Bruce bends you over the Batmobile’s bonnet after a chase, your dress bunched around your waist and your panties shoved aside while he fucks you from behind. The engine has only just been cut, leaving the metal warm beneath your palms and stomach as he holds your hips and drives his cock deep into you.
At first, it makes every thrust feel even dirtier, but it soon becomes uncomfortable. Bruce feels you tense and stops immediately, staying buried while he checks the skin pressed to the bonnet.
“It’s too hot,” he says.
“Don’t stop.”
You rock your hips back, desperate to make him move again.
“Please, Bruce. It feels too fuckin' good.”
He refuses to let the metal burn you, but he does not pull out. One arm wraps around your waist while the other hooks beneath your thigh, and he lifts and turns you without slipping free, pinning your back to the cooler driver’s door. Your legs lock around his waist as he supports your weight, letting him drive up into you and reach even deeper than before.
A small bulge moves low in your stomach. Bruce covers it with his palm and pushes into you again, watching it rise against his hand.
“You feel me here?” he asks.
You can only nod before he resumes, his eyes fixed on the bulge shifting beneath his palm.
“Touch yourself.”
Your hand slips between your bodies and rubs your clit while he fucks you against the door. You cum as you moan his name into his mouth, your pussy clenching so tightly that his pace falters. When you beg him to cum inside, he sinks all the way in and fills you, keeping his palm flat over the bulge as he cums so hard and his whole body shakes against yours..
summary: you're wed to ser gwayne hightower in one last desperate attempt to unite the realm; but when the war tears the two of you apart, you're taken prisoner by his cousin, lord ormund hightower, where the line between duty and desire begins to blur. (12k)
contents: targ!reader (no physical descriptions), love triangle, enemies to lovers, angst, hurt/comfort, forbidden love, infidelity, canon divergence, cw for brief mentions of attempted assault and smut 18+ (MDNI): fem receiving oral, unprotected sex, ormund has a scent kink
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
i. DUTY & HONOR
Your last name was, perhaps, your greatest burden. It was the very walls of your prison; the unseen chain cinched perpetually around your throat. You had inherited the dragon’s blood, it seems, but not the dragon’s freedom — and when Rhaenyra’s fleet sailed across the Narrow Sea to wage war over a throne of swords, it forgot to take you with it. The only home you’d ever known was soon filled with ghosts donned in Hightower green and whispers of your leaving.
You were going to die here. That is a truth you learned long ago. Your only wish was that they’d hurry up and get it over with.
They gave you a husband instead.
Your marriage to Ser Gwayne Hightower was heralded as an act of wisdom, the proof that wounds carved by old grievances could yet be stitched together, with silk ribbons tied around the wrists and a few spoken vows declared before the Sept. It was to be the very bridge that united the green and black. But the bridge burned anyway, and left the two of you behind.
“They wed us to prevent a war that had already begun,” you’d scoffed, already deep into your cups at the feasting table, when Maester Orwyle called the fight to come inevitable.
“No…” Gwayne hummed from beside you, still perfectly temperate, though his blue eyes were heavy with a burden too old for a man of his years. “They wed us so that, when the histories of this moment are written, someone might say that they tried.”
You’d laughed then, loud enough to gain the attention of the rest of the courtiers at the long table — because Ser Gwayne was not entirely wrong, to be sure, but he was far too generous for his own good; generous enough to believe that the effort of your marriage actually meant something in the grand scheme of things.
Gwayne Hightower was a sensible man. He was not outwardly affectionate, maybe, but he was no less kind. There was no great love in your union — not like all the songs and fairytales insist, at least — but there was safety. Security. Stability. His presence often found you like the thick walls of an ancient keep, steadfast against the howling winds of a summer storm. You would find no certainty of your future in war, but being Gwayne’s wife meant, at the very least, that you were still alive today.
That unsaid assurance is perhaps a greater gift than any truly loving marriage could’ve been for you. And, perhaps, it was with that unsaid assurance that you came to admire him, without ever realizing you were doing so — always searching for his face in crowds, waiting every night for the familiar sound of his footsteps to walk outside your chamber doors, constantly watching him from a distance (which has become a most embarrassing habit of yours).
You find him now on the western balcony overlooking Blackwater Bay, where the moon climbs high over shimmering midnight waters. The salty breeze mixes with the scent of damp stone and dying fires from the lantern light glittering in the city below. Gwayne stands alone with his forearms propped on the pale stone balustrade, having exchanged his armor for a forest-green doublet embroidered with winding gold vines. The fading torchlights gild his silken auburn hair, stirred loose by the sea breeze.
You linger just beneath the archway, hidden in the place where the torchlight turns to shadow, studying the slope of his strong shoulders and how they rise and fall with each breath. He looks lonely; lonely enough for your chest to tighten with the want to close the distance between you and slip in beside him. But your feet refuse to move. And whatever affection was warming in your chest before pierces through you like a sword.
“You’re staring.” The suddenness of his voice startles you.
“…You’re supposed to be watching the sea,” you respond, half-shy. He doesn’t look back at you when you emerge finally from the shadows; slippers scuffing the cobblestones, black skirts fluttering at your feet.
“I was,” Gwayne nods.
“Then how could you possibly notice I was standing there?”
He turns to face you then, as you settle on the balcony just beside him, keeping a few feet of careful distance between you like you always did — as if, in your union, an invisible line had been wedged between you and could not be crossed.
The corner of his mouth lifts slowly into a crooked smile. “Because I notice everything about you,” he answers like it’s simple, like he hadn’t just stolen the breath from your lungs.
Heat crawls up the low neckline of your dress, speckling across your cheeks and the very tip of your ears. You turn away, face screwed in a feigned disgust, and busy your hands with an imaginary wrinkle on your sleeve.
“That,” you murmur. “Is a terrifying thought.”
“Well, it ought to terrify you,” Gwayne quips knowingly, bending softly at the waist to fold his arms along the stone railing. “I’ve seen the way you steal the candied slices off of all your lemon cakes just to leave the sponge untouched, you know? Like an utter madwoman.”
“Well…” you huff, face flaring hot at the acknowledgment of being so openly seen by another. “It seems I made the dreadful mistake of marrying the observant man in the Seven Kingdoms.”
“And here I thought that distinction belonged to my cousin,” Gwayne jokes lowly, brows raised to his hairline. “I shall write to Lord Ormund at once and relieve him of the title.”
You laugh quietly through your nose and turn away again. Silence settles comfortably over you once more, filled only by the distant clanging of metal as guards change their shift and the far-off crowing of a caged raven. The night feels impossibly dark, emptier than usual. It feels like an omen of sorts.
“It grows worse, does it not?” you wonder aloud through the breath that catches in your chest, as if you were half scared to even ask.
Gwayne’s thin smile slowly fades. His adam’s apple bobs in his throat. “Aye,” he nods. “I fear it does.”
“I keep… hoping that…” You swallow around the invisible hand tightening around your throat. “That they’ll remember I am your wife before they remember whose blood I carry. I feel it’s the only reason they’ve yet to take my head.”
“Of course, they remember,” he assures you.
“It feels less and less so these days.”
“They’re only frightened—”
“I’m frightened,” you remind him.
The admission lingers between you like the salt water scent hanging in the air. Gwayne studies you for a long moment — he sees the flicker of sincerity flashing across your face right before you turn away from him again, and the way your jaw clenches a second later in regret of saying the words aloud.
He leans an elbow along the parapet to face you fully. And, as if to soothe you, he asks, “If there were no war… No thrones, no dragons—”
“No Hightowers?” you add.
“—If the Stranger himself appeared before you now and offered you another life,” the auburn-haired man continues with a hint of a smile gracing his lips. “What would you do?”
You ponder the question for a moment, eyes zeroed on the navy black horizon ahead as your fingers fidget on the stony barricade. “I should like a farm,” you answer, mouth twitching into an absentminded grin. “Somewhere far away from here. So I could raise chickens—”
“Chickens?” he scoffs a dry laugh, then softens a second later at the sincere look you give him. He swallows hard and nods supportively. “Most ladies would’ve said children, is all…”
“Well, I am not most ladies…” you tell him. “I would have a field of apple trees, and a hundred dogs to protect all my chickens and horses and fluffy cows— you know, the ones that live down in the Reach?”
“Well…” Gwayne croons. “You’ve certainly thought about this, haven’t you?”
“Every day,” you confess. The honesty in your answer strikes him down like a blade; the sorrowful look that heavies your face even more so. The reality of your situation returns to you then, settling over you like gravity’s inevitable weight. You swallow hard before you confess, “I fear they’ll kill me if matters grow worse at Dragonstone.”
“They won’t.”
“You cannot know that.”
“I do,” Gwayne assures you and takes a slow step closer, until the inherent warmth of his skin dulls the bite of the bitter sea wind. He ducks his chin to his chest to chase your gaze, peering down at you with glittering blue eyes. “I swore a vow before gods and men, did I not?”
“So do most men—”
“Well, I am not most men,” he lilts with an air of amusement hanging on the edge of his words. “I actually meant my vows.”
Your eyes soften as they search his face, looking for any hint of hesitation or doubt in his handsome features. You find no uncertainty there; just the maddening, immovable confidence that seems to be stitched into the very fiber of his making.
“If this castle should fall tomorrow…” you whisper to him, eyes narrowing in skepticism. “Or if your family decides that I have become too great a burden to keep here… What happens then?”
“Then I shall stand in the doorway,” he shrugs.
A shocked laugh sputters from your mouth at his boyish conviction. “And if they mean to come through it?”
“Then…” His lips jut softly. “They shall first have to make a corpse of me.”
“You are a valiant knight, Ser Gwayne, but you cannot fight an entire army.”
“Perhaps not,” he replies with a sad sort of smile. “But armies are made of men. And every man who wishes to reach you will first have to face me... As I said… I meant my vows.”
Something in his words strikes a deep sadness within you. No one had ever spoken of your being like it possessed any value worth defending, and now the words come from the very family you were meant to despise.
But even still, for the first time since the ravens brought the tidings of war and the dragons took wing against dragon, you believed him. You believed that, should the whole realm come crashing down around you, Ser Gwayne would likely be the only one left standing at your side when the last stone fell.
And, gods, how stupid you were to do so.
ii. OATHS & ASHES
The news of your husband’s leaving came not from your husband himself.
It came, rather, in whispers at court, slithering through the Red Keep like snakes beneath rushes — passing from Gold Cloak to stable boy to serving girl to scullion. “They say Ser Criston and his knights are marching for Harrenhal on the morrow,” says a thick-accented handmaiden. “Lord Hand means to smoke Daemon from the castle. It’ll be Prince Aemond’s before the next moon, no doubt.”
Your stomach dropped so harshly at the whispers that you nearly retched upon the marble. It was not Gwayne’s leaving that frightened you so, but rather what his absence would represent — he might as well throw you to the hounds himself before he goes, because you were as good as dead with him gone.
Your slippers strike the ancient stone in a frantic rhythm as you turn on your heel to storm back the way you came. The harsh echo of the soles catches the attention of surrounding servants, who flatten themselves against the walls as you hurry suddenly past. Your heartbeat pounds like thunder in your ears, far louder than the bells of the Great Sept that toll the evening hour — the combination of both feels like an ominous funeral knell.
You rush up the winding stone staircase with your crimson skirts gathering in your fists. Gwayne’s chambers sit directly opposite yours, and you find the heavy wooden door is cracked ajar. The hinges screechbeneath your palm when you shove it the rest of the way open without warning. The sight you find on the other side hollows you from the inside out — a travel satchel, laid open along the emerald sheets. Inside, a whetstone, riding gloves, a leather-bound prayer book, a sword belt, a flask.
The careful order of it all feels almost cruel. Chaos, at the very least, would suggest some air of hesitation from the man; a faint pause at leaving you behind. This, however, feels far too final.
Gwayne stands at the head of the bed with his back facing you. His pale hands work with a quiet precision to roll a Hightower-green cloak into his bag. He did not need to turn at the sudden intrusion. He learned the sound of your footsteps long ago.
“I wondered how long it might take,” the man croons distantly. The calmness of his voice, the indifference, sets you entirely aflame.
“Why would you not tell me?” you bite in response.
