summary: you have been told your service is needed to help aid young prince daeron, but there are whispers that ormund hightower has kept you in oldtown for another purpose
tw: mentions of child abuse
wc: 6.7k
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People whisper of a beast that lives in House Hightower.
A beast that bludgeons men who anger him, destroys rooms, and burns down buildings.
You hear the servants warn each other of it, their whispers reaching your ears during quiet spells in the night.
During your first months at House Hightower, you wondered if this beast actually existed, or if it was a mere horror story told between serving staff to keep them on their best behavior.
But slowly, as more time passed during your stay in Oldtown, you began to hear it.
Shouts carry through the hallways. You hear screaming from areas you did not know existed. You see servants running from something that you have not witnessed yourself.
Prince Daeron is the one to finally explain it to you.
The two of you sit together in the Hightower library reading through histories of the Gardening when you hear the sound of glass shattering on one of the floors above you. You then hear heavy footsteps, and a crash that is so loud it makes you flinch.
Two guards run past the library doorway, and you begin to fear something is wrong.
“It is only my Uncle Ormund,” Prince Daeron tells you, noticing your expressions. “You needn’t worry, he will not come down here.”
“Lord Ormund?” Your shoulders jump as you hear another crashing of glass. “Is he okay?”
“He must have received a letter he did not like.”
“It sounds worse than an ill-received letter.”
“It is actually quite tame for him.”
You don’t understand it.
Lord Ormund Hightower appears to be the very definition of prestige and class when you are near him.
He is a man that never slouches, never curses, never complains. He is a compass of what a good man should be, and he carries himself as if he is the role model for the world.
“He hides that side of himself from you,” Daeron once confessed to you. “He is easily angered, and is quick to react with violence. He tries to pretend he is well tempered but he is not.”
“I have seen him angry,” you tried to reassure him. “You have not seen him angry. You have seen him upset. He is different when he is angry. He will break everything in his path. He will destroy an entire room. He will wound servants that are near him.”
“It is a sin to harm an innocent in anger-”
“He is different,” Daeron insisted. “That is what I am warning. He believes you to be too gentle to see such a thing, so he hides it, but he is a beast at times. You must be careful.”
A beast. His word choice set you on edge.
It was difficult to believe the almighty Ormund Hightower was the beast everyone spoke of, and not the dragon that lived in the lowest level of the tower.
Even after all the warnings, you still thought people must have been exaggerating to scare you. For months you lived in Oldtown, and you never once saw Ormund raise a hand to anyone.
Until you reached your second year with the Hightowers.
That was when you first saw him physically punish Daeron with a slap to the face. It had been a petty crime Daeron committed, being caught having a taste of his uncle’s wine when he thought he wasn’t looking. It scared you so badly you could not look the Lord in the eye for a week.
By the time your third year here came around, Ormund would frequently discipline the Prince by striking the back of his hands with a leather rod.
Seeing such things made you…wary of him. But he never placed an unkind hand on you.
Daeron says he’s soft for you.
Now, as you neared your fourth year in Oldtown, you find yourself unsure of your attitude towards Ormund. He was a Lord, so you respected him. You try to remember how you have been raised, all the politeness you must show, so you put your personal feelings aside so that you can do your duties properly.
Your duties, which involve the education and faith of Prince Daeron, are difficult at times.
Especially today.
You have sat Daeron down in the library, and you are attempting to get him used to more diligent notetaking, yet he is fighting back with everything he has.
“We spend so many hours in this library,” he complains. “Can we not go somewhere else?”
“We can visit the Sept.”
He lets out an uninterested grunt.
“We can take a break once we reach mid-hour,” you offer. “We’ll take a walk through the gardens.”
Daeron fidgets in his seat. “I wish to visit Tessarion.”
“You know that is not allowed.”
“It’s not recommended. I am the Prince, I can order you to take me anywhere if I really want to.”
“It would be much easier if you just finish your notetaking.”
He sighs as he looks down at the paper. His quill finally starts moving again.
“Perhaps we can ask your uncle at dinner if he can take you down to Tessarion.”
“He would never agree to that, he dislikes her.”
“There is no harm in asking him. The worst he can do is say ‘no’.”
You hear Daeron chuckle, like you have made a joke. “Only you would say such a thing.”
You place down your book. “And why is that?”
“Because you are the only one he does not throw a fit in front of. He’ll hold his tongue for you.” Daeron risks another smile as his quill scrolls across the paper. He uses a mocking voice. “Uncle Ormund says that you are a proper woman, and should not have to bear witness to such foul, abhorrent language.”
You straighten yourself to better posture, surprised by the comment. Lord Ormund was one of the most prestigious, well-classed men you have ever met. To hear such a compliment from him was beyond meaningful.
“Well, that is true,” you say. “Foul language should not be said around ladies.”
“And what of your foul language?”
“I do not use foul language, it is a sin.”
Daeron’s smile turns to a smirk. “You do not think of the word ‘bastard’ as foul? Or do you assume your context of calling the street merchant a ‘bastard’ acceptable?”
Your shoulders slouch, and you feel heat rush to your face. “That was a moment of wrongfulness, and you heard me pray for the Mother to forgive me for it.”
“Perhaps I should tell Uncle Ormund all the words I’ve heard you use so that he is less worried about exposing you to such language-”
“You will not.” Your words come out flustered. “I hardly ever use such language and-and if I have it was well deserved.”
Daeron is even more amused. He leans closer, and fakes a gasp. “You dare believe someone deserves such a name? And here I thought you were supposed to be aiding me in my ethics of the Seven.”
“You stop it,” you tell him. “I have prayed for my wrongdoings. But even if I didn’t...that merchant ripped my coin pouch right from my hands. Had you not retrieved it, your uncle would have never allowed us back to the market again.”
Daeron chuckles, leaning back in his chair. “Alright, I agree. The bastard was deserved. And I have to admit it was quite humorous to hear my proper teacher shouting that word across a crowd.”
“You should be finishing your notes, not trying to rile me up,” you tell me. “Let me see your paper so I can be sure you complete your studies before dinner.”
“Let me see your paper,” Daeron counters.
He reaches over, but you quickly flip the book over. “I am not the one who needs to take notes.”
“But let me see yours, so I know I am taking notes correctly.”
You pull your book away.
He smiles wider. “Unless, perhaps, my teacher has not been taking notes. Perhaps she has just been drawing.”
Your face grows hotter in embarrassment. He knew how to get under your skin so easily.
“As the teacher, I am asking to see yours-Daeron!”
He reached over and snatched your parchments from you. He laughs, flipping it back towards you to say, “It is a beautiful flower you have drawn.”
“I have learned these lessons before, I can draw if I wish.”
“Shall I tell Uncle Ormund that you are wasting time in the library with such drawings?”
“You will do no such thing.”
You would be humiliated. You could picture it now. His stern stare looking down at the stupid flower, and then back up at you, silently labeling you as incompetent for the rest of your time here.
“I will keep my mouth shut if we end lessons early today,” Daeron says. “And you allow me to visit Tessarion.”
“Lord Ormund is displeased when you visit her.”
“He would also be displeased by this,” Daeron countered, waving your drawing in front of him.
You are tired of the library anyway, so you figured there was no harm in a quick visit downstairs. You sigh. “Fine. But you must wash before dinner so that he does not smell her on you.”
Daeron smiles again, like he tricked you into giving him the upper hand. Though, in all honesty, he was the Prince. He could have left the library at any time, and you had no true power to stop him.
“May I at least see that you have taken notes?” you ask.
He flips his book around to show you his parchment.
There were no notes. There was only a drawing of you sitting in front of him, drawing a flower.
You open your mouth to lecture him, but quickly shut it. “We will be going to the Sept tonight, and we are going to pray about your lack of enthusiasm for your education.”
He paid no mind to your words. “Come on. I’m sure Tessarion had been missing me greatly.”
The days are always like this with Prince Daeron. Amusing. Frustrating. Happy. Exciting. Nerve wracking. You feel every emotion with the boy everyday.
And it brings you more joy than anything.
When you first arrived at House Hightower, nearly four years prior, Daeron hardly spoke to you.
He had recently turned the age of ten, and at the time you were barely ten and six. He was a quiet boy, and you were a quiet girl. It was extraordinary to see the difference in him now.
Originally, you had been sent to Oldtown by your father, who was a strong believer in the Faith of the Seven. He wanted you to learn how to pray from the Septas of Oldtown, the most devoted women in the realm.
It was Gwayne Hightower that offered for you to stay in House of Hightower, your mother having been a dear friend to Alicent and him in their younger days.
You were meant to be in Oldtown for one month, and then you were to be sent home.
But the gods had a different plan for you.
It was Ormund Hightower that spoke to your father about you becoming an aid for the young prince.
Lord Ormund was a man of religion. He visited the Sept every morning and every night. He was quick to notice, staring on the morning of your arrival, that you did as well.
