almost dying?
"i love you" "i know" ⚠︎✿
summary: charlie calls needing help with a case at comic con of all places. its right up your alley- magic, comic books, spending time with sam dressed like a scantily clad princess leia? yeah. all your favorite things.
my girl 🍕✿𓉸 ☁︎
summary: sam- the ever loving husband. always there to take care of you in mental clarity and in shambles.
PLEASEEEEE thoughts on a boss!sam x reader now?? 🫦
okay this ones slightly easier for me because I think I get more of a vibe of what boss!Sam would be like...
✮ boss!Sam starts off with small touches, hand on the small of your back when he walks past, fingers brushing yours when you hand him his coffee
✮ boss!Sam offers you innocent smiles and polite words every time you're around, hoping you're naive enough not to realize he already has his sights set
✮ boss!Sam welcomes you into his office one day with a clear proposal- you're not gonna get fired if you say no to him, but saying yes would help your career a lot
✮ boss!Sam who looks so innocent no one suspects your new personal development meetings are actually just excuses to get you on your knees in his office every time he's feeling stressed
✮ boss!Sam gets off on fucking you on every surface in the office, he likes the images of you moaning and begging to follow him around
✮ boss!Sam doesn't punish you for getting things wrong, he rewards you for getting things right. Going down on you for good work with shareholders, fingering you every time you write up a report correctly, letting you cum only when you do something right for him
✮ boss!Sam who pretends he's doing it all for you but he's actually just a sick fuck who enjoys making you work for it
✮ boss!Sam who slowly trails his hand up your thigh under the table during meetings. By the time it finishes you have two of his long thin fingers slowly thrusting into you. Then he just pulls them out and leaves you needy for the rest of the day
✮ boss!Sam who doesn't let the sex get in the way of hard work, he makes you read out reports while he's got you bent over the desk, fucking you so deep you won't be able to sit down tomorrow
✮ boss!Sam who likes it slow- he rolls his hips into you just to make you feel every inch as you stretch around him. It doesn't last long, he always ends up fucking into you until you feel like you're going to break
Rolling up his sleeves to either rail you or finger fuck you against a bathroom stall
Shit
Explicit/16+ - drunkenness, accidental flirting, possessiveness, semi public sex, non descript fingering, dom!Sam - gn!reader
You're at a bar and you've had a few, which makes you all giggly and flirty. You're not trying to, by any means, but you seem to flirt with every guy you come across, which, in a dingy bar in your state, is quite a lot.
Sam knows you're faithful, you'd never even dream of doing anything with anyone but him, but it still hits him.
He rolls his sleeve up as he walks over to you, grabbing your arm and dragging you away, not quite harsh, but forceful.
You make it to the bathroom and he pushes you in, going to the sink.
He loves you, and he's a decent person, so he washes his hands first.
By the time he's done, he turns and sees you stifling a laugh, just because.
He surges forward, slamming you against the stall door, looming over you no matter your size.
"You think this is funny?"
You look up at him with big wet eyes and nod, breaking out into another laugh at how serious he looks.
You barely have a few seconds before he shoves his hand down your pants and fucks you stupid, carrying you out with an arm around your waist as your little bambi legs struggle to keep you up on the walk to the door.
cw pressing on bruises, pet names. established relationship!
dean likes when you press on his bruises. a blushing purple fans the curve of his bicep and bleeds into pink, then to skin, freckled and kissed a subtle tan from earlier sun. he sighs against the mattress and stares up at your pretty face.
hurt makes him feel alive. abrasions remind him that he's man and skin and blood and give him something like an adrenaline rush. he strangely finds that his lips want to curl when his stomach is beaten and his back is scraping into dirt ground. ache is nice, the pummeling indescribably easy to take.
it's best here, with you. he doesn't have to worry about fighting back or being sore all over when tomorrow comes. you just touch over the rotten spots already there with such soft, soothing fingers and palms.
his hands trace around your waist, almost shaking, needing badly though he isn't sure what. cheeks figgy, lashes crowning his eyes heavy. you're an angel and he wants you to smother him forever.
"baby," he breathes. you knead the bruise, his lungs hiccup.
thighs warm to both sides of his lap, you hum and pause.
"does it hurt too bad?"
"no, s'good. it's nice. please don't stop."
so nothingburger and i am so tired but had this thought and wanted to give it life
A/N: Woohoo! The first week of my weekly rec list! So since I’ve decided this will be a Tuesday thing, here are all the things I’ve read since last Tuesday!
Dean x Reader
Missed A Spot by @impala-dreamer (smutty goodness)
Dean and whipped cream, yes please! And the exchange between them at the end *swoon* *double swoon*
Cant Go Back by @thegreatficmaster (all the angst)
Just ouch! Like damn that hurts so bad. My heart is still hurting as I’m typing this! Damn that was good!
Pacts by @nichelle-my-belle (smut)
I had too many different feels while reading this. It hurt to read about Sam but damn if I didn’t need a cold shower of my own after reading this!
Uncle Sam by @captainradicalpassion (fluffy angst)
My heart was breaking and being put back together while reading this. I loved that Uncle Sammy was so helpful and supportive!