Gwayne glances over his shoulder at you then. The flickering candlelight turns his hair a more golden shade of Hightower-red, and carves the soft edges of his face out in shadow. He was still every inch the striking knight that the whispers purported him to be — broad as an oak tree, handsome as a saint carved into an altar — but there’s a foreign weariness etched into his features now. It darkens the skin beneath his eyes, turns his gaze a duller shade of icy blue.
“Well, I was going to, of course.”
“When?” The sharpness in your voice could draw blood.
“…Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Your laugh splinters the otherwise silent room, sharper than broken glass. You shut the door behind you with an aggressive hand and close the distance between you, dress skirts billowing wildly at your ankles. “When you ride at dawn? And you meant to tell me when your horses were already saddled?”
“Yes,” Gwayne sighs, lowering the folded doublet into its place. “I thought I might spare you one night’s grief—”
“You’re abandoning me,” you tell him then, as if to translate the man’s words back to himself. You linger at his side, eyes darting wildly over his profile when he fails to meet your gaze. “Just like all the rest of them. You do realize that, right?”
“The king has given orders—”
“Well, it wasn’t the king who stood beside me at Blackwater Bay not even a week ago, was it?” Your voice lowers into a faux-masculine tone, trying and failing to mock him. “If anyone comes for you, I shall stand in the doorway—”
Gwayne scoffs. “Surely, I do not sound like that.”
“—They shall first have to make a corpse of me.”
“Yes… I remember,” he answers through a slow huff of annoyance, stepping back from his travel bag to drag a pair of weary hands down his face. “I was— well into my cups by then, as you well know—”
“Oh, do not cheapen those words now,” you spit, shoving hard at his shoulder. Gwayne’s features twist in offense as his wide eyes glance down at the hand you’d pushed him with, though he doesn’t move an inch. “Don’t dishonor yourself with a coward’s excuse just to make up for the fact that you lied.”
Gwayne’s composure fractures at that. He had spent too much of his life trying to be a good knight, a good man — one that maybe his callous father could be proud of — so he refuses to stomach accusations of otherwise from you.
His icy blue eyes harden into a glacial sort of look, more hurt than truly angry. He lays his cloak into place to face you fully.
“Do you not see that I am leaving to keep the fight from coming here?”
“Do not you see that by leaving me here that I’m as good as dead?” you retort through a jaw clenched tight. “If you do not take me with you, then—”
“Of course I’m not taking you with me!” he scoffs with a crooked smile, like it’s funny to him. “You’d be dead before we made it to the God’s Eye—”
“And I will be dead before this war is won if you leave!” you shout, voice wet and fragile with the unshed tears burning the backs of your eyes. “The fight is already here! The people who wish me dead are in these walls! They pour my wine, they wash my hair, they cook my food, they bow when I walk by and whisper when my back is turned! And if you aren’t here, then…”
You trail off with a ragged breath. Your corset feels suddenly tight against your ribs. You choke back the sob that strangles your throat and blink rapidly to clear the haze of tears blurring at your waterline. You peer up at the man with the sternest gaze you can muster.
“I am… frightened,” you tell him, though your voice cracks into a fragile whisper halfway through.
The anger disappears from Gwayne’s face as quickly as it arrived. His shoulders deflate with a slow huff through his nose as he takes a slow step towards you. His hands release their clenched fists to reach hesitantly for your face. His palms are warm and softly calloused when they cup your cheeks, caressing you with a tenderness he hasn’t shown since your bedding ceremony six or more moons ago.
The quiet half-smile he gives you, then, is weighed down by a palpable sadness.
“To tell you the truth… I have never been more afraid than I am right now,” he confesses in a low murmur, swiping his thumb over the warm apple of your cheek. The softness in his voice threatens to undo you entirely.
“So then don’t go,” you plead in a small voice, grasping at the front of his emerald doublet until the golden vines wrinkle under your grip. “Please.”
“If Harrenhal remains in Rhaenyra’s hold, and if Daemon rallies the Riverland armies, then the war will come here,” Gwayne continues in a painfully steady voice. “I fear I don’t have a choice in the matter.”
“Everyone has a choice,” you tell him, filled with a girlish sort of rage once more. “But, I suppose you’ve already made yours.”
The man meets your scowl with a tired, slightly heartbroken smile. “Please do not make me spend my last night with my wife quarreling with her,” Gwayne jokes quietly, swiping an eyelash from your cheek with the pad of his thumb. “At least leave me with something to hold onto until my return.”
Your tight chest deflates with a slow sigh from your nose. The rage ebbs evenly into grief. “And what shall I have, hm? Considering tonight is very likely my last one alive and all…”
Gwayne laughs. “You are being… catastrophically dramatic.”
Your chest burns with a mixture of rage and desire. He could never possibly understand you, but somehow, he is the only one with the walls of the Keep who ever has. The contrast is dizzying.
“I hate you,” you hear yourself say.
“Perhaps...” Gwayne hums, warm breath fanning across your cheek. “But not nearly as much as you love me.”
Your first instinct is to strike him for the sarcasm in his words; your second is to weep at the truth of them. He kisses you before you can do either.
He ducks down to press his lips to yours in a tender kiss, a mere brushing of your lips. The last time he had done so was beneath the glowing candles of the Sept, following the declaration of your wedding vows. But that was an obligation, a political victory of sorts.
This kiss is far sweeter in comparison. You feel the man heavying against you as he falls deeper into your touch. He opens your mouth with his and flicks the pad of his tongue against yours, like velvet brushing velvet. Your hands tremble as they leave the chest of his doublet to rake through his auburn locks, like silk between your fingers. You sigh against his open mouth at the taste of him — like wine and mint and oranges — sweet enough to get drunk on.
It takes you a long moment to realize his hands have snaked around your waist accordingly. You don’t realize his deft fingers are loosening the tie in your corset until the discomfort in your ribs disappears entirely. Your body acts before your mind, and your arms slither from their sleeves to curl once more around Gwayne’s broad shoulders.
The man folds the top of your dress down until your bare chest is revealed to him. A grumbled moan sounds in the back of his throat as he pulls you back into him with two wide palms along your bare back, pressing your breasts flush against his chest. He thinks, if he concentrated hard enough, he could feel the steady thundering of your heart like this.
“Gwayne—” you whisper against his mouth when you feel something hardening against your hip. Your hands drop from his hair to slide between your bodies, headed for the tie in his trousers to release the stiffness growing there.
He twists you round in the meanwhile, shoes scuffing the cobbles, until the bend of your knees meets the edge of the mattress behind you. He lays you down without once taking his mouth off of yours, with one wide palm splayed along your ribcage and his other cradling the back of your neck.
He pulls off of you with a quiet smack to catch his breath. A small whimper sounds in the back of your throat when his warm body leaves yours, rising to reach down for your skirts. Your bare chest heaves as you sit up on your elbows to watch him fumble with your dress. “Gods above, how many skirts are you wearing?” you hear him complain under his breath. “I’ve faced hedge knights with fewer defenses than this.”
You giggle when he finally pushes the layers of your dress up to your hips. Your thighs spread on instinct, exposing yourself to him. Gwayne’s mouth waters at the sight of your silken folds, already glittering in anticipation. Your chest tightens when he falls to his knees before you.
“What are you doing?” you ask on bated breath.
Gwayne flashes you a love-drunk grin and a pair of glassy blue eyes. His warm palms smooth along the velvety skin of your inner thighs to spread them further. “Call it a knight’s act of service, shall we?” he quips.
His auburn head disappears beneath your bunched-up skirts a second later. Your face twists momentarily in confusion before you feel his tongue slotting in the silk folds of your cunt. He licks a fat stripe up the length of it, until his tongue finds something that makes your hips twitch despite yourself. His mouth closes around the sensitive button, suckling at it with a grumbled moan in the back of his throat.
Your head tips back at the feeling. Your lips part as if to moan, but the electric shock in the pit of your stomach knocks all the available air from your lungs. You feel him laughing against you when your thighs clench suddenly around his head, tighter than you realize.
Gwayne pulls off of you with a quick smacking sound. He wears your slick down to his chin as he flashes you a teasing, glassy-eyed look. “I’d quite like to keep my head, dear wife—”
You say nothing in response to his quip. You just dart a head to the crown of his skull and shove his face back between your thighs.
Gwayne complies without complaint, lapping at the honey you leak for him, until the wet sounds of his mouth fill the quiet chambers. You rock your hips against his face, bracing yourself with the auburn locks you clench in your fist.
His nose nudges the swollen bud that makes you keen, right before he takes it in his mouth again. Your skin buzzes at the foreign feeling.
“Gwayne—” you gasp. A tight feeling settles deep in your stomach, like a fraying knot about to snap. Your back arches off the mattress. Your hand tightens in his hair. Your features screw in a pain look, half-scared at the pleasure welling within you. “I can’t—”
“Mm…” he just keeps moaning against you, letting the vibrations deepen your pleasure. His wide hands smooth up and down your outer thighs when they tremble on either side of his head, clenching around him as your orgasm hits you with a pleasured whine. He laps up every ounce of honey you leak for him, and sighs hard through his nose at the salty-sweet taste of you.
Only when your legs grow finally lax around his jaw does he pull back from your thighs. A smile curls lazily at his rosier, more swollen mouth. The bottom half of his face glitters in the candlelight with a mixture of saliva and cum — you lift your head in time to watch him wipe his mouth with the back of his hand.
“If this truly is my final night alive…” you say through panted breaths, eyes still wide from the shock of your simmering pleasure. “I feel I could finally die a happy woman.”
“I’m glad I could be of service, princess…” Gwayne smiles lazily, grimacing slightly at the ache in his knees as he rises from the unforgiving cobbles. He leans down to lay his warmth back over you. You stop him with a firm hand on his chest.
“I want to be on top this time,” you confess in a breathless whisper, eyes darting back and forth between his.
Gwayne’s brows raise slowly in shock at your sudden display of dominance. The corner of his lip twitches into a smile the same way his cock twitches in his boxers. He nods until the words catch up to him. “As you wish…”
iii. CROWNS & CAGES
You did not weep when they came for you, scarcely a fortnight after your lord husband’s leaving.
Gwayne was gone by first light, perhaps already a league or more away before you stirred awake that morning to the chill of an empty bed. He parted with nothing but a folded scrap of parchment resting where his head had been the night before. In his scrawled handwriting, half-smudged from where his wrist had dragged the ink in haste, he wrote: “Write to me. Don’t die. I’ll build the form for you myself.”
You keep the note tucked safely inside the chest of your corset now, folded so many times that the edges have already begun to soften. You keep it close to your heart like a holy relic, or perhaps, a threat to whatever unlucky son of a bitch kills you first — something to discover on your corpse after they slit your throat, so they’ll know who to answer to upon your husband’s return.
Eventually, the servants ceased asking whether you needed anything, and all your meals came cold. Conversations ceased the moment you entered a room, and doors slammed shut before you could reach them. And then, when word spread that a wild dragon had taken wing not far from here, all eyes of suspicion turned to you — to whom a dragon had never belonged, though the blood in your veins wearied the courtiers all the same. Rhaenyra had already added three new riders to her fleet; she certainly did not need another.
You were no longer a bride, but a prisoner in pretty gowns — it was the Queen Dowager, and your sister by law, who confirmed as much to you.
“I had hoped…” Alicent started slowly, bathed half in sunshine and half in shadow from where she stood before the window in your quarters, watching the distant storm clouds blow in over Blackwater. “That I might never have to ask this of you.”
Her auburn curls swept over her pale shoulder when she turned to face you. Something heavy sat in her round green eyes, as if she wanted you to finish the rest of it for her. But you remained as stoic and silent as ever from where you sat at the small dining table just across from her. Your hands wrung into knots over your skirts, hidden beneath the surface, as you waited for the words of your fate to fall from her lips.
“The council believes that— Should the opportunity present itself, you would attempt to reach the wild beast. The Cannibal, I believe it’s called,” Alicent said. “And through him, Rhaenyra.”
“So…” You sighed, making no attempt to argue the subject. It did not matter whether or not it was true; the possibility was enough to make you a criminal. “The Black Cells, then?”
“No,” Alicent shook her head, half-offended by the suggestion. “Of course not. My cousin, Lord Ormund, he commands the Hightower host. He has agreed to keep you under his… protection for the time being.”
“Protection?” you echoed through a scoff. The word tasted foreign and bitter in your mouth. “What a pleasant name for captivity.”