He admitted to your father that he was impressed with your faith, and even more impressed with how often you partook in prayer.
“Daeron has become very lonesome being so isolated from his siblings,” Lord Ormund had said to you. “It would be beneficial for him to have the company of a girl as mindful as yourself. A girl proper in her ways, and a devoted servant to the Seven.”
When the offer of a more permanent stay was first given to you, you were wary of it. “This is the first time I have been away from home,” you admitted. “I do not know if I would be able to assist the Prince as well as a Septa could.”
“Septas know only scripture,” Ormund reasoned. “They are the education of the spiritual world, and you will help teach him the ways of the physical one.”
In honesty, you felt too young for such a position. Ten and six, you still felt like a child. You were frightened to be so far from your mother, and even more frightened to be in a position responsible for royalty.
And in the beginning, you were frightened of Lord Ormund as well. You had been so scared to talk to him the day he brought his proposal up to you. You had never spoken to him prior to it, and the only reputation you knew was that he was a serious man who was easily disappointed.
So you try to be honest with him, hoping he would understand your hesitancy. “I do not know if I am equipped to handle such a task, my Lord.”
He had smiled at you. A warm smile that made him appear as such a kind and considerate man.
Placing a hand upon your shoulder, he told you, “You are a good girl, (Y/N). All I need is your help in raising my nephew to be just as good.”
Now, nearly four years later, Oldtown feels more like home than your homeland ever did.
Because your brother is here.
Daeron Targaryen, Prince of the realms, will always be the brother you never had. Not a blood brother, like the ones from your homeland, who were cruel to you in your childhood and would throw things your way when you became bothersome. Daeron was a real brother, and seeing him grow up to be kind was the best gift the Mother could ever give you.
“Come,” Daeron hurried you as the two of you descended down the staircase to where Tessarion was kept. “She has been alone for so long, she must be dying for company.”
You disliked the way the Hightowers treated Daeron’s dragon. But you knew it was not your place to interfere with such a thing.
Daeron’s face lights up like the boy he is as he sees her. You stay back against the staircase as Daeron jogs down the steps and over to the creature. “Here I am, girl. I promised I would return to you.”
The sight of the large dragon always makes you wary. Even as she makes screeches of joy as she sets her eyes on her rider, you feel yourself fearing for him.
Yet, he nuzzles his head against hers, and she appears to nuzzle him back. “There you are,” Daeron whispers with a laugh. “Shh. Shh. I told you, I can come down here more often if you are quiet.”
“Be cautious of her claws,” you say as she paws near his feet.
“She knows her strength, she will not harm me,” Daeron assures you.
You rest against the wall, and listen to him whispering soft words of admiration to her.
You are patient as he takes a brush to draw over her scales, grooming her body. He glances over to you. “She is not a monster like they say,” he tells you. “I have raised her to be good.”
You give a soft nod. “She is good, I know.”
“Would you...” He hesitates. “...Would you like to pet her?”
You take a quick step back, shaking your head. “I will keep my distance.”
“She will not harm you, you have my word.”
“Lord Ormund warns they are unpredictable with those that do not have the right blood.”
“Please,” Daeron says. “She sees you so often. I want her to actually meet you.”
Your eyes take in the creature. You stiffen as she stares right at you.
Daeron holds a hand out. “I will be right beside you.”
“What if she dislikes me-?”
“She will not. I promise.” Daeron steps close to you with his hand out. “Trust me, Lady (Y/N).”
It takes a moment of contemplation before you finally decide you do trust him. And if your trust gets you burnt, so be it. You take his hand, and he leads you to the dragon.
He lifts your arm and slowly places it on Tessarion’s head. The texture catches you by surprise and you flinch back.
He chuckles. “It is an odd feeling, isn’t it?”
You choke back a scream when Tessarion moves her head against your stomach. You stumble back, but Daeron places an arm out to steady you. “Daeron-”
“It’s alright. She just wishes to feel you too.”
You force yourself still. The dragon runs her head along your abdomen. Slowly, you lower your hand back onto her. The scales are not so frightening now.
“See,” Daeron smiles. “She likes you.”
“That is very relieving,” you laugh.
“Sometimes I think she can sense how I feel about people,” he tells you. “And that’s how she judges them.”
“Does that mean if you decide you hate me, she will eat me?”
“I would never hate you,” Daeron says. His voice grows more somber. “You are the only true companion I have ever had.”
“For now,” you say. “I am sure you will gain allies over time.”
“Allies,” he repeats. “Not friends.”
“I have no other friends either,” you tell him. “It is not so bad.”
As an aid to royalty, you are secluded from the outside world. Lord Ormund has insisted on it.
‘There is no room for distractions when it comes to your care of my nephew,’ he told you when you first arrived. You were just a girl then, so it made sense to you. But now, nearing your twentieth summer, you feel the seclusion is less necessary. Yet, he still insists on it.
It does matter your opinion, however. It never does with him.
Lord Ormund is the man of the house, so you must bend your knee to his orders.
Daeron is quiet for a moment. He brushes along Tessarion’s back.
“...I wish you were my true sister,” he whispers. “So that I did not have to fear you leaving.”
He has said this before. It makes you feel sympathy that he is so far from his real family, he sometimes forgets he actually does have a true sister.
“I would not leave,” you quickly insist. “I promised I would remain at your side for the rest of your youth.”
“And after?” he asks.
You sigh. “I do not know the plans my father has for me after.” You look again at the creature that has settled comfortably with leaning against your body. “But Tessarion will be here forever, at least for that you are certain. So be good to her.”
“I am,” he swore to you. He leaned his head against the dragon’s once more. “Aren’t I good to you?” he whispers to the dragon.
A few weeks pass, and the weather becomes warmer. It causes Daeron to lose energy in the day.
“It is shameful to sleep in the Sept, Prince Daeron,” you chide softly, “It is best you wake before someone else sees you.”
The boy barely stirred. Head resting on the pew in front of him, arms folded beneath him, he muffles, “I am not sleeping, I am praying.”
The yawn was still in his voice, and it made you chuckle. “You’ve been unmoving for fifteen minutes.”
“Deep in prayer,” he insists.
Another laugh. “It is almost time for dinner, Daeron. Come. Raise your head, and pray with me once more before we go.”
Daeron slowly lifts his head. He rises from the bench, and comes to kneel beside you in front of the candle altar. He clasps his hands together, and waits for you to begin.
You let your eyes flutter closed and pray, “Mother, please grant us peace of mind in these upcoming weeks. Give us honor in what we do.”
Daeron repeats, “Mother, please grant us peace of mind in these upcoming weeks. Give us honor in what we do.”
“Warrior, please send strength to King Viserys. Please give him health and extend his kingdom.”
Again, Daeron repeats after you. “Warrior, please send strength to my father. Please give him health and extend his kingdom.”
“Crone, please give Prince Daeron wisdom in his studies, and the foresight to see the consequences of laziness-”
“I am not lazy.”
You laugh, and continue, “Please make him into the best scholar he can be.”
Daeron eyes you, before praying, “Mother, please give (Y/N) a kinder heart that is less overbearing-”
“Shh,” you laugh, sticking out your hand to cover his mouth. “Do not say that to her.”
Daeron smiles as he continues, “Crone, give her the wisdom that reminds her I am her Prince, therefore I am in charge-”
“Daeron,” you scold with amusement, “We do not play with the gods.”
“I am not lazy. Take it back.”
“You were sleeping in the Sept.”
“Exhausted, not lazy.”
You huff, yet a smile still plays on your face. “Fine. You are not lazy. But you better be careful. What would you have done had Lord Ormund heard you snoring?”
“I do not snore.”
You shrug. “You would not know.”
You catch him rolling his eyes, to which you criticize, “Do not roll your eyes in the house of the gods.”
“Then let us leave the house of the gods. I am starving.”
“In a moment,” you tell him. “Allow me to do a prayer for our food.”
He sighs, but he stays kneeled beside you. He is patient with you in the Sept, just as you are patient with him with his dragon.
When you two are finished, the guards escort the two of you to Lord Ormund.
It became customary over the last few years for Daeron and yourself to have dinner with Lord Ormund in his private study. The Lord often complained that the Hightower dining hall was unappealing, that it was too close to the kitchens, the aromas were too strong, and he was unable to eat there. The difference in rooms mattered very little to you. You did not mind eating in his study. In fact, it felt like a compliment that you were even invited. It made you feel more valued that your company was enjoyed by both the Lord and Prince.
You are still laughing with Daeron over mundane things as you make your way through the halls.
“What brings such laughter from my nephew?” Ormund asks as the two of you arrive at his study.
You greet the Lord with a curtsy of respect. “Good evening, Lord Ormund.” You rise and smile, “Daeron speaks of plans for his fourteenth nameday.”
“Ah,” he grins. “Yes, that is arriving soon.”
