Summary: Your love spans across centuries... or whatever the hell that blonde French guy said.
Pairing: Lestat de Lioncourt x Time traveler!reader
Warnings: violence against reader though not graphic. Sorry this chapter is short, but I had to cut it off so no one's thumb got sore scrolling through the chapter lol
Present day
You've never been treated so kindly in your life and honestly it's a little terrifying. This man, okay this vampire, is handling you with more care than your own mother ever did. And his statue is pretty cool too. Not the one with the bashed in head. That one is pretty freaky actually. But the lady? The one he calls Queen or Akasha or Mother depending on the day and his mood? Yeah, she's pretty cool. Warmer and more attentive than your own mother ever was. Which is, ya know, probably part of why you chase after Lestat like you do.
Mommy issues are a bitch.
I remember our first encounter, she whispers in your mind.
"Good, because I don't. It hasn't happened to me yet," you say out loud.
If Marius is in on the conversation, he doesn't give it away and just continues fiddling with the radio antenna.
You watch him for a moment. "You know you could just get a Spotify subscription and a bluetooth speaker, right?"
I have demanded this of the Keeper many times, comes the Queen's reply.
"He's probably cheap and wouldn't pay for premium anyway. Can't really say I've been impressed with vampire men so far."
Lies, girl. You adore the previous Keeper.
"Adore might be a stretch. Did you know he's fucking his mom while telling me he loves me? Oh, and there's like a billion others that-"
Irrelevant.
"Well I don't think it's irrelevant. I think it's pretty damn relevant and explains a lot of my current predicament."
Explain.
"If I never found out then I never would've been in the park. If I was never in the park then Marius would never have given me ice cream. If Marius never gave me ice cream-"
Cease the useless rambling, girl. The chain of events you so painfully recount are nothing. If not this way it would have been another. Have you practiced today?
"No."
Why?
Because you're scared.
But not the sort of scared that sends your heart racing and your blood pumping.
No, you're the sort of scared that's just the tiniest bit annoying, pricking at your psyche when you least expect it. You're comfortable most of the time. Perhaps too comfortable to be honest. You're lulled into a sense of safety only to see Akasha move out of the corner of your eye, the sound of grating stone filling the room like a bomb.
Meeting her had been... something. What that something was you still don't know. From your perspective, Marius lured (okay, bribed) you into this room with these creepy ass statues and started talking like they could hear him. Like they could understand. You thought the old man was losing it... until they spoke to you too. Or rather, she spoke to you. She said your name like an old friend would in a tone smooth as caramel. The syllables filled your mind until there was room for nothing else.
I have hunted for centuries, she told you that day. Pondered for eons. You are possessed, girl, and I will have my answers.
Your response had been a snarky, "good, maybe the talking statue can diagnose me better than my old therapist."
Marius put you in your place quickly.
A snap of his wrist and your mouth tasted like blood, cheek stinging from where his palm connected with your skin.
"Insolent wretch!" He gripped you by the hair, raising you up on your tiptoes. "That husband of yours allows you to speak much too freely."
"So I guess everyone but me knew I was married to him, huh?"
Another slap.
You cried that time.
You cried even harder when he yanked your head back and plunged his fangs deep in your neck, almost ripping out your throat in the process. All you could think of was him. Lestat. His face, his smile, those impossible blue eyes that would crinkle at the edges when he looked at you. In your head, Marius's hands were replaced with Lestat's. His fangs as well. Where is Lestat, you wondered as your mind turned hazy. He always finds you. Why isn't he there yet?
Akasha did nothing to stop Marius or his punishment.
She fell silent and refused to speak to you for several days.
You curled up in the corner as far from them as possible and waited for a death that never came. Marius fed you, clothed you, allowed you to shower while Akasha continued with the punishing silence. There was one point where you thought you might've seen a flicker of something on Marius's face. Something like pity. But it disappeared as quickly as it came.
"I don't know what you want from me," you whispered at one point during those first days of captivity.
Your past, she finally told you. Your past, and your present, and your future. I want your stories unraveled and secrets revealed. Something has gazed at your soul and I would have you gaze back, girl.
Lestat was the only thing that came to your mind.
He's still the only thing that comes to your mind. His horrified face as you turned your back on him, your name falling from his lips in a terrified rasp. Should you have been nicer? More understanding maybe? It's taken time and distance to realize that, at least in the relationship with his mother, he's the victim. He tried to justify it, to turn it around on you even, but you saw the fear plain as day in his eyes.
You miss him.
You want to make sure he's okay and Gabrielle's got her nasty claws off of him.
You hate him.
You want to see him cry and beg and apologize for all the shitty positions he's put you in.
You are thinking of him, yes? I can taste your thoughts in the air. Focus, girl. Look through the heavens and the stars and find him, Akasha tells you.
A deep breath fills your lungs as you try to focus and feel for that tug in your chest. The one that calls you home over and over again. Home. Lestat. Safety. Love. All of it swirling and swimming in your chest, an ocean of heartache and limerence.
Because you adore Lestat.
Despite all his faults and all his miserable behavior, you adore him.
The world fades and you open your eyes to bright sunlight.
I'm getting ready to post chapter 11 of again and again and again; however, it's a short one. Chapter 12 is a lot longer, so I'll let y'all have this excerpt as a treat:
"You misunderstand," he says gently, "as you so often do. You speak of age and time and these grand mistakes that have yet to be, but none of it stops me from desiring you above all others. And my desire is not gentle, ma chérie. No, it is a violent, all consuming thing that will haunt me until the end of my days."
Oh, dear God, you're in a romance novel. That has to be what this is because you can't think of a single other explanation for Lestat's words. No man speaks like that... well, maybe with the exception of modern Lestat. Even when he's pissed off at you he makes it known how much you mean to him.
"Lestat..."
"Stay with me. Just this once stay with me and allow me to worship at the altar I've been longing for."
Okay, so while I struggle with writing the next chapter, have fun with this little outtake! And here is the song Larry and reader work on together. Credit for inspo goes to @angelamariaxo
Larry is a sweet guy, you decide pretty quickly. Maybe a little too full of himself, but nice enough. He always smiles at you and holds doors open and gives you the last piece of cake before TC can call dibs on it.
"Yellow cake, chocolate frosting," he says as he hands you the plate. His guitar is in his other hand and rests by his thigh when he sits beside you. "I remember you saying it's your favorite."
"Oh, wow! Thanks, man!" You dig in happily, completely oblivious to the way Larry's eyes fall to your lips as you lick chocolate off them.
He blushes a deep red, hand flying to the back of his neck. "Yeah, no problem."
Your halfway through your slice of cake before you notice he still hasn't left. "Oh, sorry, do you want to talk or something? I mean, I could use the company. Lestat and Christine have been busy the last few nights and I feel like I've just kinda been dumped on you guys like a bad kid at daycare."