Alicent’s face flickered with a mother’s sort of sympathy. Her hands wrang together beneath the draping sleeves of her emerald dress.“You will be treated with every courtesy your station deserves, I assure you.”
“If your council means to bargain with me, Your Grace…” you started with a sad smile. “They mistake me for something worth bartering for. Rhaenyra already abandoned e— keeping me hostage will not make her respond to your offered terms.”
“Even still… You would be far safer there than you would be here, whether or not you believe that’s true,” Alicent said. “I know what my brother would wish of me. And Gwayne would never forgive me if I didn’t do everything I could to keep you safe.”
The long journey south smells of wet earth and horse dung. By the time you reach the Hightower encampment — which sprawls across the rolling fields like a second city — your fine silk gown has long surrendered to the dust of the road, and your hands now bear the tenderness of a week spent in the saddle.
Your broad-shouldered escort guides you through the avenue of canvas tents billowing wildly beneath snapping green banners. The air smells of woodsmoke, cooked venison, and salty sweat — the soft breeze carries with it the sound of laughter, barking hounds, clanking chainmail, and shouted commands.
A pair of guards draw back the heavy canvas of the biggest pavilion in the camp. “My lord,” one says to announce your arrival inside, right before the entrance flap closes heavily behind you.
Inside, candles burn despite the lingering daylight, filling the enclosed tent with the smell of beeswax and parchment from the large map covering the long oak table. Pieces carved from ivory and oak mark castles and armies across the whole of Westeros, waiting to be won or maybe burned.
A strange man stands over them with his broad hands planted along the edge, visibly built beneath his ornately decorated armor, and standing several inches taller than the rest of the knights in the room.
Lord Ormund was not pretty like Gwayne, but he was his own kind of handsome, made of sharp edges and strong features. His Hightower-auburn curls are less vivid in color and sheared short. He has his family’s pair of striking blue eyes, too, which feel a little like they’re piercing you when he glances up from his map.
“Leave us,” he commands his guards in a low, melodic voice, keeping his eyes on you as his knights filter out of the tent. Their armor clatters faintly as they go. The man doesn’t say another word until they’re gone.
“So…” he hums, one corner of his mouth lifting upwards. “The infamous dragon bride.”
Your brows bounce at the title. It feels like another chain around your neck. “I suppose I’ve been called worse…” you sigh, studying him with the same curiosity. “You must be Lord Ormund.”
“I must,” the man nods as he rounds the war table at an unhurried pace.
His boots sink into the woven rungs laid across the hard earth with each step. He towers several inches over your head when he plants himself in front of you. He smells of steel and sweat and strongly of incense.
“I expected someone… older.”
His brows raise in amusement. “And here I expected someone taller.”
“Well,” you deadpan, eyes narrowing up at him as your hands clasp behind your back. “I’m sorry for disappointing you, Ser.”
“Oh, I’ve endured far worse disappointments, my lady, I assure you.” A ghost of a smile graces his pink lips as his eyes soften slightly around the edges. “I give you my word. While you remain beneath my banners, no harm will come to you.”
You sigh hard through your nose. “Yes… People keep promising me that.”
“I’m sure they have… But I intend to honor it.” The certainty of the man’s words unsettles you. It’s strange, you find, to be looked at like you were something worth protecting. “And if you require anything— anything at all. You need only ask.”
You nod slowly with a deep exhale, considering the offer. “A quill,” you conclude firmly.
Ormund blinks. “A… A quill?”
“Yes,” you say. “And parchment.”
“For… What purpose?” he laughs.
You glance over your shoulder towards the tent’s fluttering entrance, where the last light of the early evening burns gold against a sea of green banners. You wonder, briefly, how many soldiers outside this pavilion would celebrate if they found you dead on the morrow — how many would mourn, how many would care enough to do anything at all.
You think, perhaps, that in the whole of the Seven Kingdoms, there is only one person who would weep for you. And he was a hundred leagues away.
“So that I may write to my lord husband,” you answer finally. “And tell him that I was right… And that he still owes me a farm.”
Lord Ormund allows you to write to Gwayne that night, and every seventh day after. It was the only thing you could look forward to, since there was little else to do at camp. He had been gracious enough to give you your own pavilion at the edge of the command encampment, close enough for the sentries to watch but far enough away to force you into solitude.
It was clean and moderately comfortable — with a narrow cot draped in a single wool blanket, a traveling chest for the few dresses you were allowed to bring, a wash basin, and a small writing table tucked beneath the only slit in the canvas that permitted daylight. Inside smelled of candle wax, pressed linen, and lavender soap.
Outside smelled of war — of pressed metal from the blacksmiths, of men cursing over burnt porridge, of stableboys tending to horses who fouled the earth faster than they could shovel it. It was cruel, how the world went on while you could go scarcely a step without an escort. Eventually, you became accustomed to feeling a hundred eyes upon your back — most curious, others suspicious, some outright hateful.
The letters you wrote to Gwayne, at least, gave you the illusion of escape. You tended to each with careful precision — melting the wax, stamping it shut, then tying it off with a ribbon — and watched from afar as one of Ormund’s knights carried them toward the rookery. It was not until the twentieth day at camp, when you wandered further than you were typically allowed, that you noticed that none of your messages had been sent. You watched the knight toss the letter into the fire, flinching slightly when the flames sparked beneath the fresh kindling.
It had been four days since then.
And you haven’t eaten once in protest.
It took roughly half that time for Lord Ormund’s patience to run thin. He’s suffered the endless whispers of your attempts to starve to death with an increasing displeasure. He commands thousands of knights beneath his banners, serves as the leader of his house with grace, and yet — he still cannot seem to manage to command one lady to supper. It was absurd. Humiliating. And worse, it invited doubt. What army will follow a man whom they believe incapable of governing his own household?
On the fifth evening, after your breakfast tray went untouched that morning, Ormund opts to bring you your supper himself. He marches through the crowded camp with his jaw clenched tight like a soldier headed into battle. His chainmail clanks with every step. Avoiding the stares he gets from surrounding knights feels borderline impossible.
He throws open the entrance of your tent without ceremony. The canvas snaps sharply beneath his aggressive hand as he ducks suddenly underneath it. The light of the golden evening pours suddenly inside around his towering silhouette before the flap falls shut behind him once more, trapping the two of you inside.
There, he finds you lying on your cot, staring upward at the slit in the pavilion where one lonely shaft of sunlight spills through. Your fingers drift lazily through the rays, as if you were trying to catch it somehow.
Your head snaps suddenly to the side at the sudden intrusion — your hair is loose and unkempt, because no one ever taught you how to do it yourself, and all of your dresses are now wrinkled and stained with dirt. The thin white nightgown you wear makes you look more sunken, more lifeless.
Ormund grasps your tray with one hand and reaches for your small writing desk with the other. He lectures you through the distant pang of sympathy in his chest.
“I have commanded men twice your size—” His boots are heavy on the thin rug as he carries the desk over to you. “I have started sieges, I have broken sieges. And yet—” He slams the table in front of you with a dull thump. You try not to cower under the icy blue glare he gives you. “I cannot seem to persuade one prisoner— a lady, no less— to eat her supper. And I confess, it does very little for confidence in my command. So eat.”
Ormund slams the tray onto the desk. The broth steaming in a small wooden bowl sloshes over. Next to it, strips of leftover venison and a broken loaf of stale bread. Your empty stomach twists painfully with a mixture of nausea and hunger.
“So…” you start lowly, clearing your throat when your voice comes gravelly. You rise from your supine position on weak limbs. The fabric of your nightgown rides up your thighs as you turn to place your bare feet on the ground — eyes dull when you peer up at the man from beneath your lashes. “You admit it, then? That I am your prisoner here?”
His jaw clenches tight. His nostrils flare through a sharp breath. He no longer finds amusement in your banter. “Your status here depends entirely on your pliancy,” he spits, ripping off a piece of the stale loaf. “Now eat.”
You flinch when his fist rears suddenly towards your face, holding the broken bread just in front of your mouth. You blink wildly up at him, features screwed in offense. “…Excuse me?”
“Eat.”
You swat his hand away; it moves scarcely an inch. “I’m not a child—”
“Well, at present, you are behaving remarkably like one,” Ormund argues through a tight jaw. “Now open your mouth.”
You respond with only a glare.
Fury rages through the man’s chest. He wishes wordlessly for the strength of the Mother and the Warrior engraved upon his armor as he offers bitterly, “Or shall I make you?”
You spend a long moment staring up at him with eyes cold enough to freeze wine. You hold his gaze as your mouth parts slowly to accept the chunk of bread he pinches between his thumb and forefinger. He places it upon your tongue with a surprising gentleness, considering the wrath he’d had moments ago.
“Chew,” he commands, glaring down the bridge of his nose at you. Your jaw moves slowly. Ormund nods in approval. “Swallow.”
Your heart lurches into your throat at his order. But you do as you’re told, throat bobbing as the piece of bread goes down. Another piece follows soon after; this time, your lips part before he asks you to do so. Relief crosses over his strong features as he places the food onto your tongue. His shoulders sag with the exhaled breath that it feels like he’s been holding for days.
He looks almost worried for you; relieved, almost, to have fed you. A warm, foreign feeling settles in your chest accordingly.
“I am trying… Very hard to be kind to you,” Ormund confesses, scarred hands twitching at his sides. “So I cannot, for the life of me, understand why you insist on making this so difficult.”
“My letters,” you tell him. “Why aren’t they being sent?”
“The rookery master feared they could be intercepted,” he answers plainly. “I could not risk one falling into enemy hands. I… meant to tell you.”
“When?” you spit.
“When I found a safer way to deliver them.”
A bitter laugh sputters from your mouth. “What curious men you Hightowers are,” you quip with narrowed eyes. “So fond of deciding what sorrows I ought to be spared.”
His brows lower in confusion. “Is that not a kindness?”
His answer lingers between you for several long moments. There was no cleverness in his words, only an honesty that strikes you like a fist to the stomach.
“Aye. I suppose it is,” you answer, clearing your throat when your voice catches.
A strange emotion strangles you, and burns at the back of your eyes as you look down at your dress. Your dull nails pick at a smudge of mud on the fabric that will likely never come off. An embarrassed sort of laugh tumbles from your mouth.
“Perhaps I… I spent so long waiting for someone to hurt me that I no longer remember what kindness is supposed to feel like.”
Ormund nods through a slow exhale from his nose. He glances to the side and walks the short distance to the stool that the table had knocked over in his rage. Your wet eyes follow his form as he walks away and then back to you, setting the chair on the other side of the table. You can feel the warmth radiating from his body, even in the scarce distance between you.
“I’ll admit— A man spends enough time at war, they start to forget that mornings are not meant to begin with fear,” he says, reaching again for the loaf of bread, but this time breaking it in half. “I forget myself, at times, but… if you’ll allow me… I’d very much like to prove to you that I can be kind.”
Your weary features soften around the edges. “Well, I don’t have much of a choice in the matter, do I?” you tell him, with a more sincere smile hinting at the corners of your lips. “I am your prisoner, after all.”
“So you keep insisting,” Ormund quips with his own quiet grin. “But I should rather you thought of yourself as my… responsibility.”
Your heart stumbles a beat. Responsibility felt much safer than hostage, or bargaining piece, or burden. It felt, you’ll admit, like a kindness.
iv. SILK & SWORDS
You fall into a steady routine at the Hightower encampment by the fifth moon of your captivity.
Each morning arrives with the same mournful groan of a warhorn that rolls across the grass green hills before the sun has even broken the horizon. You wake to the distant ringing of hammers against anvils, hounds barking for gristles off the cookfires, and knights shouting for their squires. The first hours were reserved for armorers; the afternoons for drilling knights whose swords cracked together until you could feel them ringing in your skull; and the evenings for songs, laughter, and ale.
Your days, however, remained painfully empty.
Lord Ormund had been kind enough to provide you with greater comforts as the weeks went by — cushioned pillows and heavier woolen blankets for when the nights got colder; sprigs of lavender for your bedside to keep out the stench of man; more parchment and colored ink to busy your hands when the days were especially long. And all of them were especially long. He’d given you his leather-bound prayer book, too, and even though you were not an entirely pious woman, you’d read through it enough times to recite each passage from memory.