As always, Lord Ormund stands as you enter, and he pulls out your chair for you. You take it with a gracious, “Thank you, my Lord.”
“What kind of celebration would you like?” Ormund asks as he takes his seat. He sits at the head of the table, as always. You take the left side of him, Daeron is sat on the right.
The prince smiles shyly. “I need nothing extravagant. I only wish to have a feast with the three of us, as always. With cake. Perhaps Uncle Gwayne can be here.”
“I can prepare you a cake,” you tell him. “It would be my honor.”
“You need not do it,” Daeron quickly says. “We will pay a baker.”
You tilt your head. “You do not trust my cooking?”
He chuckles. “No offense, my Lady, but I have yet to see you in a kitchen. It seems you do not get much practice at it.”
You let out a laugh. “Is that so?”
“Careful, Daeron,” Ormund chides. “Insulting a woman’s cooking is as if she were to insult your sword fighting.”
“She knows I jest,” Daeron says. “But either way, you should not waste time on such things, Lady (Y/N). Any day that honors me should honor you as well.”
The words warm your heart, and you wonder if this is what motherhood is meant to feel like. “You flatter me.”
“It is true. I feel I am becoming a great man due to your teachings. You as well, Uncle Ormund. I believe I am growing into my strongest self here in Oldtown.”
Ormund smiles proudly at his nephew. He reaches over and places a hand on his shoulder. “The Father smiles upon you, Daeron. You are a blessing to us all.”
“My father sends coin on my nameday,” Daeron says. “I would like to purchase gifts for the two of you. As well as Uncle Gwayne.”
“That is very thoughtful of you, Prince Daeron, but it is not a day you must buy gifts for others. Others should buy gifts for you.”
“I want to,” he says. His tone becomes shy. “I…would like to show my appreciation. With something you will be able to cherish.”
The idea warms your heart.
“Besides, I need nothing,” Daeron says. “And I want for nothing. I would donate my coin rather than hoard it.”
You smile wider, and you meet Lord Ormund’s eye. “He is a very noble boy, your nephew. You should be very proud of him.”
“I am,” Ormund smiles. “My nephew is growing to be flawless.”
“Flawless.” Daeron chuckles. “Except for the snoring, I suppose.”
You laugh. “Yes, except for the snoring.”
Out of the corner of your eye, you see Lord Ormund lean back against his chair.
“I am very much looking forward to hearing from my mother,” Daeron continues. “She writes to me an especially long letter on my name day each year. My father as well.”
“Perhaps you can have a portrait made to send them,” you suggest. “I’m sure your mother misses your face dearly.”
He lights up at the idea. “A portrait. Yes. I have not had one of those done in a few years.”
“Me neither,” you admit. “I fear my mother has not seen a new portrait of me since I was the age of ten and seven.”
“Then we could all have portraits done. Uncle Ormund, do you think you could call upon an artisan to-” Daeron’s smile drops and his words cease.
Your attention turns to Lord Ormund. A pit forms in your stomach.
He is not looking at either of you. He is simply staring ahead, silent.
Daeron becomes tense. “…Uncle?”
Ormund continues staring ahead, only his finger moving as he taps upon the table, quickly and precise, as if counting the seconds.
“I need no portrait,” Daeron quickly says. “It was only an idea.”
Lord Ormund is angry. You do not know why, or over what, but you know that this is his first stage of anger.
He stares.
He stares, and it gives him time to think. And the more he thinks, the angrier he gets.
Daeron becomes a shade paler at the lack of response. “I-I do not look forward to hearing from my mother as much as I look forward to seeing you, Uncle,” he spurts out, going through every last word he said to think of what could have angered him. “I do not take my place here for granted.”
Ormund’s head tilts to the side, his stare still blank and ominous.
When his eyes land on you, his gaze is so piercing that you flinch.
“My nephew snores?”
You blink, caught off guard by the question.
His hands open and close. “How would you know my nephew snores, Lady (Y/N)-?”
“I fell asleep today,” Daeron quickly cuts in. “I apologize for it. I drifted off, and she-she merely teased me for it.”
Ormund’s eyes don’t leave you.
You have been scolded by Lord Ormund before, plenty of time in fact. But there is something different in his voice now. Those scolding were small corrections, his voice never, ever rose at you. Even now, he speaks calmly. But the look in his eye makes you feel cold.
He does not speak again, simply waiting and watching for you to answer.
“It was only for a moment,” Daeron repeats with worry. “No wrong was done.”
Ormund continues to wait for your response only.
You swallow before speaking, “The Prince drifted off today, as he said. I allowed him to rest for a few minutes because he was tired. I should not tease a Prince about such things, I am sorry.”
“Where did he fall asleep?”
Daeron’s posture is rigid. You bite your lip, considering the consequences of your answer.
“Lady (Y/N).” He speaks your name softly, but there is an edge to his voice that you did not want to press.
You look again at Daeron, and feel as if it would be against your faith to tell on him. Daeron must’ve seen it in your eyes that you were unwilling.
Internally, you make the decision not to answer. You did not fear his uncle harming you for your silence.
But Daeron feared it.
Daeron quickly answered for you, “It was in the Sept.”
His uncle frowned. His head slowly turned to his nephew. “In the Sept?”
“Yes-”
“In our most sacred place of prayer?”
His voice is only a whisper. “I am sorry.”
Ormund slowly pulls his napkin off his lap, folding it and calmly placing it onto the table. He stands to his feet, his boots heavy on the floor as he walks to stand behind Daeron’s chair. He asks, “Did you pray for forgiveness before you left?”
“I...” He swallows. “I did not think to pray for that specifically-”
“Both hands flat on the table.”
Daeron’s face goes completely pale.
Ormund crosses the room to his bookshelf.
Your heart slams in your chest as you rush to your feet, hurrying over to Ormund’s side, trying to match his quick strides. “He said prayers before leaving, my Lord.”
He ignores you. He grabs the leather strapped rod he keeps on the shelf.
The sight of it surges your panic. You struggle to remain by Ormund’s side, placing a hand on his arm to slow him. “He did not mean to offend the gods. He was only tired from the heat of the day-”
“If he did not pray for forgiveness, I will administer punishment.”
“He will not commit the offense again.”
“Spare the rod, spoil the child. He will receive seven lashes. One for each god he offended.” He snaps at Daeron, “Both hands flat on the table. Now.”
Daeron shuts his eyes tightly, doing as told.
You run forward and force yourself in front of your prince. “The lashes should be mine,” you tell Ormund.
Daeron tries to push you away. “No-”
“I was in charge of him, the fault is mine. Allow me the lashes, not him.” In a surge of protectiveness, you try to hide Daeron behind your body. “I offended the gods, not him.”
Lord Ormund watches you with critical eyes.
You knelt down, and place both hands flat on the table.
Daeron’s voice is a quiet whimper as he says, “(Y/N), get up, this is not your punishment.”
You physically push his hands back to his lap, and lay yours flat on the table once more. You stare up at Lord Ormund, whose eyes are still so meticulous.
He stays staring at you a moment longer, and every second that passes, you feel your heart will give out from beating so fast.
Finally, Ormund drops the rod onto the table. Slowly, he kneels beside you and rests his elbows on the table, clasping his hands together. “Lady (Y/N), lead us in a prayer of forgiveness for Daeron’s offense.”
A shaky breath of relief escapes your lips. “Y-Yes, my Lord.”
Daeron quickly kneels beside you as well.
“Mother, please forgive the transgressions of Daeron. He has committed an offensive act that he shall not commit again. Please, allow him grace and hospitality.”
Daeron quickly repeats, “Mother, please forgive my transgressions. I have committed an offensive act that I shall commit again. Please, allow me grace and hospitality.”
Ormund speaks next. “Mother, please forgive the transgressions of Daeron. He has committed an offensive act that he shall not commit again. Please, allow him grace and hospitality.”
Another nervous breath. “Mother, please-please put mercy in the heart of Lord Ormund. Please allow him to grant us the patience and grace that you would.”
Daeron hesitates, his eyes shooting to his uncle, as if terrified of the consequences of this prayer.
“Daeron,” his uncle urges.
Daeron follows, “Mother, please put mercy in the heart of Lord Ormund. Please allow him to grant us the patience and grace that you would.”
Ormund finishes, “Mother, please put mercy in my heart. Please allow me to grant them the patience and grace that you would.”
“And so it is.”
“And so it is.”
“And so it is.” Ormund rises to his feet. “Let us finish dinner.” He pulls out his chair for you to sit.
The rest of the dinner is silent. You have lost your appetite, but try to finish the plate anyway. Lord Ormund is strict with your diet, and if you do not eat now, you will not be allowed food again until morning.
The time ticks by slowly. Daeron fidgets more and more as each minute passes.
“Daeron, you are excused,” Ormund speaks after he is finished with his own meal.
You see in the prince’s eyes that he does not want to leave you.
“Go on,” you tell him. “I will see you in the morning at the library.”