"You aren't a bad kid." The way he says it is so earnest. Like he needs you to believe him or he'll die.
And damn, maybe he will. Artists types like him are always super intense. Case in point: your husband/boyfriend/stranger/stalker Lestat. He's also an artist type. Also incredibly intense. Larry's a little different though. Maybe it's his humanity that strikes you square in the chest like a bullet, fragmenting deep into other parts of you. Because, sure, there's intensity, but there's also honesty. Honesty that feels missing with Lestat.
"Uh, thanks." You try to ignore the way your cheeks warm up, but the smile that stretches across your lips is impossible to repress. "So... what are you up to? Besides stealing cake for me."
Larry's face lights up and you catche the expression before he can slip his cool rockstar mask back on. "I've been writing. Nothing major."
"A man of talent," you tease. "What about?"
"Just this chick I met." He tries to play it off as no big deal but there's a look in his eyes, a glint that tells you maybe it is a big deal.
"What's she like? Tell me about her. Oh! Or you could sing the song you've been writing."
"Nah, I'm not much of a singer."
"Neither am I, but I'll do a rendition of Long Face if you sing for me." You smack his shoulder. "Go on, lover boy. Let me hear it. If you impress me maybe I can convince Lestat to add it to the line up."
He huffs out a little laugh, not quite meeting your eyes. "Yeah, sure he would."
"Don't be so hard on yourself, dude. I'm sure it's great, but I'll never know unless you play it."
"It's not that it's not good. I know it's good. Anything about yo- her... about her... uh, it'll be good. She's a good muse. I just... he won't be happy about who the muse is." Larry stumbles a bit, terrified you caught him slip up, but the tension leaves his shoulders when you just keep looking at him like some golden retriever puppy. No thoughts, just vibes.
God, you're such a dork. He doesn't even know why he likes you. You're so far from his regular type. He likes alt girls with dyed hair and big tits and tight skirts, not... whatever you have going on. What are you even wearing today? Is that one of Salamander's shirts?
Fuck it.
He picks up the guitar and starts strumming. Hiding from you is easier when he's playing. Softly, quietly he starts singing and you relax into your chair. Larry's voice is smooth like being wrapped in warm caramel.
Darlin', I will give up everything
Who I'll be and who I am
You can have it all
Baby, you could start a cult, you see
Anywhere you go, I'll be
You are so much more than beautiful to me
Oh, I'll follow you till there's no tomorrow
I'll follow you till there's no tomorrow
I'll follow you till there's no tomorrow
I'll follow you
Lately, what I know of reality
I let go of it happily
When I look in your eyes
Mm
Swear it's true
No mountain that I wouldn't move
Sea I wouldn't part in two
To wake up by your side is all I wanna do
Oh, I'll follow you till there's no tomorrow
I'll follow you till there's no tomorrow
I'll follow you till there's no tomorrow
I'll follow you
Mm-mm
Mm-mm
Mm-mm, mm
Mm-mm-mm
Baby, you could start a cult, you see
They will say that we're crazy
But you are so much more than beautiful to me
You open your eyes when he stops singing, not fully realizing you even shut them to begin with. "That's really pretty."
Larry looks at you, expression completely unreadable. "Yeah. I think it would be good as a duet. Maybe the second verse could be TC or something."
"She can sing?"
"As well as I can."
You mutter something about talented motherfuckers before asking, "what's the second verse again?"
Larry writes it out for you, careful to avoid getting too close. He's already on thin ice with Lestat after that time he gave you flowers after a show, but he doesn't really think he can be blamed for that. Lestat was ditching you to go hang with Dee (again) and you looked so sad about it. So, yeah, Larry gave you fucking flowers. And again the next night. And the night after that. He did it for a week before you put your foot down.
"Lestat's gonna kill you, dude," you had told him.
And maybe Lestat will kill him.
But also... maybe you're worth dying for.
As you sing the second verse of the song he wrote for you he decides you're worth whatever bitch fit Lestat will subject them all to. You deserve better than that asshole.
I cant lie.... sometimes this time travel business gives me a headache and I'm only plotting it, not living it. Time traveler!reader is stronger than me
Had a thought of Ormund making reader recite scripture as he eats her out... A mix of overstimulation and orgasm denial... Carrot and stick... Him fucking his fist... Perhaps coming untouched in his pants... Many thoughts...
Sin
Ormund Hightower X Reader
TW: Smut, Dubcon
Part of "the whore" but can be read as a stand-alone
The door to your shared chambers had barely closed behind you before Ormund's hand found your wrist.
His grip was firn, a silent command that stopped you mid-step, your body turning toward him before your mind had fully registered the movement. The warmth of the fire in the hearth washed over your arms, a pleasant contrast to the chill that had settled into your bones during the long walk back from the great hall.
He said nothing at first. His eyes swept over your face, searching for something you could not name. His jaw was tight, the muscles in his neck corded with a tension that had not been there an hour ago, when you had all sat together at the high table. You had seen that tension building throughout the evening, the way his gaze had followed you across the room, the way his fingers had drummed against the arm of his chair, the way his smile had grown thinner and more brittle with each passing course.
You had done nothing wrong. You knew that and yet your heart had begun to beat faster the moment he took your wrist, a familiar dread coiling in your stomach like a serpent waking from sleep. You had learned to recognize that dread over the months of your marriage. It was a constant companion now, a shadow that walked beside you through the halls of the Hightower, that curled beside you in the bed you shared, that whispered in your ear when you tried to sleep.
"Sit," he said.
His voice was low. Calm. That was what made it frightening, the utter control in it, the absence of any raised tone or sharp edge. He gestured to the small writing desk by the window, where a leather bound copy of the Seven Pointed Star sat waiting, its pages worn from use. The desk was positioned beneath a narrow window that looked out over the Honeywine, its waters glittering silver in the moonlight. But you did not look at the window. You looked at the book, and your stomach tightened further.
You sat. Your legs felt weak beneath you, and you were grateful for the chair's solid presence. The wood was cold through the thin fabric of your gown, a chill that seeped into your thighs and made you shiver. You clasped your hands in your lap, fingers interlaced, and tried to steady your breathing.
Ormund walked to the desk. He moved slowly, deliberately, the soft thud of his boots against the stone floor the only sound in the room besides the crackling fire. He picked up the heavy tome, its leather cover worn smooth from generations of use and opened it to a marked page. His finger traced down the lines of text, finding the passage he sought. He knew exactly where it was. He had chosen it before you ever entered the room.
"Read," he said, placing the book before you. "From here."
He pointed to a passage near the middle of the page, his fingernail pressing against the parchment hard enough to leave a faint indentation. You recognized the words even before your eyes focused on them. The Faith of the Seven's teachings on marriage. On duty. On the sacred bond between husband and wife. You had read these passages before, in the long lonely months since your wedding, when you had sought comfort in the words of the septons. You had found none.
Your throat tightened. Your voice, when it came, was barely a whisper. "What is this about?"