The camp has since grown accustomed to your being there, ever since Ormund slackened his metaphorical leash on you — “You’ve had more than ample opportunity to run,” he’d said beneath the scratching of his quill. “Besides, where exactly would you go? No one else would take you.” No one bats an eye when you leave your tent, after three days of relentless rain had finally broken, to pick fresh berries from the brushes along the treeline.
Your crimson silk dress scrubs the dewy evening grass as you collect wild raspberries into a small wooden bowl. The juices stain your fingertips the color of red wine. The sweet scent mixes with the smell of wet earth and mint leaves crushed beneath your slippers. You bend at the waist to parse through tangled brambles, searching for the ripest berries. For the first time in months — years, maybe — you feel almost peaceful.
“Is that a love letter—?”
The voice cuts through the quiet like a blade. Your heart lurches into your throat as you jerk to full height again. The small bowl of berries slips from your grasp and rolls through the wet clover like so many drops of scattered blood. Behind you, you find a vaguely familiar hedgeknight, scarcely ten paces away — made of broad shoulders, broken teeth, and greasy hair that falls to his shoulders.
It takes you an embarrassingly long moment to catch your breath.
“I’m sorry,” you say through a tightening chest. “You… You startled me.”
“Did I?” he hums gruffly, in a voice that borders on amusement.
You cower into the hedgerow behind you as he approaches you, reaching you quickly on much longer limbs. He looms close enough for you to smell the sweat and ale and horse piss on his chainmail, close enough for you to lift your chin to meet his gaze.
His eyes never quite reach yours. They linger, instead, on your chest. “Letter from your lord husband, is it?” he asks, motioning with his head.
Your chin ducks to follow his eyes, where the rough edges of parchment nestled against your chest peek out from your corset. Your hands lift to cover it instinctively. “Yes. It’s a… a letter. From home.”
“Mind if I take a look at it?” he asks, taking another daring step closer. You wince at the sour smell of him. “What does Ser Gwayne write his pretty wife, hm?”
“Please, don’t—”
His hand shoots out. Thick, filthy fingers hook beneath the neckline of your gown, hard enough to stretch the fine silk with an audible crack. You react on pure instinct accordingly, lifting your own hand to strike him before your mind could forbid it.
The sound of your palm colliding with his bearded jaw cracks through the hedgerow like a whip.
His head turns slightly under the blow.
Your breath catches in surprise at yourself.
The back of his hand catches you across the cheek before you can blink. A red-hot pain explodes from your ear to your jaw as your world lurches suddenly sideways. You hit the unforgiving earth below with a huff when the air rushes from your lungs. Coppery blood pools thick on your tongue from where your teeth had cut the inside of your cheek.
“You little cunt—” you hear the man say, right before he catches a fistful of your skirts to pull you back towards him. The fabric screams beneath his hand. The cool evening air strikes your legs all at once when the silk rips up to your thighs.
You kick wildly at the man. Your slipper strikes uselessly against his shoulder. Your fingernails claw muddy furrows through the soaked earth.
“I am— Gwayne Hightower’s wife—” You tell him through panted, fearful breaths. He flips you onto your back by your ankle. Your foot burns beneath his grip. Your head strikes the soaked earth. Through the lack of air in your lungs, you heave, “He will have your head for this—”
“Oh, will he?” the hedge knight laughs with a brown-tooth grin. “‘Cause he ain’t here—”
The hand not holding your squirming ankle reaches for the tie in his trousers.
Then, in a blink, steel sings with a clean rasping sound. Warm blood splashes from your right jaw up to your left temple. For a flicker of a moment, you can’t quite comprehend why — not until the hedge knight kneels suddenly before you, with open eyes that have gone strangely distant. He topples suddenly sideways with his neck bent at an awkward angle, head half cut off and spouting bright red blood.
You blink wildly through the haze of death until you find Ormund standing just behind the corpse, chest rising and falling beneath his heavy armor. His longsword drips crimson onto the grass where your raspberries lie.
Sweat from the long day clings to his dark curls, wetting them against his temples and forehead. Flecks of blood dot his jaw like crimson stars. His blue eyes burn with something fierce, but his voice remains remarkably soft.
“My lady…”
You open your mouth to answer him, but nothing comes out.
Only then do you notice how violently your body is shaking, buzzing with a white-hot fear, as you scan the scene surrounding you — your torn skirts, the blood staining your chest, the dead body at your feet. You stare at the hedge knight’s gushing throat without fully understanding the sight of it.
Ormund reaches you in three long strides. He sheaths his sword without a word before dropping carefully to one knee. He slides one arm under your leg and his other behind your back, hoisting you upward with a pair of strong arms. The scent of blood and earth gives way to the smell of leather, incense, and bathing oils as he cradles you to the broad wall of his chest.
Your trembling hands clench a fistful of the green velvet cape draped along his shoulder.
“You’re safe, my lady,” Ormund murmurs as he carries you back to camp. “You’re safe.”
Your face finds the hollow space between his jaw and collarbone. You’re not entirely sure if you believe the words he speaks, but you know now that you do believe in the man who speaks them.
v. SANCTUARY & SIN
The weeks that followed could be divided into two — the days before the attack and all the days after.
For a time, you startled far too easily. A dropped shield sent you into a panic. A knight laughing too loudly made your pulse skyrocket. And if a pair of bootsteps walked too closely behind you, you lost all your breath before your mind had time to remind your body that no one meant you any harm.
Nights proved harder still. You dreamt of nothing but rough hands and torn silk and crushed berries that smelled so sweet the thought alone made you sick. One moment you were suffocating beneath the sweaty body of a hedge knight, and the next, your canvas door was thrown open while you were choking on a scream.
Ormund stood silhouetted before you, barefoot, with a sword in his naked hand. He’d reached you with haste, after having your pavilion packed up and pitched again not quite twenty paces from his following the attack — “It’ll be easier that way,” he assured you. “If another fool decides to trouble you, I’d rather not have to cross half of Westeros to remove his head.”
His curls were flattened from slumber, his linen shirt unlaced to reveal his broad chest heaving with panic. His sleep-swollen eyes swept every corner of the empty pavilion before they settled finally on you. His steel lowered as he crossed the tent to settle beside you, smoothing a hand up and down your back despite the way your nightgown clung uncomfortably to your sweaty skin.
“We’ll move your bed into my tent,” he’d said. “You’ll sleep there for the time being.”
It was concern disguised as a command. One you could not refuse if you wanted to.
Ormund’s tent was large enough to pass for a modest hall — maps and banners occupied one half, while the other had become something half-resembling living quarters. Your smaller cot was placed opposite his beneath the same sloping canvas roof, separated by little more than a table crowded with candles and books. You would wake occasionally to find Ormund already seated beside the brazier in nothing but a linen shirt, reading dispatches by firelight while occasionally glancing over to see whether you were sleeping soundly.
You pretended that you were, if only to keep on watching him.
But then the late summer storms arrived; and the unforgiving deluge washed over the camp with enough violence to shake the pavilion you slept beneath. Thunder cracked like an explosion closely overhead, and you woke with another frightened gasp before remembering where you were.
Ormund was already awake, as if stirred in knowing that you were scared.
“If you’re frightened…” he murmured from across the darkness. A flash of lightning revealed his blanketed body, and his face half-smushed into his pillow. “I imagine my bed could accommodate two people without either touching the other."
You crossed the space between your cots and climbed beneath his blankets without another word.
You haven’t left his bed since.
The days soon settle into something almost resembling normalcy. Ormund, you find, possesses an absurd fondness for taking care of you — always making sure that you’ve eaten breakfast before he’s started his mornings; delivering his wool blankets to you before you can complain that you’re cold, warming your hands between his calloused palms when he does so; and escorting you through camp with a protective hand splayed along the small of your back.
No one ever cared for you with such deliberate attention before — even Gwayne, as gentle as he was, could only love you from a respectful distance before the war had sent him off. Your husband washed away into memory, into the note left abandoned somewhere on the forest floor.
You did not know whether he still rode beneath banners or if his corpse had been picked clean by crows. You did know, at the very least, that Ormund was here — he was there in the mornings when you woke and each night when old fears crept back into your skin. It was a dangerous thing, you soon realized, to mistake safety for love. Or more dangerous still, to suspect that the two were any different at all.
You watch from Ormund’s bed — freshly bathed beneath your thin ivory slip, with your legs kicking lazily from where you lie on your stomach — as his squire removes pieces of his armor. A sketchbook lies open before you, alongside a collection of colored inks.
“This is what you get for tightening the straps so much,” Ormund hums as Daeron struggles with the final buckle across the man’s broad shoulders.
“Well, you’d like them to remain attached, wouldn’t you?” the boy quips back.
The man smiles despite himself. “You complain more than any squire I've ever met, do you know that?”
“I learned everything from you, did I not?”
When the final piece of armor comes finally free, Ormund dismisses the boy back to his tent. The entrance cover opens and shuts behind the boy, letting in a rush of cool evening air before it closes again. Silence returns to the expansive pavilion, filled only by the crackling of burning candles.
Ormund, left only in his loose dark breeches and a linen undertunic, walks to the round table to pour himself a goblet of wine. “What is occupying you so completely over there?”
“I’m hard at work,” you answer vaguely.
“So I see.” He eyes you carefully over the glugging of the flagon. A faint, unreadable flicker crosses his face. “Writing to Gwayne, are you?”
“No,” you sigh. “I’m drawing you.”
You set the quill into the inkpot and lift the sketchbook to face the man with a girlish grin, which seems to be becoming more and more frequent as the days go by. Ormund’s light eyes squint to study the page. It was unmistakably him drawn in the ink, though perhaps only if one was exceedingly charitable. The proportions are all wrong: his nose is too large, his mouth is too small, one eye sits higher than the other, and he’s missing his left brow.
His eyes flick to meet yours again. “…Is that intended to be me?” he asks, motioning with the goblet in his fist.
“Of course,” you shrug like it’s obvious.
“Well,” he sighs, raising the cup to his mouth. “I had no idea that I resembled that of a rotting turnip.”
You gasp in faux-offense that’s soon overcome by a fit of laughter. “It is not that bad!”
“My lady…” Ormund huffs sympathetically, abandoning his ale to saunter slowly towards the bed. “This could be considered treason— I should confiscate this immediately."
“You shall do no such thing,” you tease.
“Oh really?” he croons, brows raised in amusement.
He lunges for you in an instant. You jerk back onto your haunches with a squeal, cradling the sketchbook to your chest. You dodge each of his attempts to take it with a girlish gracelessness, laughing harder with each of his failed attempts. Ormund smiles at the sound without realizing it, dropping the table of ink to the rug below before clambering onto the bed to follow you.
One final tug sends the book flying across the bed, and the two of you go to reach for it at the same time. The momentum carries you forward until you land clumsily against his chest, knocking the breath out of him as his back hits the mattress, with you squarely on top of him.
It takes you a long moment to realize your precarious position — your chest brushing his beneath your thin slip, noses nearly touching, breaths nearly entwining. Your laughter fades first, but you still do not move. Ormund’s smile flickers, but his hands lift to rest lightly along the arms you use to prop up your weight on top of him.
You can feel each of his warm breaths fan against your chin. You could get drunk on the ale stained on his mouth from the proximity between you alone. Closer by an inch or two and you would taste it on his lips.
“We ought not,” Ormund murmurs lowly, as if he can read your mind.
“Ought what?”
“This,” he answers. His blue eyes flick briefly in the space separating your mouths. “You are another man’s wife. My cousin’s wife.”
You swallow hard at the mention of Gwayne. It had been far easier to forget him, in truth. “I have not seen my husband in nearly a year,” you reply in a small voice. “I do not even know whether he yet lives…”
Pain etches in Ormund's strong features before disappearing behind his usual practiced restraint. His hands tremble with the urge to smooth away the frown between your brows, but he does not allow himself the satisfaction.
“I swore on oath to protect you,” he says. “To serve you in my cousin’s absence.”
You, without possessing a similar self-control, lift a hand to brush a wild curl from his temple. “And do you intend to keep that promise, Lord Ormund?”
He nods against the mattress. “Of course I do.”
“Okay then…” you hum as a smile tugs slowly at one corner of your mouth. “Then serve me.”
You duck down to close the distance between you without a second thought. The tip of your nose grazes the strong bridge of his as you press your lips to his chapped ones, nothing more than an experimental brushing of your mouths. You go to pull away just as quickly as you came, and whatever restraint Ormund had had before vanishes in an instant.