He hesitates only a moment longer. Ormund clears his throat, and he finally goes.
You are left alone with Lord Ormund.
“It is not your place to stand between that boy and his punishments,” he tells you.
You stare down at your hands. “I apologize, Lord Ormund.”
“You apologize, yet if it came down to it, you would do so again.”
You do not lie. “I would.”
Ormund sighs. He rises to his feet. He walks to you, and leans upon the table beside you. His fingers ghost your chin, and he tilts your head up to face him. “I hope you are not allowing your loyalty towards him to cloud your judgement.”
“I am not.”
His fingers graze the side of your face, pushing your hair behind your ears. “I do not only feel responsible for Daeron, (Y/N), I also feel responsible for you. I want what is best for you, I hope you know that.”
“I do, my Lord.”
His hand brushes down the back of your hair. “You have always been such a good girl for me.” His hand stops on the back of your head, and you flinch as his hand suddenly grips your hair. “But I need you to remember that your obedience is to me before my nephew.”
His grip does not hurt, but it frightens you.
You force your hands to remain in your lap. “Y-Yes, my Lord. I remember.”
“The next interference, I will not spare the rod on you.”
You swallow. “I understand.”
Ormund smiles at your agreement. His hand loosens on your hair, and he cups your cheek instead. “I have been told I have a weakness for you, Lady (Y/N). That I am too lenient when you are around, that I lack appropriate sternness.”
You have been told the same thing about him. That he is fond of you, that he treats you kinder than others, that your faith in the Seven makes him more gentle.
Ormund’s hand lingers on your cheek a moment, before he turns your head to the side, and reaches out to wipe away a bead of sweat that began to form on your temple.
“You would not dare use that against me, would you?”
“Never, my Lord.” You realize your hands are forming sweat as well. You open and close them to try to release the nerves. “I-I appreciate your mercy, but it is never expected.”
“Good.” He turns your jaw to face him head on. “Because my patience is not limitless.”
You do not know what he wants you to say. You wonder if he even wants you to say anything at all, or if he just wants to frighten you so you do not interfere again. You simply repeat, “I understand, my Lord.”
You think he will let go of you, but he does not.
Instead, he leans closer, and you hear his long inhale. It is what he does whenever the serving boys bring him new scented powders.
“You smell of candle smoke,” he tells you.
“From my prayer in the Sept, my Lord.”
Your answer satisfies him.
Another moment passes of uncertainty for you. You have never been alone with Ormund for this long before. Your mind goes back to Daeron, and where he might be.
“I think it is time we find a perfume for you.”
The comment catches you by surprise. “A perfume, my Lord?”
“Noble women choose perfumes for themselves. Ones they reorder time and time again. They spray it upon letters when they send it away, and sometimes gift small portions of it to women in their service. It will help mask the scent of the other tasks you attend to during the day. You are old enough now to go and choose your own.”
The idea uplifted you. “I will be able to choose?”
“You will be taken to the market tomorrow. You will pick three scents you like, and I will make the final decision on which one will be yours.”
“Any perfume?”
“Any you desire. There is no budget when it comes to a woman’s cleanliness.”
You feel yourself getting excited over the prospect of shopping. Lord Ormund usually hand picks everything for you, without your opinion on things.
Your excitement makes you bold. “May I choose a new dress for myself as well? It has been a long time since I have had myself fitted.”
His eyes flicker over your face. “You push your luck.”
Your heart drops, and you think you have angered him.
But he merely asks, “What would it be for?”
“For my visits to the Sept,” you quickly tell him, because you know he will not refuse this. “A dress with a thicker skirt so that my knees do not ache at the end of the day.”
Ormund leans back and contemplates. “You recall the rules of modesty for clothing?”
“Of course, my Lord. Neckline higher than the collarbone. Skirts passed the ankles. Arms to the wrist.”
He reaches down and drags his hand up the side of your arm, feeling the material. It was as if he was imagining something new. “Very well then. You may pick up a new dress.”
Your smile grows. You lean up, and you place a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you, Lord Ormund.”
His smile warms, and his expression turns kind. He is happy with you, and you hear it in his voice as he relents, “I will allow two dresses, if it pleases you.”
“Yes.” Your spirits raise even higher. “Yes, it pleases me greatly, thank you.”
Ormund chuckles at how elated you have become. He leans down and places a kiss onto the top of your head.
He lingers for a moment. You hear his gentle inhale, his quiet judgement of what he smells.
“What oils are used for your hair?”
“Roses, my Lord.”
“Do not choose roses tomorrow. This scent is tied to your girlhood with Daeron. You must find a new scent for womanhood.”
You find the comment odd, so you risk a laugh. “I am already a woman, Lord Ormund.”
His response is just a repeated, “No roses.”
Your laugh goes away. You shake your head. “No roses.”
“You are excused, Lady (Y/N). The guards will escort you to your chambers.”
hoping not a lot just forever II can be uploaded before the end of the month! Thanks for everyone who’s been patient. so american might be a little while cause I really wanna focus on that for now!
A compliment gone too far, attention too sharp and Ormund Hightower does not hesitate to show you exactly who you belong to.
WARNINGS; sexual content, explicit sexual content, possessive behaviour, rough sex, oral (female receiving), jealous!ormund, explicit language, minors dni, because I am not responsible for your media consumption.
The Ormund Hightower no soul asked for. I blame the deliciousness that is James Norton.
The air in the quiet chambers was thick with the lingering tension of the evening. Prince Aemond’s words still echoed in your mind, the way his pale eye had lingered on you, the low, appreciative rumble of his voice when he praised your wit and the sharpness of your mind. It had been a daring compliment, one that bordered on flirtation, and you had felt the heat rise in your cheeks under the Prince's intense gaze.
But the moment the heavy oak doors clicked shut behind you, the atmosphere shifted from courtly elegance to raw, possessive hunger.
Ormund didn't say a word at first, he didn't need to. He gripped your arm with a firmness that bordered on bruising, spinning you around and shoving you back against the cold stone wall.
His eyes, usually so composed, were dark with a jealous fire. He had seen the way Aemond looked at you; he had heard the Prince's admiration, and it had ignited a need in him to reclaim what was his.
“The Prince finds you sharp, does he?” Ormund hissed, his voice a low growl against your ear. He pressed his body flush against yours, his hardness straining against his trousers, pinning you firmly. “He admires your mind. But he forgets that every inch of you, your thoughts, your breath, your fucking body, belongs to me.”
He didn't give you time to answer. His hand dove downward, ripping your skirts upward and shoving your undergarments aside with a rough, impatient tug. He forced your legs apart, hoisting one of your thighs up over his hip to expose you completely to the dim light of the room.
Ormund dropped to his knees with a suddenness that made you gasp, he didn't tease, he dove straight in. His tongue lashed out, hitting your clit with a forceful, wet stroke that made your back arch off the wall. You let out a sharp cry, your fingers digging into his shoulders as he began to eat you out with a feral intensity.
He sucked your clit deep into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the sensitive nub while his fingers shoved themselves inside you, stretching your walls.
He was eating you like a starving man, his face smeared with your juices, making loud, wet slurping sounds that filled the silence of the chamber.
He wanted you to feel the desperation of his claim, to know that while Aemond might admire your mind, Ormund owned the heat between your legs.
You were shaking, your breath coming in ragged sobs as he drove you toward the edge and just as you felt the first wave of orgasm crashing over you, Ormund pulled away, leaving you dripping and desperate.
“Look at me,” he commanded, standing up and quickly shedding his breeches.
His cock was thick and pulsing, fully erect and leaking pre-cum. He didn't use any lubricant other than the mess he had just made of you. He grabbed your hips, lifting you slightly and driving his cock deep into your pussy in one singular, violent thrust.
You screamed into the quiet of the room, the sudden fullness stretching you to my limit. He didn't slow down. He began to fuck you with a rhythmic, punishing force, his hips slamming against yours with a wet, slapping sound. Each thrust was a statement of ownership, driving deep enough to hit your cervix, claiming every hidden part of you.
“Who do you belong to?” he groaned, his voice strained as he hammered into you.
“You... Ormund!” You gasped, your head tossing back against the wall.
“Say it again!” He gripped your throat lightly, not enough to choke, but enough to make you feel his dominance. He accelerated his pace, his cock sliding in and out of your soaking wet pussy with friction that set you on fire.
“I am yours! I belong to you!” The admission seemed to break the last of his restraint. Ormund let out a guttural roar, his movements becoming frantic and wild. He buried himself deep inside you one last time, his body shuddering violently as he pumped load after load of hot cum deep into your womb.
He stayed there for a long moment, panting heavily, his forehead pressed against yours, ensuring you felt every drop of his seed filling you up, marking you from the inside out. The Prince's compliments were forgotten; there was only the scent of sex and the crushing weight of Ormund's possession.