He did not answer. Instead, he lowered himself to his knees beside your chair, his movements fluid and unhurried. The sound of his knees settling against the rushes was soft, almost reverent. His hands came to rest on your thighs, his palms warm through the silk of your gown, his fingers curving around the soft flesh with a possessiveness that made your breath catch.
"Read," he repeated. His voice was silk over steel.
You swallowed. Your eyes dropped to the page, and your voice came out quiet and trembling as you began to read aloud.
"'The wife shall honor her husband in all things, for he is her protector and her guide. She shall not raise her voice against him, nor speak ill of him to others, nor look upon another man with desire in her heart…'"
Ormund's hands moved.
His fingers found the hem of your gown and lifted it, inch by inch, baring your legs to the cool air of the chamber. The silk slid up over your knees, your thighs, until the fabric pooled around your waist and left you exposed from the waist down. Your skin prickled with gooseflesh, and you faltered in your reading, your voice catching in your throat. But his eyes flicked up to meet yours, and something in his gaze made you continue.
"'…for the bond between man and wife is sacred, blessed by the Seven who watch from on high. A wife's body belongs to her husband, as his body belongs to her, and neither shall withhold what the other rightfully…'"
His lips pressed against the inside of your knee.
Your breath hitched. The words on the page blurred before your eyes, but you forced yourself to keep reading, your voice wavering as his mouth traveled higher. His lips were warm and dry, he pressed open mouthed kisses along the soft flesh, leaving a trail of warmth that made your thighs tremble.
"'…rightfully claims,'" you continued, your voice rising in pitch. "'For in the sight of the Seven, a wife who strays is as one who…'"
His hand pushed your thighs apart. You were bare beneath your gown, you always were, at his instruction, a practicality that had become a silent act of submission. The chill air of the chamber kissed your exposed flesh, and you felt yourself clench involuntarily against the cold. He parted you with his fingers, exposing you to the firelight, to his gaze, to the warmth of his breath as he leaned closer. His thumb brushed over your folds, spreading you open, and you heard the soft, wet sound of your own arousal—a sound that made your cheeks burn with shame.
"'…who strays is as one who denies the Mother's wisdom and the Father's…'"
He lowered his mouth to you.
The words died in your throat, replaced by a sharp gasp, his tongue was warm and wet against your most intimate flesh, tracing a slow, deliberate path from your entrance to the small bud of nerves at the apex. The sensation was electric, a jolt of pleasure that shot through your pelvis and made your hips jerk involuntarily. Your hands gripped the edges of the book so tightly that the leather creaked beneath your fingers.
"Keep reading," Ormund said, his voice muffled against your skin.
You could not. You could not form words, could not remember the passage, could not think past the sensation of his mouth working against you. His tongue circled your clit, slow and torturous, and your vision swam. But he had not asked—he had commanded, and you had learned that his commands were not suggestions. You had learned that in the first weeks of your marriage, in the long nights when he had taught you what it meant to be his.
"'The Father,'" you started, your voice high and strained. "'The Father judges the faithful and the unfaithful, and the Mother's mercy extends only to those who…'"
His tongue flicked against you, quick and precise, and your hips bucked of their own accord. You bit your lip hard enough to taste copper, trying to stifle the sound that wanted to escape your throat. But he heard it anyway—felt it, perhaps, in the way your body reacted to him—and his hands tightened on your thighs, holding you steady. His fingers dug into the soft flesh hard enough to leave bruises, and you knew you would find purple marks there in the morning.
"'…who repent,'" you forced out, the words a broken whisper. "'And who return to the arms of their…'"
He hummed against you. The vibration shot through your pelvis like a bolt of lightning, and your vision went white at the edges. Your body was betraying you—had always betrayed you, in this room, in this bed, in his hands. The pleasure was unwelcome and unwanted, a violation in its own right, and yet you could not stop it. Your hips were moving now, rocking against his mouth, seeking more of that sensation, and you hated yourself for it.
"'…their husband,'" you gasped, the words tumbling from your lips without thought. "'For the husband is the head of the household, and the wife is his…'"
He pressed his tongue inside you.
Your back arched. The book slipped from your hands and fell to the floor with a heavy thud, its pages splaying open on the rushes. You did not reach for it. You could not reach for it. Your hands had found the arms of the chair, gripping the carved wood so tightly that your knuckles went white. The wood was smooth beneath your fingers, worn by the hands of generations of Hightower lords, and you clung to it as though it could save you.
His tongue was inside you, curling and stroking, and the pleasure was building into something unbearable. He lapped at your inner walls, tasting you, drinking you in, and the wet sounds of his mouth against your flesh filled the room. You could feel his breath hot against your skin, could feel the rough callouses of his fingers as they gripped your hips.
"His," Ormund prompted, his voice a low rumble against your flesh. He pulled his tongue out just long enough to speak, his lips brushing against your clit as he did, and the sensation made you sob.
You could not answer. Your mouth opened, but no sound came out. His tongue was moving inside you again, curling against that sensitive spot that made your vision flicker. The pleasure was mounting, coiling in your belly like a spring wound too tight, and you knew what was coming. You knew it was inevitable.
"His what?" he asked, and his teeth grazed you lightly—a warning, a reminder of who was in control. He bit down just enough to make you gasp, a sharp jolt of pain that cut through the pleasure like a blade.
"'His—'" You sobbed the word. "'His vessel. His—his property.'"
"Good girl." His voice was muffled against your flesh, but you heard the satisfaction in it. "That's right. You remember your lessons. You remember what you are to me."
He licked you again, long and slow, and your hips jerked toward his mouth. You could not help it. Your body was no longer your own, it belonged to him, as he had told you a hundred times before. It belonged to his hands, his mouth, his cock, his will. You were just the vessel that housed it, the shell that contained what was his.
Ormund lowered his mouth to you again, and this time he did not stop. His tongue worked against you with a relentless intensity, licking and sucking and probing, pushing you higher and higher toward that peak you had learned to dread. His fingers pressed into your thighs, holding you open, holding you still, and you could do nothing but take it.
Your head fell back against the chair. Your eyes rolled up toward the ceiling, toward the painted beams and the shadows that danced there. Your chest heaved with each ragged breath, your breasts pressing against the bodice of your gown, your nipples tightening into hard peaks beneath the silk.
The pressure built. The spring coiled tighter. You could feel it approaching, could feel the edges of your vision starting to grey.
"No," you whispered. The word came out broken, desperate. "Please—"
But he did not stop. He never stopped. His tongue circled your clit with renewed urgency, his hands gripping your thighs with bruising force, and the pleasure crashed over you like a wave breaking against a shore. You screamed—or tried to, the sound came out as a choked sob, your throat too tight to release it properly. Your hips bucked against his face, and he held you steady through it, his tongue continuing to work against you even as your body shuddered and convulsed.