He lifts his head from the tousled blankets to chase your mouth, cradling your neck with a wide hide to draw you back into him again. The second kiss lands with none of the careful uncertainty of the first. This one is slower, deeper, and far more languid. His tongue licks into your mouth, tasting of wine and the mint leaves he always chews after supper. You sigh through your nose to savor it, melting further into his chest.
Your mouths move together with an awkward sort of tenderness, learning one another by the second. Ormund kisses you far rougher than Gwayne ever did — it’s all tongue and teeth and spit, as if he were committing the taste of you to memory: the meat from your supper, the berry from your tea; the guilt from your broken vows, the relief of being found after believing yourself long abandoned.
Your breath catches in your throat when Ormund suddenly takes charge, urging you onto your back with his mouth still on yours. He pulls off you with a quiet smack, wearing your spit on his rosy mouth like gloss.
“Do you want me to stop?” he asks with heavy eyes that dart back and forth between your glassy ones.
You shake your head against the cushions beneath you, features twisting with a pained look at the thought of stopping now.
“Do you understand what will follow? What… vows both of us will be breaking?”
Your eyes glisten as they dance between his blue ones. “The war broke those vows,” you tell him, half-breathless. “Not us.”
Ormund nods wordlessly for a moment, pleased with your answer. “Then open,” he says.
Your mouth parts for him on instinct. He lifts his middle and pointer finger to your lips, wetting them on your tongue, before sliding them in between your bodies. His hand disappears beneath the skirt of your slip. Your head tips back when you feel his fingertips sliding between your velvety folds, brushing your clit before sinking into your waiting cunt.
Your sigh fills the quiet tent, accompanied by the low groan in the back of Ormund’s throat.
“You’re softer than I imagined…” he confesses, almost to himself.
“Imagining me a lot, are you?” you tease on bated breath.
“Yes,” he answers without missing a beat. “I dreamt of how your cunt would wrap around me… of how you’d soak the sheets… of what noise you’d make when I moved my fingers like this—”
A whine catches in your throat when he crooks his fingers just so, nestling the fatty part of his palm flat against your clit. Your hips buck into his hand despite yourself. Your exhaled whine is half-drowned beneath his breathy chuckle.
“There it is…” he praises.
“Fuck me,” you plead, face crumpling under the weight of your need. One hand twists in his hair, while your other fists in his thin white tunic to keep him close. You only vaguely realize how little you sound like yourself as you plead: “I need it so bad, Ormund, please, fuck me—”
The man goes dizzy at the sound of your begging, as if he brought you into his camp, his tent, his bed, to do anything other than serve you.
His fingers glitter with your slick when he drags them out of your cunt. He brings them to his nose, nostrils flaring slightly as he inhales the scent of your musk upon them. You whine at the sight of it — half-disgusted, half-intrigued. You watch with heavy eyes when he brings the same hand into his trousers to fist his half-hard cock fully stiff for you.
It’s a mess of tangled limbs for a moment, as you drag his shirt gracefully from his torso while he attempts to free himself from his breeches. He’s made of tanned skin, toned muscles, and a dusting of auburn hair from his sternum to his stomach. It grows more dense at the root of his cock — which is not quite as long as Gwayne’s, but thicker still and adorned with more prominent veins.
Ormund works himself hard with his fist; the reddened head of his cock leaks pearly drops every time his hand moves upwards. Your mouth waters for a taste. You let him smear it along the folds of your cunt instead.
You curl your arms under his broad arms to splay your hands along his shoulder blades. They flex slightly under your touch as he leans down over you. You tense on instinct when he pierces you with the tip of his cock. “Shh, shh, shh,” he soothes lowly, fighting back his own grunt as you spread so perfectly around him.
He sinks slowly into you, slow enough for you to feel every vein and ridge of his cock as he mounts you until his hips are flush with yours. Your mouth parts. He ducks down to kiss you before a moan tumbles out, swallowing the pretty sound with his mouth.
He stays still against you for several long, agonizing moments. Your hips buck against his in anticipation. “Please move,” you whine, digging crescent shapes into his shoulders with your nails. “I need you so much, please—”
Ormund’s jaw clenches tight. “Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I’ve been inside another woman?”
Your face screws. “I’d rather not hear about your previous exploits at the moment—”
“Don’t,” Ormund spits, shuddering on top of you when you roll your hips into his once more. He grasps your thigh hard enough to dig bruises into the plush skin with the hand not holding himself up beside your head. His light eyes turn glacial in an instant, darting wildly between both of yours. “I won’t… I won’t last…” he confesses.
Your eyes soften around the edges with a faux innocence. “This isn’t going to be the last time you fuck me, is it?”
The crude word falls so effortlessly from your pristine mouth that it makes his cock jerk within your drooling confines. “I don’t want it to be. No,” he answers, half-shy.
“Then I don’t care how long you last,” you assure him with a lazy grin. “You have kept me hostage for nearly a year— Surely, I’m entitled to make some use of my captor while the realm delays the war, am I not?”
Ormund’s resolve crumbles under your permission. He rolls his hips forward and back again, never quite pulling all the way out of you. He groans quietly when you clench around the sensitive head of his cock; and you swallow down a whimper when the coarse hair below his stomach rubs mercilessly along your sensitive clit.
Your head tips back. He falls to the hollow space between your neck and shoulder.
Ormund’s open-mouthed breaths fan warm along your burning skin as he stumbles into a graceless rhythm, thrusting hard enough to make the wooden frame of his bed squeak quietly beneath you.
The pressure on your clit is relentless. You squirm underneath his sweat-slick body, chasing and running from the pleasure all at once. “I know. I know. It’s okay,” you hear him slur against your skin. “Just take it. Just fuckin’ take it— Fuck—” His voice breaks like splintered glass.
He tenses suddenly above you, taut muscles trembling. You hear his breath catch for a moment, right before a foreign warmth pools in the very pit of your stomach. He groans in time with his release, heavying his weight further against you.
You aren’t far behind.
He grinds his hips lazily to ride out his high, smothering your sensitive clit as the warm, wet, sticky feeling continues to bloom inside of you. “Ormund—” you gasp, tensing beneath him.
“There it is…”the man praises as you tremble underneath him, smearing his lips against your jaw until they reach your parted mouth. “There it is— Fuck, that’s it,look at me.”
Your eyes snap open at his command, bleary and heavy-lidded. You ride out the rest of your orgasm with your gaze locked with his glassy one.
The honeyed moment doesn’t last nearly as long as either of you would’ve liked.
“My lord?”
The two of you sober in a flash as the spell between you shatters. Ormund stills suddenly above you, as if pierced by steel. The warmth flees from his features at once, replaced by the hard composure of the commander of House Hightower. You, too, freeze where you lay beneath him — pulse thrumming hard in your throat as the muffled voice drifts once more through the pavilion.
“My lord—”
“Yes, Daeron,” Ormund spits through gritted teeth, nostrils flaring as he breathes through the rage searing in his chest. “What is it?”
The squire hesitates at his uncle’s harsh tone. “Forgive me for the intrusion, my lord…” the boy says carefully, hidden behind the covered entrance. “But a messenger arrived from the river road. He bears urgent word from Ser Criston’s camp.”
You feel your stomach sink — or, perhaps, it’s only the mixture of cum seeping out of your still fluttering confines, soaking the sheets beneath you. You feel unspeakably dirty now, and the lack of regret only deepens the feeling.
Ormund remains motionless above you for a moment before sitting back on his haunches. You shiver at the absence of his warmth, and wince slightly when his softening cock slips out of you. “A letter?” he calls to the entrance, brows lowered. “What news?”
“It is sealed, my lord,” Daeron says. “The messenger said it was to be opened by our hand alone.”
Ormund’s confusion deepens. “And who sends it?”
After another brief hesitation, the voice answers solemnly: “Ser Gwayne, my lord.”
don’t me wrong, he loves making love to you. how your bodies surrendered to each other with nothing but devotion and adoration for one another. how your lips would move in unison. how both of you knew where to touch and where not to touch
but something, something about watching you crumble from his touch… it made him breathless
“fuck, fuuck, that’s it sweetheart” bruce groaned on the collar of your neck with another rough thrust in your warm pussy. both of you were propped up to your knees, though you were slightly leaning forward and bruce’s large arm wrapped around your stomach to hold you still, his chest pressing on your back
his thrusts were everything but gentle, your boobs bouncing from how rough his hips were snapping behind you as your warm cunt was taking every inch of
his eyes were fixed on your reflection in the body-length mirror facing both of you. and god, bruce would fucking kill for this view everyday
you, one hand on the back of his head while the other was gripping the sheets under you. his blue eyes were holding contact with your wide, blown ones, seeing how there was nothing but pure ecstasy in them as lewd yet addictive sounds kept leaving your lips from how he was fucking you senseless
bruce took his other hand and slid two digits in your fully parted lips, muffling your moans. “look at you” he whispered in your ear, darkening his gaze with each second he looked at you, grunting with his thrusts. “a fucking mess for me. gorgeous”
all you could was whine, swirling your tongue around his digits with saliva seeping out from your mouth, watching bruce’s cock disappear in you and hearing the filthy, wet noises it came out with
“look at her go” bruce continued cooing in your ear, tilting your head down with his fingers still in your mouth to get a good look of the reflection of your pussy. “takin’ me so well, thaaat’s my girl”
his hand slid out from your mouth to squeeze your boob firmly, feeling his fingers coated with your saliva and smearing it on your skin. “and how could i forget these?” you did nothing but moan and clench around his cock as a response, making a groan leave his lips
you arched your back for both more of his hands and more of his cock, the buzz in your body making you feel numb. bruce let go of your boob to tilt your head up and claim your lips hungrily, a type of kiss that was possessive and consuming— a mess of his own
and there did you realize just how much of a mess you were. his mess
⋆𐙚 ̊. soldier boy, who loves making you beg or admit defeat. he will deliberately hold back what you want until you break down, call him "sir," or plead for it—only then rewarding you with a rough pat or a low "Good girl."
⋆𐙚 ̊. soldier boy, who likes leaving visible reminders. expect bruises on your hips from where his super-strength fingers gripped you too hard, and deep bite marks on your shoulder to keep you quiet when you scream too loud.
⋆𐙚 ̊. soldier boy, who, because of the V1, doesn't tire out. he will stretch encounters out for hours on purpose, taking brief breaks just to watch you shiver and cry over his lap before dragging you right back under him for another round.
⋆𐙚 ̊. soldier boy, who is an active user of 'doll', 'sweetheart', and even 'good girl' if you work hard enough to earn it.
⋆𐙚 ̊. soldier boy, who as much as he loves watching your mouth wrap around his cock, if he had to choose between that or burying it into your tight cunt, he'd pick your cunt.
⋆𐙚 ̊. just because it's a preference, it doesn't mean he's against it. in fact, he'll definitely make you suck him off from time to time — considers it your way of "repaying him" for all the hours he spends between your thighs.
⋆𐙚 ̊. soldier boy, who, as much as he favors the bedroom, is totally up to bending you over your office desk, just ramming into you from behind, or in the shower where he pushes you chest-first into the plexi hard enough to make your tits squish against the transparent material. still, the bedroom is his ultimate choice, where he can have you with your face in the pillows as you scream his name, or watch as your pretty mouth makes that O shape as he pushes his cock deep into you with your legs swung over his shoulder.
⋆𐙚 ̊. soldier boy, who doesn't like being interrupted. if you are making too much noise or trying to talk, he will unceremoniously smother your mouth with his bare hand or a pillow to force you to breathe through your nose and take it.
⋆𐙚 ̊. soldier boy, who sets the tempo entirely. if you try to speed things up or ride him, he will lock his hands onto your hips to ground you, forcing you to take his exact, slow, punishing rhythm — unless he wants to go fast.
⋆𐙚 ̊. soldier boy, who rarely keeps his hands still. he will wrap a fist tightly into your hair at the roots, using it to tilt your head back to expose your throat for biting, or to force you to look him in the eyes while he thrusts.