“Fucking righteous cunt thought he could compliment my wife,” he murmured against your throat, jaw clenching, “I will make this entire fucking keep learn just who the fuck you belong to,” Ormund's teeth sank into your shoulder with a sharp, possessive bite, his growl vibrating against your skin as he then hauled you against his chest, pushing you towards the bed, “Prince or fucking not, I'll have him eat is fucking words, rider of the largest fucking dragon or not, his fire will not touch you.”
Ormund pushed you unto the bed, flipping you onto your stomach and he yanked your hips up, forcing your ass high while your face pressed into the sheets. His cock, still slick from the load he'd just pumped into you, slammed back inside your pussy in one brutal thrust.
“Let them hear you, let him hear how I am the one making you come undone,” he gripped your waist hard enough to bruise, pounding into you from behind with savage force, each slam drove his length to the hilt, his balls slapping against your clit as he used your body like it was made for nothing else.
Hot cum from his first release leaked out around his shaft with every thrust, coating your thighs in thick, sticky trails.
“Mine,” he snarled against your ear, his hips snapping forward without mercy. “Say it again. Tell me who this cunt belongs to.” His hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head back as he fucked you deeper, harder, claiming every inch of your soaked hole.
“I am yours, Ormund, fuck,” your fingers fisted into the sheets as your mouth parted, breathless and heart pounding with each insistent thrust that made the bed shake, “it was only a compliment, nothing more.”
He shook his head, hammering into you as his free hand reached under you to pinch and twist your nipple, rolling the stiff peak between his fingers while he drove you toward another shattering peak, “You are so oblivious, so fucking blind to the way men stare at you. I should not have let you come with me,” he murmured, hands now gripping unto your hips as he continued to unravel you.
“You commanded me to come,” you muffled the scream that tumbled from your mouth, head tilting to the side as you now watched your husband pound into you over your shoulder, “you commanded that I come with you, husband.”
“Then I'll spend every godsdamned moment between your legs, if only so to remind those that I am not a man who shares what is his in any manner.”
The wet sounds of his cock stretching you filled the room, mixed with the slap of skin on skin and his ragged breathing. He didn't slow down, didn't ease up, he kept railing you from behind, determined to flood you again before the night was over.
His hair, now damp and clinging against his forehead, made your cunt clench tighter around his cock and a smug smirk fluttered across your face, “Green is a colour that suits you most sinfully, Ormund.”
Ormund’s smirk vanished, replaced by a flash of raw, possessive hunger. The mention of the color; the color of the Hightowers, the color of the ambition that fueled the court, seemed to snap something inside him. He didn't just thrust, he snapped his hips forward with a brutal, jarring force, his cock slamming deep into your cervix with a wet, heavy thud.
“You think this is a game?” he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble against your ear. He gripped your hips so hard his fingers left bruises, anchoring you in place as he began to rail you with a savage intensity. Each strike was a claim, a violent assertion of ownership that left you breathless and shaking.
The fury in him was palpable, a storm brewed from the lingering image of Prince Aemond’s lingering glances and the way the Prince had looked at you as if you were a prize to be stolen.
Ormund had always been a man of controlled passion, but the threat of competition had awakened a primal, territorial beast he had long since buried. He didn't want to just satisfy you; he wanted to mark you, to fill you so completely that there was no room left for any other man's thoughts or desires.
With a sudden, powerful movement, he yanked you backward, pulling your spine flush against his chest. He didn't stop the friction, keeping his cock buried deep while he twisted his body to capture your lips.
His mouth crashed against yours, his tongue invading your mouth in a mirroring of the assault below, aggressive, demanding, and absolute. He tasted of salt and desperation, his breath hitching as he felt your cunt pulsing and clamping tight around him. “Mine,” he groaned into the kiss, the word vibrating through your entire frame. “Every inch of you... fucking mine.”
He gave one final, devastatingly deep thrust, his entire body locking up as he hit his limit. A guttural shout tore from his throat as he came, a hot, thick torrent of cum flooding your womb, filling you to the brim. He shuddered violently, his heart hammering against your back, his cock pulsing inside you as he emptied himself completely, claiming you with every drop of his seed.
But as the peak of the orgasm subsided, the brutality evaporated, replaced by a sudden, aching tenderness. Ormund didn't pull away. Instead, he shifted his weight, his movements becoming agonizingly slow. He began to grind his hips into you with a rhythmic, devoted slowness, his cock sliding through the slurry of his own cum and your juices.
He began to kiss the nape of your neck, his lips soft and lingering, his breath warm against your skin. The contrast was dizzying, the man who had just been railing you like an animal was now cradling you as if you were the most precious thing in the Seven Kingdoms.
He whispered fragmented vows of devotion, his voice thick with emotion, grinding into you with a steady, loving pressure that targeted every sensitive nerve.
The slow, deliberate friction began to build a different kind of heat, a swirling vortex of pleasure that felt deeper and more intimate than the violence of before. Your walls clamped around him in rhythmic waves, and as he continued to grind into you with that unwavering devotion, you felt yourself shatter. You came undone, your body arching and sobbing as a powerful orgasm ripped through you, leaving you limp and trembling in his possessive, loving embrace.
Ormund's lips brushed yours again, softer this time, the kiss lingering with a quiet apology woven into every press. His breath came warm against your mouth as he murmured, “Forgive me. I was too rough with you.”
His hands eased their grip on your hips, fingers stroking the marks he'd left behind in soothing circles. He stayed buried inside you, his cock still half-hard and slick with the mess he'd pumped deep, but his thrusts had slowed to nothing. Instead he held you close, chest pressed to your back, and began to rock his hips in the gentlest of motions, just enough to keep you connected while the tenderness took over.
“I saw the way he looked at you,” he whispered against your ear, voice low and rough with leftover heat. “Aemond's eye on you... it woke something I thought I'd buried. But I shouldn't have taken it out on you like that.”
Another slow kiss landed at the corner of your jaw, then lower, along the curve of your neck. His tongue traced the skin he had earlier bitten, now soothing it with careful laps.
He pulled back just enough to turn your face toward him, claiming your mouth once more in a deep, unhurried kiss that tasted of salt and regret. His tongue moved slower now, exploring rather than invading, while below he ground his hips forward in tiny, devoted circles that dragged his cock against your swollen walls. The wet sounds of his cum shifting inside you filled the quiet between kisses.
“You're mine,” he breathed into the kiss, the words gentler than before, “but I never want to hurt what belongs to me.” His hand slid down to cup your breast, thumb brushing your nipple with feather-light strokes as he continued the slow grind, letting you feel every inch of him without the earlier brutality.
The tenderness built its own heat, each careful movement drawing soft gasps from you as he kissed away the sting of his earlier roughness.
“Forgive me, my love.” He murmured into your ear, “I forget myself sometimes when it comes to you.”
You huffed a breathless laugh, “You need not apologise, husband. I quite enjoyed it.”
He placed a tender, fierce kiss against your forehead and smiled, “I feared you might say that.” and with a quiet chuckle, Ormund gathered you against his broad chest, his arms wrapping securely around you as though the whole world could wait.
He rested his cheek atop your head, content simply to hold you there, listening to your steady heartbeat until the silence between you became as warm and cherished as any whispered vow.
the sticky maple plotline of Riverdale season 1, how it breaks the show and is a clear example of white male writers not understanding racial stereotypes and female sexuality
if you would like to see this analysis with pictures and videos here is a look from my twitter
I am not going to post all the pictures and video(s) here as tumblr formatting makes them show up really weird in posts. I will however have some pictures in this as they are necessary for context.
if your familiar with the storyline then you will know what I’m referring to in this article. if not I would suggest at least watching parts of the episode.
this post contains: spoilers for Riverdale season 1, discussions of rape and sexual assault, NSFW content and racial stereotypes.
As of recently me and @antonwyzek have been watching Riverdale. Mostly because we need something to watch and we both happen to be writing fics related to the show. It’s a fun time! I watched season 1 and 2 when it came out all the way back when I was in high school. It brings back fond memories and I’m remembering more than I thought I would… except for the following storyline… As we were watching season 1 we came to the episode Body Double which is the third episode of the show.
While watching there was an ugly feeling I had when watching the Sticky Maple storyline and how it’s written. I know this show is often the butt of jokes on online spaces including Tumblr but I still think it’s worth analyzing even if people write it off as “camp”. I would like to say camp is not immune to criticism and just because something is camp doesn’t mean we should not analyze it on a deeper level.
The concept of a sticky maple as I (and the fandom as a whole according to blogs and Reddit posts made at the time of the shows release) is seemingly the act of a guy cumming on a girls face. As this was a CW show (aka cable tv) they couldn’t get explicit as they likely wanted to
In the show, "Sticky Maple" is an act of visual/virtual slut-shaming. The selfie that Chuck and Veronica took is edited with maple syrup covering her face and it’s all over social media. I would like to point out that the maple syrup is artistic shorthand.