He did not stop when the orgasm faded. He did not stop when your hands released the chair and fell limp at your sides. He did not stop when you began to weep, silent tears streaming down your cheeks, your body trembling with the aftershocks of pleasure you had not wanted and could not refuse.
He kept going. His tongue lapped at you, tasting your release, drinking it in, and you could feel yourself growing sensitive—too sensitive—and the pleasure was turning into something else, something sharper, something that bordered on pain.
"Please," you sobbed. "Please, Ormund, I can't—"
He pulled back just enough to look at you. His chin was wet with your arousal, glistening in the firelight. His eyes were dark, the pupils so dilated that they had swallowed almost all the grey-green. His lips were swollen and red, and he licked them slowly, tasting you on his own mouth.
"You can," he said. "You will."
He lowered his head again, and this time he was gentler—but that was not a kindness. His tongue traced soft, lazy circles around your clit, teasing you back toward arousal even as you tried to push him away. Your hands found his shoulders, your fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic, and you tried to push him back.
He did not move. "You think I don't know what I saw tonight?" he asked, his voice low against your skin. His breath was warm, his words muffled by your flesh. "You think I didn't notice the way you looked at him? The way you laughed at his words?"
The accusation landed like a slap. You had done nothing wrong—you knew that—but the guilt that bloomed in your chest was real and immediate. You had laughed at something your stepson Lyonel had said at the high table. It had been a small thing, a quiet comment about a courtier's ridiculous hat, and you had laughed because it had been genuinely funny.
But Ormund had seen, every smile, every glance, every moment of warmth you had shared with the son who was closer to your age than your husband.
"I wasn't—" you started.
"Lionel is ten and seven," Ormund interrupted. His tongue flicked against your clit, and you gasped. "Closer to you than i am. Young. Strong. Handsome. And you—" He bit down lightly, and you cried out. "—my beautiful wife, who blushes when a man so much as looks at her—"
"Ormund, please, I didn't—"
"You didn't what?" He lifted his head again, and his eyes burned into yours. "You didn't look at him with desire? You didn't enjoy his attention? Because I saw you. I saw every moment."
His words were knives, and he twisted them with precision. You had done nothing wrong, and yet he had found the sin anyway—had invented it, perhaps, because he needed a reason to do this. Because he needed to remind you of your place.
"Lionel is your son," you whispered. "I was simply being kind to him. That is all."
"Kind." The word was bitter on his tongue. "Yes. You are very kind. Kind to everyone. Kind to the servants, kind to the guards, kind to my children. But you are not kind to me."
"That is not true—"
"Then why," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, "do I have to remind you every day that you are mine?"
His tongue was on you again, rougher this time, less careful. He licked and sucked at your clit with a ferocity that made you cry out, your fingers tangling in his hair, pushing and pulling at the same time. You could not decide if you wanted him to stop or to continue—your body wanted the pleasure, even as your mind recoiled from it.
You were already sensitive from the first orgasm, and the second was building faster than you could have imagined. Your thighs trembled against his shoulders, and your hips were moving again, grinding against his mouth without your permission. The wet sounds of his tongue against your flesh were obscene, and you could not stop them.
"Please," you sobbed again. "Please, I'll be good, I'll be better, just—"
"Just what?" He stopped, his lips hovering over your clit, his breath hot against the sensitive flesh. "Just what, wife? Tell me what you want."
"I want—" You could not finish the sentence. Your body ached with need, and you hated yourself for it. "I want to—"
"You want to come," he said. It was not a question. "You want to come on my tongue, while you think of my son, is that it? While you pretend I am someone else?"
"No!" The denial tore from your throat, raw and desperate. "No, Ormund, I would never—"
He smiled. It was that same pleasant, courteous smile, and it was more frightening than any rage could ever be.
"Then read," he said. "Read me the passage. Read me the words that remind you what you are."
He pulled away, leaving you aching and empty, and you looked down at him through tear-blurred eyes. He was still on his knees, his face flushed, his chin wet with your arousal, his eyes dark with something that was not quite anger.
The book was still on the floor. You leaned down, your fingers trembling as you retrieved it, and you searched for the page. Your hands were shaking so badly that you could barely hold the book, and tears were streaming down your cheeks, but you found the passage.
"'The wife,'" you read, your voice cracking, "'shall submit to her husband in all things, for she is his helpmate and his—'"
He pushed his face between your thighs again, and your voice dissolved into a moan. His mouth was on you again, his tongue plunging inside you, and your back arched against the chair. You could not think. You could not read. All you could do was feel.
"Keep reading," he said against your flesh.
You tried. You tried so hard. But the words were blurring together, and the pleasure was building again, and you could not focus on anything except the wet heat of his mouth and the way your hips were grinding against his face.
"'His—his property,'" you managed. "'His—his vessel, his—'"
He pressed his tongue against your clit, and the second orgasm hit you like a wave.
You screamed, a sound so raw and broken that you did not recognize it as your own. Your body arched off the chair, your hands flying to his head, gripping his hair so hard that you must have hurt him. But he did not stop. He kept his mouth on you, working you through the pleasure, until you collapsed back against the chair, trembling and weeping and utterly spent.
And then he did not stop.
You felt his tongue continue its relentless assault, and the pleasure that had been so overwhelming now teetered on the edge of pain. The sensitivity was unbearable, every stroke of his tongue sent jolts of electricity through your nerves, and you could not breathe, could not think, could not do anything but feel.
"Please," you sobbed, your hands pushing at his head. "Please, Ormund, no more, I can't—"
"You can," he said against your flesh. "You will take what I give you. You will take all of it."
His tongue flicked against your clit, and your hips jerked away instinctively. His hands tightened on your thighs, dragging you back to his mouth, holding you in place. You were trapped—trapped in this chair, trapped beneath his mouth, trapped in this body that was responding against your will.
"Please," you begged, the word a broken litany. "Please, please, please—"
The third orgasm was building before the second had fully faded. It was too much, too soon, and you were crying openly now, your tears streaming down your cheeks and dripping onto your chest. The pleasure was so intense that it was indistinguishable from pain, and you could not tell which was which anymore.
"Ormund," you gasped, "Ormund, I'm going to—please, let me, please—"
"Not yet," he said. His voice was calm, controlled, utterly unaffected by your desperation. "You will not come again until I allow it. Do you understand?"
You nodded frantically, your head bobbing up and down, anything to make him stop, to give you a moment of respite. But he did not stop. His tongue was still working against you, circling and flicking and sucking, pushing you closer and closer to that edge even as you tried to pull away.
"P-promise," you stammered. "I promise, I'll be good, I'll do anything, just please—"
"You will beg," he said, and his voice was dark, almost cruel. "You will beg me for permission to come. And you will not come until I say you may. Is that clear?"