⋆𐙚 ̊. soldier boy, who prefers positions where he can completely pin you down with his torso, using his mass to keep you entirely immobilized and helpless beneath him.
this is sooo nothingburger but i've been trying to update my multi-chapter fics over on wattpad and ao3 so i had to sideline the oneshots for today... nonetheless i wanted to put a lil something out for yall, so take these headcanons for now!!
ex bf! Butcher who goes out of his way to pop up at the same places you are at.
He irks the hell out of you every time you see his ass. Always in your face, scaring off any many that even tries to get a chance with you. Butcher is a very possessive man, one that didn't need other men thinking that they could get with you just because you two were no longer together. You were too damn attractive for your own good, for his own damn good.
You had just finished getting your hair done and had been walking to your car when, of course, he was standing there waiting for you. He looked bigger, in his arms, his chest, just all over since the last couple of weeks that he popped up on you. Your footsteps slowed until you were a few feet in front of him. A smirk couldn't be concealed when he saw you walk up.
"What are you doing here William?"
"Can't come to see you, love?"
"Don't even. We are not together. Get that through your fat ass head. Instead of stalking me like some fuckin' creep, why don't you just text me like a normal damn person! But that's right there's nothing normal in that god damn brain of yours."
"Yeah?"
"Yes!"
Butcher's stare was intense, almost like he was plotting something. Slowly he began make his way over to where you stood. Your grip on your bag tightened ever so slightly as you took a step back.
"Look real good baby. C'mon, don't be mad at me. I got you a little something."
"What?"
He held out a gift which you of course took (hesitating at first). While you were distracted opening the various gifts, he hooked his arm around your waist, guiding you over to your passenger seat.
"See, not so bad, am I, love?"
"Shut up, I'm still mad at you for acting an ass. You totally embarrassed me on my date the other day. Not fucking cool..."
"Oh, you poor thing. I embarrassed you?"
His words were nothing short oof condescending. It didn't help that he had you sitting in the seat with him standing between your legs. Butchers head dipped down so you guys' lips were damn there touching.
"Be good for me, won't you? Come home with me tonight."
situationship soldier boy x reader
word count: 5.1k
prompts: intercrural // lingerie // cum eating
disclaimer: alcohol consumption. degradation. insecurity. fully consensual sex.
a/n: guys this is lowkey really cringe and I made Ben kind of sentimental I hope that’s okay with you. big thanks to @chateaubarnes for making these amazing dividers for me 🤍
✦ think later by tate mcrae ~ bri's kinktober 2025 ✦
you should really know better than this.
you know better than to show up at his door this late at night. you know that you shouldn’t bow down at his feet like this just because you can’t resist the sound of his voice over the phone, that you shouldn’t throw away your morals and your dignity just because you can’t help how horny he makes you feel.
you cross your arms a little tighter over your chest as the wind picks up and the chill in the air prickles at your skin. running up the pathway to his doorstep, you’re practically screaming at yourself to not do this, reminding yourself that it’s not too late to turn around and go home.
this isn’t worth it, you tell yourself. you’re throwing yourself at his mercy just so you can get laid, and you’re still going to end up in your own bed a few hours from now remembering how heartstricken you are because you’re nothing more than a good time to him.
he’s a piece of shit and you know it. your heart shouldn’t jump in your chest solely at the sound of his name. the butterflies shouldn’t start fluttering in your stomach every time he tells you to come over. you’re better than this, which is why you should turn around right now and go home.
and yet, as you stand there waiting to knock, you can’t resist the temptation. forget your longing heart, forget how badly you want something real with him; you’re here for one reason only.
live now, think later.
you practically bang down the door in your exasperation. why do you continue to do this yourself? why have you not learned how to say no to him? how have you not fallen out of love with him even if only because of his self-obsession?
you hate the way you convince yourself that deep down, he’s a good man. he means well, that he does care about you. objectively, you know that it’s true.
but you can’t see anything objectively when it comes to him.
the shit-eating grin on his face when he sees you standing on his porch reminds you of both exactly why you’re here and exactly why you shouldn't be here.
you’re here because he’s the best sex you’ve ever had, and you can never will yourself to say no to spending the night with him.
you shouldn’t be here because he’s a prick who knows that you can’t stop yourself, and the fact that you continue to show up time after time is just another boost to his already far too massive ego.
“knew you’d come running when I called, sweetheart,” he laments. the smirk on his face only grows as he looks you up and down where you stand in his doorway, taking in the sight of you in the little black dress you’re wearing. “looking like a fuckin’ hooker, too.”
anger rises in your chest, red-hot and broiling. you wish the comment was enough to send you away, to slap you back into reality.
of course it isn’t.
“fuck off,” you bite back at him, the chill continuing to bite at your skin. “are you going to let me in or not?”
he lets out a small chuckle as he tilts his head back up to your face, and even as he does so, he’s still looking down at you. the fact that he’s so damn tall never fails to make you both so angry and so turned on, and your body warms as he stares deep into your eyes with a look that makes you wonder if he can hear every thought in your head.
“dunno. like seeing you out in the cold, your nipples poking through–”
he’s a pig, you tell yourself, and yet you shove past him to let yourself inside the house. making your way straight to his kitchen, you find your most frequented cabinet, the door that you know you’ll find the liquor behind. you know his place like the back of your hand by this point, which you know should most certainly not be the case.
you shouldn’t be drawn to him. he’s terrible, he’s a womanizer, he…
“you drink as much as a hooker, too.”
you’re madly in love with him, just like every other woman that’s ever laid her eyes on him. he’s tall, effortlessly handsome, and built with muscles like a Greek god.
although unlike those other women, you actually get to have a taste of him. you get to know what he feels like on top of you, what it’s like to be in his bed, have his fingers on you, inside of you. and yet it still doesn’t mean you can call him yours any more than they can.
you ignore his comment, proceeding to take a swig from the first bottle you manage to grab.
tequila. you’ve never taken him for a tequila kind of guy, but–
it’s your drink of choice, and it’s a brand new bottle.
no, no, no. this is not something to be read into. he is not a considerate person, and he did not buy a bottle of liquor just for you.
as you stare at the wall, bottle still in hand, you feel the burn of the liquid going down your throat. the pattering of his feet against the floor fills your ears as he makes his way behind you, pressing himself up against you until you’re stuck between him and the edge of the counter where it digs into your stomach.
you wish you hated him. you wish your disdain for him was stronger than the soul-crushing love you hold for him.
your head drops to your shoulder as he leans in closer, his nose brushing up against the skin of your neck and his face burying itself in your hair. you can hear the sound of him sharply inhaling the scent of your perfume as his hips roughly pin you in place against the solid granite.
“Ben,” you whine before turning your head in the opposite direction, bringing the bottle to your lips once more and taking one last drink before setting it back down onto the countertop.
“found my little gift for you, did you?” he murmurs, one hand coming to drag your hair away from your flesh before beginning to suck a hickey into your skin.
the fact that he’s deliberately breaking your rule to not leave any marks completely evades you as your mind is overtaken with thoughts about how he just openly admitted that he bought the bottle for you.
“fuck off,” you respond softly, unable to come up with a real response, your voice lacking the confidence you wish to portray as you speak. except your heart is beating too fast in your chest as you let yourself read into the comment, let yourself believe that the gesture was made with heartfelt intention.
it does not mean anything. he does not care about you.
he inches closer to you, if even possible, his body heat seeping into your skin and blurring the lines of where you end and he begins. his hands trace up the back of your legs, underneath the hem of your dress where it sits just below the curve of your ass. as he drags the fabric higher and higher, exposing more of your skin for him to caress, his fingers make their way between your thighs up until he reaches the lace that sits skimpily on your skin.
“feisty,” he taunts in response to your stupid little remark, the retort sending another burst of anger through you that only serves to make you that much more desperate for his touch. he continues his work on your neck, biting and sucking more bruises as you begin whining with the realization that they’re his marks. that for now, you can delude yourself and let yourself truly feel like you’re his, if only for a moment. his fingers between your legs pinch and grab at your flesh as he taunts you, causing you to jolt and hiss with each motion he makes.
you can’t help the way your mind begins to go cloudy, your eyes growing hazy. you’re entirely unable to peel them back open as his touch consumes the entirety of your conscious mind.
“oh, Ben,” you can’t help but whimper as he begins rubbing your cunt over the dainty lace that barely covers anything.
except he knows you so well, far too well by now, that he can tell when your mind begins to shut down. he knows that the alcohol doesn’t do a damn thing, that you’re drunk on nothing but the small, torturous pleasures he’s giving you.
“yeah, that’s how we like her,” he mocks of you as one of his feet kicks the inside of your own, forcing your legs to part as he eases you forward, bending you over the beautiful granite countertop. he takes your wrists and softly folds them across each other before resting them against your lower back as your chest meets the surface in front of you, the cold feeling shocking your system as your cheek comes to rest against it. “look at you. so easy, just like a little whore, aren’t ya?”
“I’m not,” you try to bite back, but your words come out as nothing more than a jumble of sounds as his fingers begin to gently rub your clit over the lace of your panties. as much as you fight it, you know how you look right now: stupid and pathetic as you bend over and spread your legs for him without hesitating.
your entire figure heats up as his other hand finds its way to your hip and gently shoves your dress out of the way before placing his palm, so warm and so large, against your skin to hold you in place. his other hand doesn’t let up on his ministrations on your clit, the sensations dizzying.
biting your lip proves ineffective as you attempt to contain the weak noises that escape from your throat, every single little moan and breath you let out is just music to his ears, goading him on even further.
with your dress displaced and bunched up around your waist, the lace hidden underneath becomes visible to his gaze. the deep green of the undergarment catches his attention.
“never seen this before,” he mutters. his free hand begins tracing over the lines of the fabric, his mind whirring and beginning to draw his own conclusions. “you buy this just for me?”
you could scoff at the audacity of his words, his egotistical nature revealing itself once more with the question he’s just posed to you.
“absolutely not–” you protest, except once again, he cuts you off before you can finish speaking. effectively shutting you up as he harshly shoves the lace to the side and pushes two fingers inside you, so wet and ready already.
no matter how irritating he is, how much of a fucking prick he is, you continue to bow down to his mercy every time.
“keep lying to me, see where that gets you,” he threatens, poking and prodding around inside you like it’s a punishment, yet another humiliation he inflicts to coerce you into obeying and telling him the truth.
of course you’re lying. you can’t admit that to him so easily, though.
another breathless mewl falls from your lips as he plays with your cunt like you’re just a toy for him, testing to see what reactions he can pull from you. you hate to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much of an effect he has on you, how easily he can pull you apart without even trying.
this would be so much easier for you, you think, if his touch meant nothing to you. if you had no attachment, if you were only here to get off without the thought of anything more in your head. if you could turn off your feelings for only a night.
life doesn’t work like that.
his free hand moves to grip your bicep and gently pulls you back into a standing position in front of him, encouraging you to lean your weight against him. his hand adjusts to wrap itself around your chin, forcing your jaw to part before withdrawing his fingers from between your legs and bringing them to your mouth.
he looks on with lust in his gaze as he stares down at the sight of your lips wrapping themselves around his fingers coated in your arousal. you don’t fight, don’t hesitate to do exactly as he pleases, because you know you always will. you’ll always give into him without question, happily.
“look at me,” he murmurs into your ear, and your eyes open slowly, darting to look at him in your peripheral. yet again, he laughs, and the fluttering in your belly only increases tenfold at his acknowledgement of your debasement. “you look real pretty like this.”
if only his compliments were genuine.
“you gonna lie to me again?” he inquires, to which you softly shake your head no, not once breaking eye contact as you do. the smirk on his face only widens with your admission. when his fingers finally fall from where they rest against your tongue, your breathing heaves as you finally confess.
“fuck, yeah. I did. I bought it for you,” you tell him between deep inhales, revealing the truth and pleasing him.
“that’s what I thought,” he grumbles as though exasperated. he soon diverts his gaze from yours to watch as his hands glide down your torso until they reach the bunched-up fabric of your dress. he tugs the dress up and over your head with ease, fully revealing the dainty green set you’re wearing underneath.
he turns you around to face him, caging you in as his hands come to rest on the edge of the cold granite on either side of your figure. he leans in close enough that you can smell the faint scent of his shampoo on his hair as he looks you up and down, taking in the vision of your figure in front of him. you notice the way his pupils dilate, the way his jaw clenches before his eyeline meets yours once more.
there’s a look in his gaze unlike any you’ve ever seen before, and you don’t know what to make of it. it’s as though the confidence on his face somehow falters as he glares into your soul through your eyes. you catch how his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows roughly before speaking again.