Not Gonna Leave You by @impala-dreamer (flangst)
Shit, that was a roller coaster! If it wasn’t for the fluff I would be on lie floor in a puddle of my own tears!
A Defeated Man by @nichelle-my-belle (angst)
Dayumm. I literally said that when I got to the end. So much angst! I just want to hug Dean and never let him go!
At The Crossroads by @pinknerdpanda (fluff)
This is wonderful! I loved this 1920′s AU! I also love the 20′s, that would be the time period I’d want to live in (if I could skip the Great Depression).
Unbelievable by @impala-dreamer (fluffs)
I definitely have those thoughts about Mr. Ketch too and would definitely be okay with a lil jealous Dean.
Sam x Reader
It’s Worth It by @impala-dreamer (smut)
*Fans self* Thats some killer sex! Ha ha get it? No? Well go read the fic and you will get it!
Wild in your smile by @wi-deangirl77 (smut)
Hot Damn! *fans self vigorously* Love me some souless Sam! Love me some souless Sam smut even more! Great job!
Feel something by @whywhydoyouwantmetosaymyname (angst)
Oh my gosh, this was beautifully written! This piece is so unique and broke my heart a lil bit!
Pretty Darn Nice by @lipstickandwhiskey (fluff)
I want to comfort my lil Sammy. He can crawl into my bed any night! Also I audibly laughed at that line about Dean.
Jared x Reader
Accidents by @impala-dreamer (SMANGST)
This hurt my heart so much. Like my heart is shattered on the floor and I can’t find all the pieces to put it back together. This was sooo good.
Austin by @jpadjackles (fluff)
This was so sweet! Read this right after the one above and it help ease the pain a little bit. Then got a little misty eyed at the end because it was so beautiful!
Jensen X Reader
Thank Goodness by @not-moose-one-shots (fluff)
This was so cute! If only I had a Jensen to take care of me when I was sick… Then I’d always be trying to get sick!
Everything was perfect—you were about to welcome a baby girl into the world and finally leave the life of hunting behind. Sam was supposed to have it all: the house, the family, maybe even a dog in the backyard. But before the three of you could begin your new life in an old craftsman home on the prairie, the apocalypse arrived.
All Sam had to do was lock Lucifer in the cage…
Pairing: Sam Winchester x fem!reader, Dean Winchester x fem!reader, Soulless!Sam x fem!reader
CW: 18+ MDNI, TW!, smut, angst, grief & loss, descriptions of canon-type injuries, language, main character death, language, sexual tension/slow burn
I don’t want to give too much away, but I will provide CW for each chapter 💕
“Share my body and my mind with you, that’s all over now. Did what I had to do, cause you’re so far past me now” -Cruel World | Lana Del Rey
⭒ A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms ⭒ Game of Thrones
⭒ Aemond Targaryen ⭒ part 02 ⭒ part 03
⭒ Cregan Stark ⭒ part 2
⭒ Jacaerys Valaryen ⭒ Part 2
⭒ Aegon II Targaryen
⭒ Harwin Strong and Benjicot Blackwood Masterlist
𐙚 Masterlists
hotd master list by @fairysluna
Masterlist by @faces-ofvenus
𝐇𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧 ✶ 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 by @sylasthegrim
House Of The Dragon. Masterlist by @hisfavegirl
House of the Dragon Masterlist by @drakoneve
ASOIAF CHARACTERS MASTERLIST by @frankcastleonlyfans
HOUSE OF THE DRAGON / GAME OF THRONES CHARACTERS MASTERPOST by @sourcherryandsprinkles
House of the Dragon Fanfiction: Updated Masterlist | @lilap20
House of the Dragon Masterlist | @drakoneve
Masterlist | @sapphire-writes
HotD Masterlist | @thebenjiblackwoodexpress
Masterlist | @entitled-fangirl
𐙚 Gwayne Hightower
Echoes of a Promise | @novaursa
When Prince Daemon Targaryen challenged Ser Gwayne Hightower during the tourney, that King Viserys I orginazed for birth of his heir, it was not just to humiliate and spite Otto. It was because of you.
Lady Hightower. | @entitled-fangirl
the reader is approached by Criston Cole. Gwayne doesn’t like the look in Cole’s eyes.
me and my husband | @raven-dor
in which gwayne hightower is overprotective of his pregnant wife, and she begins to worry about the outcome of the birth
The Cost of Duty | @nyrasvoid
Gwayne Hightower, is summoned in Kingslanding during his wife’s first pregnancy. After giving birth to their son without him, she struggles to forgive Gwayne upon his return.
A Knight’s Prize | @/nyrasvoid
in a tourney to decide her future, Rhaenyra Targaryen’s eldest daughter must choose a husband. Ser Gwayne Hightower, a charming yet unexpected suitor, captures her attention.
𐙚 Adam of Hull
Spicetown Shore | @creganslover
Being the daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen, she had no choice but to let you be the one to confront Seasmoke’s new rider.
Addam Velaryon x Targaryen! Reader | @r0ugesun
Addam, betrothed to Y/n Targaryen, trains rigorously in dragon riding and High Valyrian under her guidance. As he transforms from novice to warrior, they forge a powerful bond
blakekathryn
gamechangershow
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
vaporwave
izzy806