"Yes," you sobbed. "Yes, Ormund, yes, I understand, I'll beg, I'll do whatever you want, just please—"
He hummed against you, the vibration sending another shockwave through your pelvis, and you clawed at his shoulders, trying to push him away and pull him closer all at once. The pleasure was unbearable, unbearable, and you were so close, so close to the edge that you could taste it.
"Please," you begged, the word coming out in a desperate moan. "Please let me come, please, Ormund, I'll be so good for you, I'll never look at anyone else, I'll never smile at anyone but you, I swear it, I swear it on the Seven, please—"
His tongue continued its assault, and you could feel yourself teetering on the edge, your whole body trembling with the effort of holding back. It was agony, pure agony, to be this close and not allowed to fall.
"Please," you sobbed again. "Please, please, please—"
"Look at me," he said.
You looked down at him through tear blurred eyes. He was still on his knees between your thighs, his face flushed, his chin wet with your arousal, his eyes dark and hungry. And as you watched, you saw something shift in his expression a tightening of his jaw, a shudder that ran through his body.
And then he was coming. His hands tightened on your thighs, his fingers digging into your flesh hard enough to bruise, and a low groan escaped his throat. You felt his hips jerk against the air, his body arching as he spilled inside his trousers, his cock pumping into the fabric of his breeches even as his mouth remained fastened to your clit. He was coming untouched, completely undone by the sight and taste of you, and you stared at him in shocked silence as the pleasure wracked his body.
His eyes were locked on yours. He did not look away. He watched you watch him as he came, his breath ragged, his teeth grazing your clit as his body shuddered through the release. The sight of him—the perfect Lord Hightower, so composed and controlled, undone by his own desire—sent a jolt of something dark and triumphant through your chest.
But the triumph was short lived.
Even as his body trembled with the aftershocks of his orgasm, his tongue continued its work. He was relentless, driven, and the pleasure that had been building inside you was now a wildfire that you could not contain. You were so close, so unbearably close, and you had not been given permission.
"Please," you sobbed. "Please, Ormund, please, I can't hold it any longer, please let me—"
He pulled back. His lips left your clit, and the sudden absence of sensation was almost worse than the overstimulation. Your hips thrust into the air, seeking his mouth, seeking the contact that had been stolen from you.
"No," he said. His voice was rough, rougher than usual, his breathing still heavy from his own release. "Not yet."
"I can't—" You were weeping openly now, your whole body trembling. "Please, Ormund, I need to—"
"You need to what?" He pressed a kiss to the inside of your thigh, the touch soft and gentle and maddening. "You need to come? You think you deserve to come?"
"Please," you begged. "I'll do anything—"
"You will be good," he said. "You will be faithful. You will remember that you are mine."
"Yes," you sobbed. "Yes, I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm yours—"
"And you will not look at my son again. You will not smile at him. You will not speak to him unless I am present. Do you understand?"
"I understand," you cried. "I understand, I promise, please, please, I'm so close—"
He pressed two fingers inside you, curling them against that sensitive spot, and you screamed. Your hips bucked against his hand, and the pleasure was so intense, so overwhelming, that you could not hold it back. You were on the edge, teetering, your body screaming for release.
"Beg," he said. "Beg me properly."
"Please," you sobbed, the word a broken chant. "Please, Ormund, my husband, my lord, please let me come, I'll be so good, I'll be perfect, I'll do whatever you say, just please, please, please let me come—"
"Look at me," he commanded.
You looked. Your eyes met his, and you saw the satisfaction there, the dark pleasure he took in your desperation. He curled his fingers inside you, pressing against that spot that made your vision go white.
"Come," he said. "Come for me."
And you did.
The orgasm tore through you like a wildfire, consuming everything in its path. Your body arched off the chair, your mouth open in a silent scream, your hands gripping his shoulders so hard that your nails drew blood. The pleasure was blinding, overwhelming, and you could not breathe, could not think, could not do anything but feel.
It went on and on, wave after wave crashing through you, and Ormund did not stop. His fingers continued to move inside you, working you through the orgasm, drawing it out until you were sobbing and trembling and begging for mercy that would not come.
Finally—finally—he withdrew his fingers.
You collapsed back against the chair, your body limp and shaking, your breath coming in ragged gasps. Your thighs were wet with your own arousal, and you could feel the evidence of his release soaking through his breeches where they pressed against your leg.
Ormund rose to his feet. He was still fully clothed, his tunic and trousers intact, and the contrast between his composed appearance and your debauched state made something twist in your chest. His breeches were dark with a wet patch at the front, the evidence of his own pleasure hidden by the dim firelight.
He looked down at you—at your flushed face, your swollen lips, your tear streaked cheeks, your exposed body—and he smiled. It was that same pleasant, courteous smile, and it was more terrifying than any rage could ever be.
"Good girl," he said. "That is what I wanted to hear."
You could not respond. Your voice was gone, your throat raw, your body limp and trembling. The book had fallen to the floor again, its pages stained by your tears and the evidence of your shame.
Ormund stepped closer. His hand came up to cup your chin, tilting your face up to meet his eyes. His thumb brushed across your cheek, wiping away a tear, and his touch was almost gentle.
"Will I have to remind you again?" he asked. "Or can I trust you to behave?"
You shook your head weakly. "I'll be good," you whispered. "I promise. I'll be good."
He leaned down and kissed your forehead, his lips lingering for a moment against your damp skin. His other hand found your thigh, his fingers tracing the bruise he had left there, and you flinched at the touch.
"If I see you look at my son like that again," he said, his voice soft and calm and utterly terrifying, "I will not stop when you beg. I will keep you right there, on the edge, until you forget your own name. Do you understand?"
"Yes," you whispered. "I understand."
He smiled again and turned to walk to the door. You could see the evidence of his release darkening the front of his breeches, a damp stain that marked his own loss of control. He had come untouched, completely undone by the sight of you beneath his mouth, and the knowledge of that gave you a strange, fleeting sense of power—power that you knew would be taken from you the moment you showed it.
"Clean yourself up," he said without looking back. "I will send a servant with hot water. And then you will join me for a late supper. Lionel will not be there. I have sent him to his quarters for the evening."
The door closed behind him. The lock turned.
You had done nothing wrong, but you had been reminded anyway, and the marks of that reminder were already blooming purple on your thighs, and you knew that you would dream of his eyes watching you, dark and hungry, as he came undone between your legs.