“you let anyone else touch you like this?” he asks, and you refuse to let him see the way the words are like a punch in the gut. you can’t let him in; you have to hold your act together as you respond.
“I don’t belong to you, Ben,” you say, keeping your voice steady and maintaining eye contact.
he’s not pleased with your answer, which is obvious in the way he huffs, his gaze dropping to your lips before returning to meet yours once more.
“that’s not an answer, and you know it.”
this is nothing more than his ego talking, his desperate need to be better than anyone and everyone showing itself in his line of questioning. he could care less about actually having you; he just can’t stand the thought of anyone else having you.
because he’s a selfish, egomaniacal supe with an incessant craving for approval.
that’s how you fit into his life: you’re just another thing for him to have whenever he feels like it, whenever he needs the ego boost. he calls you in his lowest moments not because he wants you, but because he needs you.
you, meaning nothing but a means of validating himself. you, meaning a tool for him to use to fix the cracks in his facade. you, meaning a stepping stone that exists only to support him until he finds the next best thing, the next girl he sets his sights on.
the next girl he calls beautiful, the next girl he fucks–
to his surprise, you suddenly turn away from him and reach for the bottle of liquor on the counter behind you. as you lift it to your lips to take another drink, he stops you, reaching out to grab your wrist and holding your arm in place mid-air.
“what the fuck?” you hiss, but he doesn’t give you an answer, simply ripping the bottle from your hand and laying a quick slap on your ass.
“you’re really starting to piss me off,” he snarls, turning you to face him once more, the look of anger on his face apparent. he brings one hand to your hip, his grip tight and bruising as his other hand comes to wrap itself around your neck, a reminder of your place. “I know you don’t think you’re running the show here, darlin’.”
he stares you down for another moment, his eyes glancing back and forth between yours for a couple seconds, scanning for something that you’re not quite sure of. he’s breathing quickly but steadily, and the look on his face is almost… apprehensive?
you never know what he’s thinking, and you’ve learned at this point that you’re better off not knowing. you’ll only end up getting hurt even worse.
you’re taken completely off-guard when he suddenly moves so swiftly that you can’t keep up as his hand drops from your neck, bringing it to your other hip and hoisting you up and over his shoulder.
“Ben,” you shriek, to which he lands another smack on your ass as he carries you down the hall and to his bedroom. “I swear to god, if you drop me–”
“not gonna happen,” he assures you with a confidence you wish you were able to mirror.
you wish this didn’t make you feel so giddy, being reminded of all the things about him that get you hot and bothered. how strong and sure of himself he is, even if he is overconfident as hell.
you wish you didn’t have fun with him. you wish that he was boring, or that he was bad in bed, or anything just so you could snap out of your daze and realize how stupid you are for loving him so wholeheartedly.
a few seconds later, you find yourself being tossed onto the soft sheets on his bed as he follows, climbing on top of you and smiling down at you.
“oh, I’d never drop you, sweetheart. can’t have anything bad happening to my favorite hooker, now can I?” he teases, both of his hands running up and down your sides with a gentleness you wouldn’t know he was capable of if you didn’t know him so well by now.
you shouldn’t know him. you really wish you didn’t.
a smile breaks out across your face as he grins so authentically back at you, his hair hanging down in front of his forehead, and you take the opportunity to admire how absolutely beautiful he is. you hate how much you love the way he looks at you, how goddamn fucking pretty he is up close like this.
“I’m not a hooker,” you reiterate, still smiling like an idiot as your eyes trail over each and every perfect feature on his face. just by looking at him he makes your heart melt.
“whoring yourself out just for me, then, huh?”
you roll your eyes and try to wipe the smile from your face, try to ignore the way he looks at you like you’re the only girl in the world.
it’s not real. you have to know it’s not, you have to remind yourself it’s fake.
“I told you, I don’t belong to you,” you repeat, the smile on your face finally fading as the reality of the situation comes back to you.
his grin drops with yours.
“thought I told you to stop lying to me,” he says, his voice deepening.
and just like that, the bubble is broken. he sits back and brings his hands to your waist, barely having to put any strength into the motion as he quickly turns you over onto your stomach, your cheek being pressed into the pillow. his hand comes down on your ass a few more times, just enough to jolt you as he continues. “you’ve been lying to me all night. don’t think you deserve for me to fuck you,” he threatens.
the sound of that pisses you off beyond belief, anger and some form of deep-rooted insecurity broiling in your chest.
you’re not good for him. you’re not good enough for him. you could never be enough for him.
how could you ever be worthy of him? you’re not even a supe, why the hell would he deign to even look at you?
you don’t even manage to get a word in as you watch him reach for the bedside drawer, every cell in your body too focused on the feeling of where his hand makes contact with your flesh repeatedly, the sting keeping you on edge.
he adjusts his positioning behind you, his knees bracketing yours and pressing your thighs together as you hear the sound of him unbuckling his belt.
“come on, admit it, sweetheart,” he goads, gently caressing your skin to ease the sting from his previous treatment. “just say the words and I’ll give you what you want.”
you wish you could give him what he wants. you wish you could unapologetically declare how he owns every part of you, how your heart and soul want nothing more than to be his. you wish you could tell him the truth and he wouldn’t mock you for it, that reality didn’t bleed into every night you spend with him.
you can’t say anything at all. your voice will inevitably crack, or you’ll accidentally say something that’s going to cut the night short and get you thrown out of his life for good.
“have it your way,” he murmurs, and then you feel the warmth of his fingers spreading warm liquid over the backs of your thighs.
and that’s when it clicks in your head.
“you’re not serious,” you protest, moving to press your weight onto your hands to push yourself away from the bed. he’s not having any of it, immediately forcing you back down into position.
“you say the words and I’ll fuck you proper,” he iterates. once again, you don’t respond, and he leans in, his nose brushing against your ear from behind. “alright. have it your way.”
and then you feel it, the sensation of him pressing himself in between your slicked-up thighs.
you can’t help but let out a small whine of complaint as he ruts his hips against you, shoving deeper into the space between your legs. the sounds of his groans in your ear fill your head and overwhelm any rational thought other than,
“Ben, I swear to god, just fuck me,” you whine stupidly, so desperately as you try to grind down against him, try to shift and find the right angle to rub his dick right where you need it, higher, closer–
you’re no match for his strength, pinning you to the bed and forcing you to lay there and take it.
“I am fucking you,” he retorts with another movement, yet another grunt passing his lips and making your cunt clench again, still feeling so fucking empty. “you know how to get what you want.”
you hate him. you really, truly do, and you should tell him to get the fuck off of you so you can get up and walk out right now. you came here to get fucked, not to get tormented relentlessly.
except you know that those two things are a package deal with him. you knew what you were getting yourself into.
you love it. you love him.
even as you keep your mouth shut, refusing to give in to what he’s asking, you continue to try and squirm underneath him as though it’ll do you any favors. except he has far more patience and self-restraint in bed than in any other aspect of his life.
“stop fuckin’ moving and suck it up,” he orders, and once again, his rough tone does nothing but worsen the desperation and pure horniness you feel right now. the noises you make in response are downright disgusting, pathetic whimpers you have no control over.
“Ben, please?” you whisper after a few moments of his horrendously cruel treatment. you hate being forced to beg him for anything, your desperation and pleas only serving to inflate his ego even further with the acknowledgement that you need something only he can give you.
but it might just work in this case.
“no. we’re not doing that. you want me to split you open? you gotta say the words, darlin’,” he says, all while forcing one of his hands between where your abdomen rests on the sheets, snaking further and further down. “maybe I can help convince you, huh?”
his hand finally forces its way down to find the lace resting against your cunt, the fabric surely more than soaked by now. his fingers barely graze you and you’re already choking up, trying to jut your hips up against his hand to find more friction, to get him to actually touch you.
except his other hand holds you still so you can only accept whatever minute, sparse touches he chooses to give you.
“I hate you,” you whisper, your mind clouding over once more as the need for him consumes you.
“aww, I bet you do,” he taunts back, his breathing growing heavier and his movements quicker and more sporadic. “come on, sweetheart.”
you’re devolving into a mess underneath him as the torment makes you grow dizzy. you don’t want to give in, you can’t admit the truth, you…
his voice is far too soft as he tells you, “just tell me that you’re mine and I’ll give you the world.”
you let out a loud, emotional cry at the sound of that, of the thought of him actually caring sending you into a spiral. in the same moment, you feel his hips force themselves between the flesh of your thighs once more before letting go, the warmth of his release coating your soft skin.
you will yourself to calm down as he quits touching you entirely, his breathing slowing down in your ear as he comes back to himself after his release. he keeps his hold around you tight as he rolls onto his side on the bed, taking you with him and not letting you stray away.
his hand on your lower abdomen dips further down, finding the mess he’s left on your skin and scooping up some of his release before forcing his fingers between your lips. you don’t even think about it before you begin sucking them clean, doing whatever he wants, always.
his other arm around you pulls you in closer as he mutters, “you’re real fuckin’ stubborn.”
you know what you’re doing. you know that you’re an idiot for always ending up back in his bed, for always trying to catch his attention in some new way, like the flashy set you’re wearing that you bought with him in mind.
of course you’re his.
but he’s not yours.
“thought I’d get you to break,” he continues, withdrawing his fingers from your mouth and drawing them back down to your legs, dipping his fingers into the mess of his release once more before fucking it into your weeping hole without warning. “guess I’ll just have to force it out of you.”
as your eyes shut once more, his mouth finds your neck, the feeling of his arms encompassing your figure comforting you. his warmth seeping into your skin seemingly breaks down the emotional walls in your head once and for all as the sudden closeness blindsides you.
“you win,” you whisper into the air in front of you, your hands gripping tightly onto his forearm where it rests against your abdomen as you struggle to form any coherent words while he touches you. “I’m yours.”
you expect him to laugh, to taunt you and say something that will make you regret ever speaking up and giving into what he wanted.
he doesn’t.
“no one else gets to touch what’s mine, you hear me?” he hisses in your ear, his hand between your legs working quicker against you. the response shocks you, regardless of the fact that his possessive streak is a mile wide, because he doesn’t do this. he doesn’t speak with such intention, or speak in a way that might even imply commitment.
“Ben–”
“would you just listen to me, for once?” he grits, his free hand making its way to your face, grabbing you by the jaw and turning your head to the side to face him. “you’re fucking mine.”
oh.
oh.
you begin to stutter, Ben never relenting on his movements between your legs, continuing to drive you closer and closer to the edge far too quickly. “you… you mean–”
“you’re real fuckin’ dense, darlin’,” he continues. “now promise me that you’re never letting anyone else fuck this pretty pussy ever again, hmm?”
the words can't be real. you wish they were, you want them to be…
for some reason, you believe him.
“Ben, I’m gonna come,” you whine, his words driving you higher and higher.
“not until you do as I say, you’re not,” he threatens. your grip on his arm tightens and your nails surely dig deeper into his skin as you do, every hesitation and preconceived notion about the state of your relationship with him beginning to crumble.
you know him. he loves to taunt and torment, but this?
he wouldn’t joke about this.
“I promise, Ben. never again, fuck, I promise,” you whimper, barely able to get the words out. your whole body is shaking, every inch of you on edge as you await the drop of your impending release.
“that’s right, sweetheart. go on. let go f’me.”
as you finally let go, with him wrapped around you and holding you closer than you think you’ve ever been, you know for fact that this is the best orgasm he’s ever given you. you don’t hold back as you cry out into the room as it wracks through you, the sound of him talking you through it going in one ear and out the other, but nevertheless registering in your head that he’s there.
that he cares.
and as your breathing heaves and the blood rushing in your ears finally calms itself, you hear his next words loud and clear.
“guess your hooker days are over now, huh?”
and fuck, you can’t stop yourself from bursting out giggling.
His rough, calloused hands squeezed the sides of your thighs. Guiding your hips, softly groaning. His once dark brown hair, now short and white. Han’s face was the epitome of relaxation, your hips slowly grinding onto his throbbing cock. His thumbs pressed into the juncture of your thighs, squeezing at the plump flesh gently.