The maple syrup is edited clearly to be a cum shot. This is not me pulling this out of thin air that is clearly what the writers intended when they wrote this storyline and edited the picture that is posted of Veronica.
Chuck making this post on social media seems to be a confirmation that a sexual act was Done™️. The show explicitly states through Veronica (and later Ethel) that there was no sexual contact between her and Chuck. We DO see Veronica and Chuck kiss but again it doesn’t seem to go further than that.
We find out later through Ethel (this is her first appearance in the show) that her and Chuck didn’t even kiss. She was apparently just helping him find a book in the library (I believe that is what she says I haven’t been able to find the actual clip where she says this if I am wrong please correct me).
So Chuck lied about doing sexual acts with girls in order to write them in the book that various football players keep. We never find out how many football players KNOW about this book. Presumably it’s older football players? But Chuck and Jason are the same age as Archie and the other central cast. How did this book of sexual conquests start? Did Chuck start it? Did Jason start it? What do the sexual acts get you presumably it’s just credibility and respect with the other male players.
Archie is said to be a football player from even before season 1 which would make him 14 as the show takes place during the fall sophomore year. How did he not know of this books existence? How many of the football players dont know of its existence? The storyline implicates all the football players. But the show wants you to believe Archie does not know as it does not wish to muddy Archie’s ethics.
I want to quickly go back to episode 2 of season 1, A Touch of Evil. In 1x02 of Riverdale we actually see Chuck and Veronica sitting close to one another. Chuck isn’t a character in episode 2 and doesn’t even have any dialogue in this one scene he appears in.
Episode 3 is his first introduction to the audience, as he doesn’t even explicitly have a name in his cameo appearance.
the reveal of the “sticky maple” is odd to me for a lot of reasons.
The sticky maple as we see it through the dialogue IS a sexual act. Veronica (and the audience) have it explained as a “Riverdale thing”
“It’s kind of what it sounds like” says Kevin to Veronica. Through this exchange and the talk of other characters this is how we know the Sticky Maple in itself is an actual sexual innuendo/joke. The maple syrup is in reference to Riverdale being a maple syrup manufacturer town.
I want to talk a little bit about Veronica’s word choice here.
She states: “I’m not a slut nor will I be shamed.”
I find this wording to be… strange to say this least. There is an implication that the audience and the characters in the show would Approve of this act of shaming. If Veronica HAD done a sexual act. If her and Chuck had consensual sex and he posted this later she would be a slut™️. It was clearly not meant to be that serious in wording but that is what it comes across when you have Veronica defend herself in this manner. So Veronica didn’t have sex with Chuck. He lied about it to his friends and social media for cred. This isn’t bad character choice but the act of making it clear that Chuck and Veronica DID NOT have any sexual contact outside their kiss makes the rest of the storyline fall apart.
I’m not saying it’s unrealistic for a teenage boy to lie to his friends about having sex that’s not the problem. The problem is the puritanical framework that this storyline dives into. Ethel states her and Chuck did nothing but the reaction to her saying this, gives the impressionimpression Chuck actually physically assaulted her.
I wanna be clear I’m not defending Chuck’s actions what he did is clearly wrong but the way it’s written about in the show makes the framework muddled.
As far as WE the audience know Chuck is not sexually violent. He’s just a liar.
What’s interesting to me is that the show frames Chuck as a sexual predator and a threat to the women of Riverdale when all he’s done is lie about having sex?
Chuck says Veronica isn’t “virgin territory” after she kissed Archie in the closet back in the pilot.
Using Chuck (the only named black character up to this point not including Pop Tate who doesn’t really have any dialogue and is race swappers for the show) for this storyline is bizarre. They introduced Chuck as an explicit antagonist.
Veronica is meant to have our sympathies especially when we see her crying while reading demeaning comments. Chuck slut shames two (2) girls at Riverdale high and doesn’t physically assault anyone and he is told to us that makes him a predator and he must be stopped. It’s a muddled metaphor.
ways to fix the sexual assault aspect of this storyline:
1. make Chuck and Veronica have consensual sex and have him post this anyway
2. make Chuck an ACTUAL rapist/sexual deviant towards Veronica and Ethel
My point here is that the storyline and how its frame is inherently flawed. The show goes out of its way to clear Veronica of any “wrong doing” (giving a guy an alleged blowjob in a car isn’t wrong or makes her a bad person) but with this they write it as if Chuck actually committed some type of sex crime. We are sympathetic to Veronica because what is happening to her is Incorrect. She didn’t have sex. But she’s being shamed like she did. If she did have sex the shaming would be fine but the problem is that She Didn’t.
The existence of this book of sexual conquests done by the football players is puritanical. It is revealed that Polly’s name is in this book - Jason wrote her in. We don’t know what sexual act is done but
Betty states to Cheryl: “Jason hurt my sister!”
How do we know that? We don’t. They could have done a consensual sexual act and Jason wrote it down. Does Betty think Jason raped Polly? Are we supposed to think that? Cheryl says later when her and Betty are burning the book that “maybe she didn’t know Jason as well as she thought she did”
I am actually not opposed to Jason’s inclusion in the plot as it muddles the ethics of the main storyline Jason Blossom is not a perfect victim. It also broadens the list of suspects to include Polly. It’s actually very interesting but the writers don’t follow through.
When we see Polly later in the season she doesn’t have anything bad to say about Jason. She’s pregnant with his children and they were gonna run away together. So no violent sexual act was committed then? The whole framing of Betty being upset on Polly’s behalf is why she assaults Chuck later in episode 3.
Now I want to talk about one of the major problems with this storyline and it’s the use of Chuck as the primary antagonist and how his “punishment” at the hands of a white woman plays into stereotypes of the sexually violent black man and their “lust” for white women.
Chuck Clayton first appeared in Life With Archie #110 in 1971. Chuck was EXPLICITLY put into Archie as a means of adding diversity to the main cast - by this point Valerie from the Pussycats WAS a black female character but he is the first black MALE character in Archie.
In earlier stories, including his recurring appearances in Archie at Riverdale High, Chuck was shown an athlete. He was from the beginning depicted as a close friend of Archie, often spending time together or engaging in various adventures. By the early 1990s, Chuck's interest in cartooning was added to round out his character and separate him from Archie and Reggie. He wasn’t just an athlete, he was an artist. In modern stories, Chuck is depicted primarily as a cartoonist, whose greatest ambition is to become a professional comic book writer/artist.
He’s a soft masculine character. While the stereotype of the violent and sexually charged black man was around obviously Chuck very much did NOT apply to that trope. He is always portrayed as sensitive and caring. His main problem in stories is usually time management.
Chuck as a character is liked by the main cast. Despite him not being in the core four of Archie, Betty, Jughead and Veronica he is still an important character in the mythos and doesn’t really have a problem with anyone. He’s really just the chill artist friend. The conflicts he has in stories is usually internal, a Troy Bolton archetype of wanting to be an artist and an athlete.
I wanna note that the pairing of Chuck and Veronica isn’t really a thing in the comics either. They’re friends but it doesn’t seem to be a real romantic relationship or pairing that fans ship. His canon girlfriend is Nancy Woods - who to my knowledge does not actually appear in the Riverdale show. (Nancy is pictured above with Chuck).
I also want to make it clear that in pretty much all of his comic appearances he is not a guy who dates/crushes a lot. He is devoted to Nancy and typically is dislocated as single or in a relationship with Nancy. This is mostly because Archie comics didn’t want to deal with backlash from interracial relationships in putting him with main characters like Betty or Veronica or even Cheryl who was created in the 80s - after Chuck had been around for a decade.
In this analysis I will not be diving into Nancy as a character as it is not in the framework of this article but if you wish to learn more about her there are some great articles online.
Anyways even in later comics Chuck is still usually paired up with Nancy. Although in Afterlife with Archie Nancy does cheat on Chuck with Toni.
Nancy was a character who didn’t have a real personality until the 90s and Chuck was often paired with black female characters who had one off appearances. Nancy and Chuck usually have stories together and when they have conflict it is not because Chuck wants to be with other girls or is a pushover with sexual acts it is often because they are creatively different. In the grand scheme of Archie comics Nancy and Chuck are probably one of the more healthier relationships. Which is why I find it so Odd that they decided to use Chuck in this way for this storyline.
Although the show portrays Betty (Dark Betty as the fandom refers to her) pouring maple syrup on Chuck to the point that he starts drowning - as a messed up and “too far” act it still ends with Betty and Veronica victorious. On some level we are supposed to agree with them getting revenge and putting Chuck in his place.
When he comes back later in the season he doesn’t particularly seem angry that Betty almost drowned him it’s more so just annoyance at her and a bruised ego for getting kicked off the football team. He’s not the good guy so why would we take his claims of assault seriously.