I really like ur lestat fic ‘again and again and again’, that’s like my reading before going to sleep. You have one of the perfect writings I have ever read in my entire life and HEHEHHEHEHE AS A CHILD OF ANGST I REALLY WANT READER TO HAVE A BREAK WITH LESTAT LIKE GO SOMEWHERE W/O HIM. I REALLY WANT LESTAT TO FEEL DESPERATE AND SUFFER like why is he so mad when reader sleep with anyone while he can do anyone 😞 PLS MAKE HIM YEARN LIKE THE SONG LOVER YOU SHOULDVE COME OVER, totally cool tho if you dont like it I just found it as an opportunity to suggest it HWHWHEHHE
Oh, she's definitely going somewhere for a while 😂 and trust that Lestat is already suffering. He's gonna be yearning and crying and maybe this will be his wake up call
Hotd isekai fic because I really just want to see Gwayne down bad for a funny bitch with tattoos who keeps trying to domesticate various wild creatures (including him)
summary: Salvation comes only to those who listen. Lord Ormund will remind you of that. 4.4k.
content: takes place directly after 3x4 following show canon (as of now) so spoilers for the episode. reader is daeron's twin sister, no physical descriptions, no use of y/n or a first name, toxic!ormund, grooming, possessive!ormund, religious!reader, themes of religious indoctrination and religious doubts, angsty, instances of uncomfortable contact (a kiss), age gap, ormund is a creep here i'm not exaggerating, possible inaccuracies about of the faith of the seven, my bad. DON'T LIKE, DON'T READ.
hotd masterlist.
The smell of burnt flesh still lingers in the sept despite the removal of the previous destruction mere hours ago, a permanent reminder of the sin that war breeds.
Your knees scrape against the rough stones through the heavy folds of your dark green dress as you kneel before the Seven. The pain comes slowly at first, a mere ache beneath the bone. A reminder that the body is temporary, that flesh is delicate, that pride must be humbled before the gods.
You welcome the pain. There is comfort in suffering when it has purpose. When you can control it.
Your fingers curl tightly around each other, clutched around the silver seven-pointed star that hangs from your neck. It was a passing gift from your mother, the only fading reminder you have of her before she shipped you and Daeron off to Oldtown. The sharp edges press into your palm, your firm grip baiting it to pierce the skin and let you bleed. You hold it as if it will provide you with sanctity, with answers, as if it carries enough weight to anchor you against the storm inside your own mind.
Prayers leave your lips in whispers, so soft that they may blow away with a gentle breeze, only heard for the Gods above.
The words are so familiar to you that no thought is needed when speaking. The prayers have been woven into you since you were a mere child, your first memories in Oldtown coming from the countless mornings within the grand septs as the watchful eyes and ears of septas linger on your every word.
You recall the nights when sleep refused to come, so alone in your thoughts that your only salvation was the comfort of the Seven who would watch over you. Who would listen to you like no one else would.
"Father above, judge me fairly."
Your voice trembles only slightly, memories of the day’s happenings washing over you like a typhoon that seeks to destroy everything in its path.
"Mother, grant me mercy."
Your eyes remain shut. You do not wish to see yourself reflected in the polished marble before you. The face of a Targaryen, a face that belongs to a family infested with sin and poison.
"Warrior, grant my brother strength."
Your lips curl up as your twin Daeron’s face comes unbidden. Your other half.
The two of you had entered the world together amid an established legacy and fierce politics that were only more ignited with the birth of Rhaenyra’s first bastard mere moons before you.
Daeron was the perfect image of what a prince should be, just and kind and gentle. Raised in Oldtown with the Faith illuminating his path forward.
You found your purpose to be more muddled. Women of your age have already been married off, given away to men for favors, for alliances, for power. Yet when you bring up your future to your Lord Ormund, he dismisses you with a delicate caress of your face and more questions left in the air than answers to fill your mind.
The abrasive huff of Daeron’s dragon interrupts your prayers as your hands tighten around each other. You resist the urge to open your eyes and glare. Perhaps your brother’s only fault was the affection he held too tightly onto for his beast, the unmistakable connection that revealed his roots.
Two dragon eggs had been sent to Oldtown amongst the blankets and cradles of yourself and your brother, a chain that bound you to the impure blood of House Targaryen. Daeron’s egg hatched as he grew, a beast he called Tessarion.
Yours never hatched.
When it was clear your egg was never going to transform into a beast, bearing scales upon the hard shell that remained ice cold despite constant heat from hearths, Lord Ormund had pulled you onto his lap and held you with open affection that you had never witnessed before.
“It is a sign of your purity,” he said to you amidst your tears and confusion, naivety leading you to think something was wrong. You remember the warmth of his hand as it stroked your cheek. “Proof that we can cleanse the wretched blood right out of you.”
His satisfaction was perhaps your only saving grace.
"The Maiden, preserve my innocence."
Your throat tightens and you almost laugh at the irony.
There had never been innocence for those born into House Targaryen with madness flowing through your veins. There was the constant knowledge that one day, your blood would be judged by what your ancestors had done.
And the bloodshed that lies beyond the very doors you have barricaded yourself in is just more proof of it, of the destruction that lies within the bones of those who are cursed to carry their name.
"...the Crone, grant me wisdom."
You lower your head more, blocking out any slivers of light that may pass into your vision.
Wisdom enough to understand, to forgive. Wisdom enough to know whether you are truly different from the monsters history claims your family to be.
Your final prayer catches in your throat. It is a name rarely invoked, but one you have found yourself needing to utter recently.
"The Stranger..."
The words feel heavier than usual. They feel more imminent with every passing second that war rages on around you.
"...when my hour comes, receive me kindly."
You quietly bask in your solitude, save for the beast that has calmed since its earlier destruction, granting you a moment of privacy when none can typically be afforded. No footsteps surrounding you, no whispers full of venom in your ears, no judgement to be cast upon your pious display.
There is only peace.
But peace always yearns to be broken.
The heavy wooden doors of the sept groan beneath the force of an impatient hand.
Your eyes remain closed.
For a moment, you allow yourself to be lulled by the illusion that you did not hear it. That the Gods have granted you one final breath of silence before the world demands you return to it.
But the footsteps that follow are too familiar, ones you’ve heard all your life that ring with careful measure and heavy authority. You do not need to turn around to know who has entered.
“My dear girl.”
Lord Ormund Hightower’s voice echoes through the sept, carrying with it the same weight of control that is flaunted by the banners of Oldtown that now hang over the conquered land of Tumbleton.
His.
You scold yourself for the way that your heart still recognizes the sound of his voice, stuttering at the familiar smooth tone that brings you familiarity in a strange, war-torn place. You hate that some small, foolish part of you still searches for comfort in it when your mind knows that none can be afforded to you.
You lower your head further, bowing before the Seven that have guided you with structure and discipline instead of the man whose unpredictability has uneased you so.
“Lord Ormund.” You respond barely above a whisper.
You do not call him father, but the word has always lingered at the base of your tongue.
He is the man who raised you, who held you in his arms as an infant and held your hand when delivering you to the sept for your lessons. The man who took you and your brother in when your mother pleaded, desiring children who were raised to be Hightower and not Targaryen despite the curse that she herself had granted upon you.
Yet he is not your father. He is not a man who loves you unconditionally, and what you feel for him is not the love of a child to their father, but what a devotee feels about their object of admiration.
You were raised to be a perfect Hightower daughter, proof that a Targaryen could be cleansed—proof that he could be the one to strip a Targaryen of the poison that flows through their every fiber of being.