‘Want me to go faster?’ You probed, voice airy and soft. Hands flexing around the skin of Hans thighs, tilting your head for his response. His mouth quirked up slightly, slowly smirking. ‘Nah.. take your time sweetheart, there’s no rush.’
Hans eyes met yours, and he was just magnetized by you. Your expressions of ecstasy, the sight of your hips rising up- just to lower down and engulf him once again entirely. He just couldn’t get enough..
He groaned beneath you, hands still holding your hips. Thumbs pressing into the soft skin of your stomach, for a moment his eyes closed. Soaking in the pleasurable sensation, you always did so good.
Hey guys sorry this is short, I wasn’t sure about what to write! I’m going to start back writing longer things I promise :) . Let me know if you’d like to be added to my taglist <3
How Different Monster Husbands Punish You For Being A Brat
Warnings: Sex, restraints, mentions of biting, mentions of knotting, cockwarming, edging
- Minotaur husband that punishes you by tying your hands behind your back when fucking. He knows how much you like to grab onto his horns when you fuck him and watching you struggle against your restraints pleases him greatly.
- Vampire husband that keeps you on the edge, his cock a slow drag through your wet walls. He bites gently at your neck all night but never sinks his fangs in. As dawn approaches you think he will finally grant you some relief but you are sorely mistaken when he pulls out and leaves you with nothing.
- Orc husband that stretches you out on his big cock but doesn’t let you move at all. No matter how much you cry and apologize, needing him to move, he refuses. Each time you try to move earns a smack to your ass, the skin becoming more raw and inflamed throughout the day. Anytime you finally calm down and start to doze off he gives you one hard thrust, jolting you awake and stimulating you just enough to have your cunt needy again.
- Tentacle monster husband that refuses to fill your cunt but uses his suckers to suction and overstimulate your nipples and clit until they are swollen and sore. The marks will be there for weeks as a reminder for you to behave.
- Dragon husband that hangs you from your lairs ceiling with gold chains, decorated with jewels. He keeps you suspended and at his mercy all day to play with as he pleases, a ruby ball gag keeping you quiet and obedient. His pretty little treasure.
- Werewolf husband that fucks you over and over but refuses to give you his knot. Tears stream down your face as you apologize and beg for it but he just tells you that you need to learn your lesson and brats don’t get rewards.
- Demon husband that binds you in a pentacle and makes you watch as he strokes his thick cock knowing you want nothing more that to taste and fuck it. Ignoring your cries as he releases his cum all over the ground instead of inside you where it belongs.
Expanded Story For Demon Husband Can Be found Here And On Patreon
Summary: Joel's exhausted by the time he makes it to bed. But when a pretty little thing crawls in beside him, he finds the time for you, just like he always does.
Warnings: +18 MDNI, post outbreak, jackson!joel, unspecified age difference, joel pov, porn no plot, dry humping, slow and soft sex, smut with feelings, internalized shame, intimacy, unprotected piv, clit stimulation, kissing
Note: i haven't written for joel in monthsss but i hope you enjoy!!
WC: 2k
[masterlist] [AO3]
Joel’s the kind of exhausted that only comes with age.
Weary bones, heavy limbs, tired eyes.
He’s falling into bed as soon as he gets home, often forfeiting dinner in favor of blissful rest. Sometimes even before the sun’s fully set.
And today is just one of those days. He’d spent the night tossing and turning, trying to massage away a kink in his neck that persisted well into the afternoon. But he hadn’t had time to complain or think too much about how excited he was to crawl back beneath the sheets, because the northernmost barn was falling to pieces.
So, not only was he functioning half empty from the start, but the work today was also strenuous. Sawing raw timber to the perfect length, sanding down the sharp edges, hammering nails into plywood. A full day.
And when Denise had stopped him on his way home, waving him down with a glass of freshly squeezed lemonade in hand, she’d given him that bright, hopeful smile and said, “Little Sammy ran that damn bike into the back door again. Would you mind fixing the hinges?”
His back ached and his knees were creaky, but Joel soon found himself knelt on Denise’s porch, screwdriver and fresh nails in hand.
It didn’t take long, but it did take every last scrap of energy that remained inside of him.
Joel’s house was always quiet. Too big for him, really. Ellie was in the garage already, lights still on, up too late when she had early patrol the following morning. But Joel didn’t have it in him to remind her how important sleep was. Not when he was running on fumes himself.
So he dragged those tired, old bones inside. Kicked off his boots and jeans right at the door of his room, hung his flannel over the back of the chair at his work bench, and let out a long sigh as he climbed beneath icy cotton sheets.
He’s half asleep, eyes closed and muscles sinking into the mattress, when he hears it.
The click of the latch on the unlocked front door. The creak of your careful steps as you climb the stairs.
Joel feels you before he sees you. Too exhausted to pull himself out of blissful almost-sleep. The mattress dips beneath your weight, limbs outstretched, seeking him out of instinct.
This isn’t the first time this has happened. Not the first time you’ve found yourself peering out of your window next door waiting for him to get home. Not the first time you’ve ended up in his bed or in his arms.
And Joel knows he should put a stop to it—you’re too young, too sweet, too…good.
But he’s too worn out to fight his impulses. He’s tried for months to keep his thoughts pure when you cross his mind, but it’s been a losing battle from the start.
Especially when you’re like this. Warm and soft, pressed up against his side, wearing an old t-shirt he’d let you borrow the night before and not much else. A comfort that feels more like home than this house does.
The tips of your fingers tickle his forearm, rousing him just enough that he lifts the heavy limb so you can crawl right into his embrace.
Joel holds you tight. He always does. Biceps big and strong around your shoulders. He holds you like he might lose you tomorrow, because there’s a part of him that fears one day you’ll wake up and see something you don’t like.
He worries you’ll begin to see him for what he is; old, weary, tired. Not even half the man he used to be. Not half the man you deserve.
But for tonight at least, you still wear those rose tinted glasses. Pressing sweet kisses to his face; his nose, his forehead, his cheeks. Nuzzling your face into the crook of his neck, making cute, whiny noises at the back of your throat. Like you’re desperate, unable to get close enough despite every inch being pressed against him, leg hooked over his hips.
You find a comfortable position and still beside him, letting out the same sort of long sigh Joel did just moments ago. But you don’t sleep—your breathing doesn’t even out, your muscles don’t go slack.
Joel knows what you need. Long before your hips tilt, before you press your center against his thigh, before you whisper his name in the dark.
“S’okay, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice deep and dark and sleepy. “C’mere.”
He reaches over and brackets his arm around your waist to drag you on top of him, your center already warm and wanting.
It’s starting to get out of hand, he knows. Starting to become a routine. But Joel doesn’t have many sweet thing in his life, not anymore, and he finds you near impossible to resist. “I’ve got you,” he says. “Take what ya need.”
You lay against his chest, ear pressed right over his heart. Joel kisses the crown of your head when your hips begin to tilt, rubbing yourself against the steadily growing bulge beneath the thin fabric of his boxers.
Soft, wanton sighs leave you at the sensation, and even with a barrier still between you he can feel your clit pulse against the underside of his cock.
Needy little thing you are. But Joel doesn’t mind—he likes the feeling. Of being needed, wanted. Especially by a girl as sweet as you.
You grind on top of him for a while. Not seeking release, not yet. Just feeling the hard warmth of him beneath you, savoring the weight of his big hands stroking softly up and down the expanse of your back.
He can feel your arousal growing with each pass, wetness slowly seeping through his boxers, slick and sticky. Joel nudges you gently with the tip of his nose, the prickly hairs of his mustache tickling the side of your face. “C’mon, sweet girl. Let’s get this shirt off, hm?”
When you nod, you pull yourself up tiredly. The movement is slow and thick like molasses, so Joel uses the last of his energy to help you.
His hands find the hem of the oversized t-shirt and pull it upwards, over your head to be discarded on the floor beside his bed. It leaves you completely naked, bared for him in more ways than one.
In an instant, you fall back against him, breasts pressed up against his chest. Your skin feels cool against his, smooth and pillowy. “S’warm,” you mutter, rubbing the side of your cheek against the coarse hair that litters his chest, graying in some places.
Joel’s cock throbs beneath you, but he doesn’t pay it any mind. He just lets you settle back down and allows you to rest. His hands wander, though, the way they always do.
Sliding down your back, over the sides of your thighs, thumbs massaging gentle circles. He strokes his fingers gently back up to your shoulders and then brings them down your arms, smiling when he sees goosebumps rise in his wake.
When they settle back at your hips, his touch is a little more eager. Kneading at the softness, inching over the curve of your ass until that’s all his hands are filled with.
Joel loves touching you. Not just suggestively, but intimately. He loves feeling the closeness and the trust you put in him to take care of you, to keep you safe, to make you feel good.
He massages the supple flesh, holding you close, until his need for you begins to grow teeth, gnawing at his psyche.
Joel knows he shouldn’t. He knows that.
But he’s just so tired, and you’re so soft. Gentle and kind. And you make him feel loved—something Joel Miller has not felt for a very, very long time.
He guides you with his hands gripping at your curves, sliding your slick cunt over his aching cock. His breath feels hollow, stuck in his lungs.
When he lifts upward, just a little, enough to provide a little extra pressure, you mewl in response.
Joel is quick to soothe, shushing softly into your ear. “Shh, you’re alright. Hang on, sweet girl. M’right here.”
He knows what you need. It’s become a nightly ritual at this point. You come to him seeking connection, seeking the comfort of an older man. Most nights you just need to be held, to be nurtured, to be loved the way you deserve.
But other nights, Joel knows you need a little more. A connection that runs a little deeper.
He reaches beneath you, hooking his thumbs in the elastic band of his boxers and tugging them down his tired legs. Just enough to free his cock, already hard as stone just from your proximity.
Joel pulls your forward, up his torso, giving himself room to line his length up with your entrance.
He slides in real easy.
You’re already soaked, dripping with arousal. And the moment he’s fully seated inside you, stretching you real wide, filling up your belly, you let out a breathy whine.
It feels right, being here like this with you. It feels like coming home.
Joel moves you slowly, guiding each roll of your hips, slowing you down when you try to pick up the pace.
There’s no rush. Not here, not with him. He’ll get you there. He’ll get you what you need. What’s the sense in hurrying through it?
He wants to savor it. The feel of your sweet, soft pussy, clenching and leaking around his length. The way your stuttering breath tickles his skin. The way your hands grip him harder and harder, holding him impossibly closer.
He wants to savor the way you love him.
“Gimme a kiss, baby,” he whispers in the dark.
You turn your head, just enough so that he can press his lips to yours. In this, too, Joel moves painfully slow.
It’s not a claiming, it’s an exploration. His lips move against yours, memorizing the feel of them, the shape and the taste. He slowly licks into your mouth, tongue gliding against yours, breathing in your exhalation.
The building coil around his spine is anything but slow, however. He loves being here with you maybe a little too much. He loves you a little too much.
Joel thrust upwards, keeping a steady, unforgiving rhythm while he slides his hand between you. His fingers search blindly for your clit and he finds it in seconds, circling those slow, tight circles around the pulsing nerves.
Your sounds grow louder, release building. The sound of your joining echoes in the empty room, slick and wet and feverish.
He knows your close when you start manually breathing—lungs stuttering, chasing the delicious relief that only he can provide.
“You got it,” he encourages. “S’right there, baby. Give it to me.”
Your eyes stay locked to his, lips parting on a jagged moan. You don’t say anything; no warning, no begging. You just feel it, feel him, moving deep inside you, fucking you through it.
“That’s it,” he says, voice all soft and warm the way it only ever is when he speaks to you. “There you go.”
He doesn’t stop until you find the natural rhythm of oxygen again, until the shaking in your thighs relents to an easy tremble.
Joel feels that white-hot coil beginning to spool within himself, and pulls out of you with just enough time to shoot thick ropes of cum over your pubic bone.
He thrusts the underside of his cock through your syrupy folds, a gentle rocking until he’s spent. He somehow finds the energy for a few extra thrusts, smearing his release over your clit.
You don’t move an inch, and Joel doesn’t want you to.
Instead, you just lay there on top of him, sticky mess between you, your head resting delicately on his chest.
When you reach up to card your fingers through his graying hair, Joel feels his muscles go completely slack, tension bleeding from his weary bones.
“M’sorry I woke you up,” you say, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I know you were tired.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Joel says, and he means it. “I’ll always have time for you."