We’re not supposed to feel bad for Chuck. We’re supposed to feel bad for Betty who did the act of violence. The framing of this is clear when at Jughead’s party Chuck reveals to everyone what Betty did. It’s not framed as Chuck being a victim of Betty. It does not have the characters look at Betty as a perpetrator of violence but instead is used as a plot point to show a humiliating moment for Betty and to show that Betty isn’t the “good girl” she claims to be.
Chuck describes the assault almost like a sexual escapade. Something kinky that went in a bizarre direction. The black man was almost drowned to death by a white woman going through psychosis and somehow Betty is still the victim and who we should sympathize with.
Riverdale race swaps characters for black such as Josie and Melody of the the Pussycats and Pop Tate - but their first black male character in the comics and the show is a sexual predator who uses his position of power being the coaches son to leer over the (white) teenaged population of Riverdale High.
It’s callus writing and the writers clearly didn’t think through the racial implications of using Chuck for this storyline. They tried to make up for it later in season 2 when Chuck becomes more of an “artist” but the damage is already done. The audience is always going to dislike Chuck - which is by design. You can’t have a sexual predator in your show and barely redeem him and then expect your young primarily female audience to welcome him back with open arms.
This storyline does a disservice to Veronica and Chuck. The feminist critique rings hollow when the show is afraid of making actual comments on sexual politics. The shows woke (for lack of a better word) marketing is a facade when your commentary on race is sloppy. It’s an example of older white male writers trying to appeal to the times but failing.
This whole storyline should have been scrapped or at the very least reworked because it shows a complete disregard for the characters and their source material. I’m not an Archie purist I don’t hate all the changes Riverdale did to the characters but this is one of the most baffling decisions I’ve seen from this show so far.
I also want to say that I just wanna say that I do enjoy this show and I don’t think the writers intended for this storyline to read as badly as it does. The road to hell is paved with good intentions. I’m sure this came from a good place but as a black girl who does enjoy Archie comics and this show it was really hard to ignore this decision especially when it doesn’t even seem to have any long lasting consequences for the story and the only real consequences are for Chuck and his character.
warnings: p in v, I wrote with age gap in mind but not specifically stated, slight profanity.
Author’s note: Based on the “are you okay?” Interview with Johnny Knoxville.
You and your husband Johnny have been in New York City for the past couple of days, promoting the “Jackass: Last and best” movie. You two had been having a great time so far. You got to watch his interviews, and walk around the city.
While walking one day, he got stopped for a TikTok interview called “Are you okay?” Where the interviewer would ask a few questions and then give them a score of “okay” or “not okay.”
It started off lighthearted, asking about weird fan interactions, but there was one question that upset him a bit. The interviewer asked him about crazy DMs and comments. He replied, saying that he had gotten some mean ones, but he just tried to ignore them.
That’s when she said “I thought that you would’ve said that people were like, horned out..”, surprised at his answer. “That hasn’t happened in years.” He replied, brushing the comment off.
You didn’t think anything about it, but when you got back to the air bnb you were staying at, he started to act a bit off. You noticed, walking into the living room and sitting down on the sofa behind him.
“What’s wrong Johnny..?” You asked softly, and his eyes softened, turning to you. “Oh, it’s nothing sugar..” He replied, but you didn’t believe him one bit. “Really baby, you know you can tell me anything.” He sighed, giving in. “Its just.. I don’t feel like I’m attractive anymore..” he mumbled.
“is this about this stupid interview..?” You inquired gently. “I guess it is. I mean, I’m getting older, I just feel like I’m not hot anymore..”
“Not hot..?” You asked, as if it was ridiculous. “You are the most attractive man I’ve ever seen..” His face lightened. “Really, you mean, I’m not to old..?”
That’s when you make the move, straddling his waist, grinding lightly. “Too old..? Johnny, I can just look at you and I’m wet..” you murmur, hands trailing down to his belt, undoing it.
“You want me to show you just how sexy I think you are..? cause I can think of a lot of ways..” You coo, as you continue to undress him, as well as yourself. He couldn’t say anything, just sitting there like an idiot, but that was your idiot. Your stupid, insanely attractive idiot, completely unaware of how hot he was.
When you sink down onto him you throw your head back in pleasure, each inch standing you further and further into euphoria. He let out a small groan, eyes rolling back. “My man..” you whimper softly, hips beginning to roll as his instinctively buck forward. “Mine.. ah.. s-so sexy..”
You move your hands to his hair, tugging on the silver locks gently. “Baby- I’m gonna-” he whimpered pathetically. God, you loved it when he was like this, all soft and pliant. “Go ahead Johnny.. give it to me..”
When it happens, all you can do is sit there and pant, burying your head in his neck..
“Her. Right over there. Can you not recognize her?”
You pretend not to notice the man pointing your way.
“That’s the wife of Aerion the Monstrous.”
The way they speak your husband’s name sends shivers down your spine.
“The vile bastard. How dare she comes here.”
You continue your way down the crowded street. The royal guards surround you, forcing a path forward and keeping pedestrians at a distance.
The guards are enough to draw the attention of those you pass by. The Royal emblem they wear makes all the stares become hateful.
You hear a scoff. “The nerve of these royals. How dare she walk through this town after all the blood spilt by the vile Targaryens.”
You try to pick up your pace. It is difficult with the guards blocking your way.
Another man further back mentions, “The Ashfords welcomed this barbaric family with honor. I would rather see them hung in the streets-”
He was hushed quickly by a woman nearby, warning, “Shh. They could hang you for saying such a thing.”
You ignore the prickles of fear that encompass you as you are escorted past angry citizens. You were granted temporary freedom, and this time, you would not take it for granted.
“Go to the market. Buy new bathing oils. Something that smells sweet. I despise that floral scent they keep putting on you.”
You repeated the command in your head, over and over, so that you wouldn’t forget it.
“Have yourself prepared for me by this evening. I have already told you I dislike braids in your hair. Fix it by the time I arrive.”
You take out your braids as you walk, letting your hair fall down your back.
Nearing the market, the street becomes even more crowded. More eyes cast your way.
Whispers follow you as you go. It should not bother you to be talked about so often. You should be used to it, seeing as you are a royal now. But even with a royal title, you still have the same sensitivity that you were born with.
Growing up, your mother always chided you for being so soft and easily angered. One of the many reasons she was so terrified for you to be married to a man who was just as angry.
There is giggling laughter trailing behind you. You glance in that direction. A woman stares at you. Your face burns red, yet you do not know why. It makes you feel weak to be getting this riled up by what others do.
“You will stay here,” you command the soldiers once you reach the busier area. “Just outside the market tent.”
“We must stay by your side,” one informs you.
You do not want that. People will continue to stare and point. You feel so small under their pointing.
“It is dangerous for me to go through the crowd with guards,” you try to say. “They will assume me rich and try to rob me. Stay here, where you can keep an eye on me, but you are not to follow unless I need help.”
“I am afraid that is not possible. We must stay by your side.”
You try not to show weakness. Men always tried to push their control when you showed weakness.
Aerion’s words return to your mind. ‘You are a Targaryen now. A commoner’s word will never outweigh yours.’
A knight was not a commoner, but you tried anyway. “You will stay here. It is an order.”
“Lady (Y/N), with all due respect-”
“My husband is very insistent on me having privacy for my shopping,” you say to him. “If you have an issue with it, then perhaps you should find him and ask him about it.”
The knight goes quiet. A burst of satisfaction rolls through you.
They would never dare seek out Aerion and you know it.
They are scared of him. It is so…different to use someone’s fear against them. You are so used to fear only being used against you.
You like it, you realize. You like that these men, the ones who left you alone in the tent at Aerion’s mercy, have suddenly been placed at your mercy.
“Line the tent,” you command them. “Do not enter unless I permit it.”
“Yes, Lady (Y/N). As you wish.”
You’re even more satisfied, relishing in the power you never knew you had.
The guards line themselves by the entrance. You pull your scarf over your head and enter the tent.
Your hair and head garment hide your face. You made sure to not wear any Targaryen colors.
You try to muddle yourself in the crowd. After a few moments, you seem to blend in, no one turning your way any longer
It’s not as if anybody knows you. They know drawings they’ve seen of you with your husband. Without the guards, you were sure you were nobody to these people.
The first thing you do in the market is buy what Aerion has ordered you to buy.
New bathing oils. Sweet ones that remind you of warmth.
The market is hot and humid. The thought of another bath excites you.
“The oils can go in the ends of your hair as well,” the sales woman tells you. “Would you like a hairbrush to go with it? We sell ones that hold the oil longer.”
“Yes,” you say. You browse the booth without a care. “These ribbons as well.”
You do not care how much it costs. You hope you spend all his money. You hope you spend so much that his father chides him about his spending habits.
Glancing at the end of the market, you can see the guards staring inside. They are far too far to hear you.
“Have you been...watching the tourney?” You curse yourself for sounding so nervous. It was a simple question.
“A bit. My husband is more interested in it than I am.”
“Does he know any of the knights?”
“A few.”