And you silently thank the Gods for it.
But still. Every day is a test, every look sent your way with pointed eyes is another way to see if you will fail him, fail his teachings, fail the undeniable proof of his power and influence.
You find the violence of war pushing on the very foundation of what he has enlightened you to, of the Faith that you have had anchored into your soul, into your very way of life. The blood that spills from every death leaves stains behind that taint the very meaning of the Father’s justice, and taints your understanding of Lord Ormund’s piety.
His boots scrape against the stones below him as he approaches, each step slow and deliberate, but with purpose.
“You should not be here.”
Your eyes open, staring straight ahead as you halt your prayers. The dim light from the candle flames around you fill your vision, the scaly snout of Daeron’s beast glowing faintly in the corner of the room. The sept envelopes itself in darkness as the doors close behind your guardian, leaving you at his mercy.
A bitter laugh almost escapes you, and you respond without turning to look at him, perhaps out of the cowardice that would manifest the moment you lay your eyes upon his face. “I should not be in the sept? Where else do I belong while your men plunder the streets like barbarous creatures?”
He sighs, stepping closer until a gentle but firm hand lays itself upon your shoulder. You resist the urge to flinch at the touch. “Do not be smart with me. You know what I mean.”
Your fingers tighten around the seven-pointed star, as if squeezing it tight enough will provide you with an answer you need.
You know exactly what he means.
You should not be near the place where blood was spilled. You should not have seen what happened. You should not question what you witnessed.
You should simply bow your head, find a more acceptable place to pray, and accept that the men with swords and shields donning the symbols of Oldtown know more of righteousness than those forced to kneel before them.
“The Gods hear all prayers,” you whisper.
“They also hear the commands of their chosen servants.” His thumb rubs against the small sliver of skin uncovered from your gown.
You finally crane your neck to look up at him.
The candlelight flickers against his face, illuminating the familiar features that once brought you safety as a child.
You remember climbing into his lap after nightmares, the way his hand rested on your hair as he told you the Seven watched over you, how he watched over you with the same reverence, to look for their guidance and his to light your way forward.
Agitation simmers deep within you.
“You burned him.” The words leave your mouth before you can stop them.
The silence that follows feels heavier than before.
Lord Ormund does not react with words immediately. Instead, his hand stills and he looks at you with the same expression he wore when you were a child confessing some minor mistake.
Disappointment.
“He was a rebel.” His voice hardens as if sensing that defiance that stirs within you.
“He was protecting his wife,” you bite back.
“He committed violence against a Hightower soldier.”
“He was afraid!” Your voice cracks slightly as it raises for the first time. You stand hastily and whip towards Lord Ormund, and he lets you, the hand on your shoulder almost instructing you to move closer to him. “He saw a man who was to harm his wife and he was afraid.”
His jaw tightens. The hand on you tightens, as if telling you to stand down without words.
“Fear does not excuse an act of treason.”
“And does faith excuse your cruelty?”
The question lingers in the air, imposing on propriety and inviting danger to mingle in the tension that has built between the two of you.
It was a question you knew better to ask. One that causes the brief inception of rage to flicker in his eyes, rage of what rebellion you have let inside of your head and make a home out of your purity he has worked so hard to protect.
You know what he sees in you now. A girl who questions. A girl with too much of her father’s blood still flowing through her veins, with too much of her mother’s weak conscience.
A girl who he has not yet finished training.
“You have spent too much time with your brother,” is what he deigns himself to say.
Your stomach twists with the thought of Daeron. Poor Daeron, too just and kind to be thrown into the boughs of merciless war.
“Daeron is good.”
His smile is tight as his thumb resumes brushing against your smooth skin.
“Indeed he is,” he murmurs. “But he is still a Targaryen. And I’m afraid you still are, too.”
The words strike harder than you expect. Even after all these years, all your lessons and prayers, you are still burdened by the name that you carry.
You were still the daughter of a Targaryen, a daughter of dragons, and Lord Ormund never let you forget it.
“I have spent my entire life trying to prove that I am not.” You know you sound pathetic, desperation dripping from your words for some semblance of acknowledgement, of belonging. Of acceptance you have never received since the moment you left the womb a cursed child.
His expression dampens, but only slightly. In his features there lies a dangerous kind of softness that has always confused you.
“You should not have to prove anything.” His hand moves again, this time caressing your chin with his thumb and index finger. “Yet time and time again you show me that there is still some of that fire in you that I have worked so hard to snuff out. You still kindle the sparks with these impulses. I only mean to save you from it, my dear.”
You almost believe him. Warmth spreads across you, a feeling you have been longing for since the day a raven delivered the news of his death and Aegon’s ascension.
But that warmth is snuffed out almost as quickly as it had spread, dying out as both of his hands gently lift to your face.
It is a gesture you know all too well.
They are the same hands that have comforted you.
The same hands that wiped your tears when you were young.
(The same hand that caressed your brother’s cheek mere hours earlier and called him a good boy before subjecting him to a savagery that makes a mockery out of the justice and mercy that the Father and the Mother promise to uphold.)
His hands move your head to look at him, his eyes searching yours for something that you cannot name. Repentance? Acceptance?
“You were given a blessing most Targaryens never receive.”
Your body stiffens under his touch.
“Guidance.”
The word is gentle, but you know the meaning behind it is not.
“You were raised among the faithful. You were taught humility. I have protected you from the corruption that has plagued your family for generations.”
His thumbs brush over your cheekbones. “You were spared.”
Your breath catches with his words, because that is the cruelest part.
Somewhere deep inside, you have always wondered if he was right. If the Gods truly had spared you.
If your dragon egg remaining cold was a sign that you were good, that you could be saved. That your inability to claim a beast meant you were never supposed to be like them.
And yet you think of Daeron, of his compassion and kindness. Of the way he feels a kinship with his beast, of the way you knew he felt sympathy for the people Oldtown had conquered when others only saw their usefulness.
You think of your mother.
Of the small glimpses you remember from the last time you saw her, before even reaching ten. Of the deep red hair that Daeron had inherited, the plushness of her lips as she kissed your forehead in a fleeting goodbye, the way her trembling hands moved to clutch the seven-pointed star around your neck as she whispered, my girl.
Of the woman who you know deep in your heart loved you enough to send you away despite delivering sin into this world.
And you wonder what your duty is, what the Gods truly have planned for you if not to follow their ways.
“Was it righteous?” you ask quietly.
Lord Ormund’s hands still.
“What do you speak of now, darling?” he murmurs, his eyes searching yours as a faint crinkle forms in his brow, perhaps out of concern.
“With what happened today.” The topic feels like stepping onto thin ice, crackling beneath the weight of undiscovered consequence.
“Was it righteous?” you repeat.
His expression falters for a brief moment. But you catch it, and you see it—the realization that you are not truly asking about the man who was put to death, but of Daeron. Of him.
You are questioning him. His decisions. His teachings. His devotion.
You are questioning the man who raised you to fear the monster within your own veins while slowly showing you that monsters could wear the colors of the Faith.
“You question your brother?” His voice is steady and flat, answering you more with a firm response rather than a question. It feels too harsh coming from the man before you, the root of a warning that threatens to grow into a ferocious weed.
“No.” Your answer comes quickly and you raise your hand to cover his own that still rests upon your cheek, still seeking his tenderness despite it all. Tears sting your eyes and you inhale with a shuddering breath as Lord Ormund pulls you close to his chest at the sight.
“I question myself.”
And that, more than anything, is what seems to wound him. Because Ormund can tolerate hatred and rebellion. He can fix that, mold you back into the good girl he knows you can be. But he cannot tolerate the possibility that you do not see him as your salvation.
He leans forward slightly, pressing a delicate kiss to your forehead.
“You are tired, my dear girl.” His voice lowers as he brings his lips to your ear, stroking your face in a dull pattern that seeks to lull you. “You have seen too much today.”
Perhaps you have, and perhaps that is the problem. Perhaps you have seen enough to know that the world is not divided as cleanly as the sermons claimed.
Good and evil, faith and sin, purity and impurity, all tangled in the same wretched roots that have been made to sow war and deceit and violence. All trampled among the feet of soldiers fighting battles they do not have answers to.
Perhaps the Gods are not asking you to choose between the blood in your veins and the prayers in your heart. Perhaps they are asking you to understand why both exist.
And yet no answers come. You do not know what they are looking for. Just as you have not known the answer to anything, only knowing the way your knees scrape the stones when you pray for long hours, and the way that the Seven provide comfort when no one else can.
Somehow the uncertainty frightens you more than the war ever could.
“I need to confess to you, my Lord.”
My Lord. The words sound like pure honey and lavender to his ears, the sweet unease of your voice a gift for him from the Gods themselves. It is what you called him when you were a young little thing, tiny hands clutching onto his doublets, unsure and untaught about the proper rules that a young girl must follow.
It reminds him of when you were good, when you listened to his every word like he was whose name was on your lips every time you knelt and prayed before succumbing to the vulnerabilty of sleep.
“Speak.”
His voice is commanding, shepherding you to a guiding light. To his guiding light.
A shuddering breath leaves your lips, and a tear glides down your cheek from the corner of your eye. Ormund wipes it with his thumb, his touch lingering on the proof of your possible atonement that he may grant you.
“I do not know what I am supposed to be. What you wish me to be.”
The confession is barely audible, so low that if his breath were not mingling with yours, he may have missed it entirely.
In that moment, Ormund does not see you as a symbol, or as a Targaryen. He sees you as a frightened girl pleading before the Seven. Before him. A girl in desperate need of his guidance.
“Dear girl, you are mine.”
The words bring only a small semblance of comfort to you, despite understanding what they mean. You are his possession, his responsibility, his girl.
You are someone that he loves to keep, loves the idea of, and naively, you think that this means he has come to love you.
They are words you have heard before, words that have been uttered when no one else can impede. Words only meant for the two of you to hear. It feels special, somehow, an important secret he has placed his trust in you to keep.
And yet your gaze drops back to the seven-pointed star in your hand, resting upon your chest, of the confliction that still refuses to settle itself inside of you.
"But I belong to the Seven."
Ormund watches you carefully, searching your features for any touch of disobedience.
"And the Seven gave you to me."
You don’t know how to respond. The silence that follows is colder than any winter the North may suffer.
Behind you, Tessarion lets out a faint grunt, a potent reminder of the vileness that Ormund has worked so hard to erase from your very being. The connection of your twin, your other half, that cannot deny the dragon blood that flows through him. The piece of you that Ormund has taught you to deny, to distance yourself from.
His eyes flicker toward the beast with open disdain before returning to you. There is something unsettling in the calm with which he studies your face, as though weighing whether the girl he raised still exists beneath the blood he has spent a lifetime trying to purge.
"Look at me," he says.
You do, without hesitation.
His fingers tighten beneath your chin, leaving no room for you to turn away. The gesture is practiced, almost gentle, but you recognize it for what it is. It is not affection, but direction, a means to instruct your way of being.
Before you can make sense of the look in his eyes, he leans forward.
His lips brush against yours.
The contact is brief. Colder than you could have imagined. It steals the breath from your lungs not because of its tenderness, but because every instinct in your body rebels against the unknown feeling, rebels against your Lord Ormund indulging in weakness, into a dangerous spiral of depravity. You freeze completely, a closed fist against his strong chest, your mind emptying as though the Stranger himself passed a hand over your thoughts.
When he draws back, lips glistening with saliva and new breath filling his lungs, you cannot meet his gaze.
Shame blooms hot beneath your skin, and you feel more stained than the stones covered in the faint red of spilled blood beneath your feet.
Your fingers fly to the seven-pointed star hanging at your throat. The pointed silver bites into your palm as you clutch it desperately, as if the familiar edges might anchor you to something holy.
You silently think of the Mother—of your mother, fleetingly,—and pray for an answer, a means to understand.
Nothing comes, and your mind remains silent, the previous storm settled into an eerie calm.
“My Lord…” you start, but the words you wished to say escape you and shatter into miniscule pieces of uselessness.
Ormund's expression remains composed, almost paternal, almost affectionate, as though nothing improper has occurred. As if he has not made you question your entire livelihood, the true intentions he hid from you in your upbringing.
“Do not look so frightened, my girl,” he says quietly, too intimate for your liking. “You have always sought my guidance. Let us not stray from that now.”
The instinctual feeling of reassurance in your stomach fills you with quiet horror.
His eyes search yours as he lifts your head back to him. He’s looking for your agreement, your submission. A nod.
You nod.
A smirk pulls at his lips as he caresses your face once more.
“Come.” He pulls away, and you curse yourself for chasing after his warmth, the familiarity of his touch. You link your arm into his as he begins walking away.
“Where to?”
His eyes find yours again. “Back to our lodging.” He squeezes your hand that rests on his arm, as if silently anchoring your hold to him. “Your brother needs you.”
You almost ask if it is Daeron that needs you or you that needs Daeron at this moment, but you smartly hold your tongue this time.
Instead you decide to give into your weaknesses, sinking back into the contention that Lord Ormund’s touch brings you, a feeling that you can predict and that you can rely on even if deep down you know you shouldn’t.
Next to you, Ormund smiles as he feels you return back to him, your head resting against his shoulder as he leads you out of the sept, you letting him control your path forward.
His darling girl knows that he will save her from her innate faults. That he will save you from falling into the wickedness that rules over your namesake.
He will continue to show you what you can become. What he can make you.
A girl that he can mold to prove that blood can be overcome from devotion.
A girl that will worship him as one would a God, who would bring her to her knees and cry out for him, for him to grant her salvation.