“Does he perhaps know a…” You pause your words, wondering whether or not this saleswoman has a loose tongue. Probably. All salespeople do. Yet you ask anyway, “…Ser Duncan the Tall?”
“Never heard the name in my life.”
Your spirits drop. And once again you find yourself wondering why this stranger of a man is controlling your mood so dramatically.
“Just these items then,” you tell her, a lower pitch in your voice.
You pay the woman, and she begins wrapping your purchases for you.
“Did you say you were looking for Ser Duncan?” a voice calls out.
A scandalously dressed red-haired woman nears you, a basket slung on her hip. She picks up an object from in front of you, eyeing it, before carelessly dropping it back into the pile.
“The tall one?” she continues. “Big oaf of a fella? Goes by Dunk?”
Your eyes light up, and you finally find some proof he is still real. “Yes. That is the one.”
She laughs. “Whatcha wantin’ him for?”
The sound of laughter prickles at your survival instincts. Laughter is always followed by violence with Aerion.
You are careful, reminding yourself that no one in this city is to be trusted. “I was only wondering which day he will joust.”
She lets out a humored snort. “Probably never. That one’s still beggin’ to get on the lists.”
A frown forms on your face. “He’s not signed up yet? The tourney is half over.”
“He says his knighthood wasn’t properly filed or somethin’ of the sort. He’s not recognized by the castle yet.” She shrugs. “He could just be sayin’ that, I suppose. Not the first man to lie about being a knight.”
“He does not seem like a liar to me.”
You defended him too quickly, and she notices. The woman’s expression changes. She glances over you, and you see her eyes pause on the clothes you try to keep covered with your scarf. “You’re right. He don’t.” She leans against a wooden table, not caring about the fruit she leans on. “You don’t look like you’d know him. You look a little too...posh to hold that man’s company.”
Her eyes continue to devour your appearance, as if trying to match you to a memory.
A scenario enters your mind, one where she may see you by Aerion’s side one day and recognize you. If she did, she may sell information about you, spread gossip that you are fancying some hedge knight. You tilt your head down. “I was only asking. That is all.”
“I hear he’s havin’ a shield painted by a girl that does puppets.” Another shug. “Maybe check the Dornish tent if you needa find him.”
“The Dorish tent?”
She raises an eyebrow. “Do you know what a Dornish tent looks like?”
“Yes,” you mumble. You wonder how pitiful you look for her to have to ask. “Yes. Thank you.”
That was all the information you needed. Your best bet was to leave before she could get a better look at you.
But something else gnawed at you.
You knew what she was.
No, it wasn’t very obvious to most people, but it was obvious to a noble lady. She is dressed in a way you were always told not to dress, because people in those clothes attracted the wrong attention.
The woman before you was a prostitute, and she was somehow familiar with Ser Duncan. It should have been obvious why she knew him, yet your hopeful nativity tried to tell you there could be other reasons. Reasons beyond the usual man seeking a wench’s body.
“Do you mind if I ask-” You feel shy continuing, eyes glancing down at her dress clinging to her hips. “I was only wondering, how do you…know Ser Duncan?”
“How do you think?”
You get an unpleasant feeling in your stomach. It is not your business, but your selfishness makes you confirm, “He has paid for your...services?”
A chuckle. “You sure are a proper girl, aren’t ya? Can’t even hardly say the words.”
Embarrassments hit you again, like so many times before. It is bad enough being laughed at by men, women laughing at you stings sharper.
“I apologize. It is not my place-”
“He hasn’t laid with me, if that’s what you’re scared of. I helped him get in contact with a knight he was looking for.”
You feel yourself relaxing. So wrapped up in feelings for a man you hardly knew.
Duncan sought help from a prostitute. Only the most mature of men could do such a thing.
She smiles at your visible relief. “Are you some lovergirl of his?”
“No.” You hurry the refusal. “I have a bet placed in the tourney, that is all.”
“Mhm.”
“Thank you for your help,” you tell her. You recall the coin purse in your pocket, you reach into it, and pull out two coins. You hold them out. “Let him know there is a noble lady who wishes him luck, if you see him before I do.”
You do not need to leave your name. He will know.
She snatches the coins from you, smiling. “I’ll do just that.”
As you leave the market, you feel a happiness that you haven’t felt since the last time you saw with Ser Duncan.
Oh, how childish you feel. Daydreaming of a man you’ve had less than five run-ins with.
“I have another stop to make,” you inform the guards.
“Yes, Lady (Y/N).”
You feel in control for the first time in a long time.
Walking along the busy city, you spot a tent with large paintings along the side of the canvas. Dornish paintings of puppets and dragons.
You imagine it is these beautiful paintings that drew Duncan in.
Cheeks blush crimson as you picture Duncan finding this place, his kind heart being amazed by pretty paintings in the way other men weren’t.
“You will stay here,” you order the guards. “I have private business to attend to.”
One argues back, “Lady (Y/N), we cannot allow you to be out of sight.”
“It will take no more than five minutes. If I am not out by then, you may enter.”
“Prince Baelor instructed us to stay exactly by your side,” one insists, his tone becoming impatient. “We allowed you in the market where we could see you, we cannot allow you to enter a tent alone. You could be accused of anything, and we are meant to be your witnesses.”
Your confidence in the idea slowly dwindles.
“Stand near the entrance,” you eventually say. “I will be no longer than a moment. I have to speak of confidential things involving Prince Aerion, and he will be very angry if he learns there were any eavesdroppers.”
Once again, it works. They feared Aerion more than Baelor.
Who didn’t?
They line the entrance of the tent, and watch you as you enter.
It is cooler inside. Cooler than the sun, and much cooler than the market.
You spot a woman. It is only one, and you are grateful. You would feel shy if there were more than one.
It is a tall, slender woman, one that holds herself elegantly, even hunched over and working
She does not hear you come in. She bends over a table, pressing down fabrics. You clear your throat. “Pardon me-”
You flinch as she whips around, the fast movement reminding you too much of your explosive husband.
But she is not rude at all. All she asks is, “Yes?”
“You are…one of the puppeteers?” Again, you chide yourself for how awkward your voice is.
“I am. Are you looking to buy a ticket?”
You glance out the tent. The guards cannot hear you from this distance, yet you still drop your voice to a lower volume. “I was told that you know Ser Duncan the Tall.”
“Oh. Dunk.” She nods. “Yes. I do.”
“He is having you paint a shield for him?”
She looks over you like the other woman had. “Yes.”
“How much are you charging him?”
She frowns. “I am not overcharging, I assure you.”
“No, no,” you quickly say. “I was not suggesting that. I only ask because-” You pull the coin purse from your pouch. “I wish to pay for it for him.”
“…You do?”
“What is the price?”
She tells you what she is charging him.
You reach into your coin purse and pull out double. Handing it to her, you say, “Please, make sure you do your best job on it.”
She stares down at the coins, before asking, “How exactly do you know this knight?”
“He is a friend of mine.”
Once more, she looks you up and down. “You must be the ‘princess’.”
You frown. “No, I fear you’ve mistaken me.”
“Dunk told me that he is riding with the favor of a ‘princess’,” she informs you. “And that is why he knows he is destined to enter the lists.”
Did he think you were a princess? He had seen you with the royal family at your arrival. Did he think you to be a blood Targaryen?
“I am no princess.”
She laughed. Not like the others. In a kinder way. “I told him there were no Princesses in Ashford. Then again, he spoke the title with more…admiration than formality. As if he knew he were the only one to call you such.”
You were no princess. Not even your parents referred to you as so. The main thing you were called growing up was ‘difficult’ and ‘melancholy’.
You tell her, “Perhaps he speaks of someone else.” Because that is what your self-doubt tells you.
She holds up a finger, before moving behind the table. “When Dunk first came to me, he requested a shield painted. A symbol. A shooting star over a tree. Said it meant something important.”
“Do you know what?”
“No.” She knelt down to gather something. “But just the other day he told me that he was given favor by a princess. He told me that he was not allowed to speak her name, but he wanted to find another way to thank her for her generosity.”
Generosity? She had not done anything generous prior to paying for his shield.
The woman stood to her feet. You could see now that she was holding a shield. She turned it to show you. “It is unfinished, but as you can see, he requested I add a few apples to the tree.”
Warmth falls on your heart like a blanket in the winter.
Your lips part in surprise as she presents the shield to you.
“I tried to explain that I had not drawn an apple tree,” she laughs. “But he did not care. He said the princess would recognize it as a thank you.”
You stare at the painting. It is beautiful to you. Not just because of the picture, but because of what it is.
She had painted proof that someone had seen you. The only proof in the realm that someone had known you.
Not a single gift of yours, not from your childhood, not from your wedding, certainly not from your husband, had ever captured a part of you in the way this had.
The man who let you hide behind him to eat apples, now wore apples proudly on his seal of knighthood.
Ser Duncan has made you feel more like a princess than your royal husband ever has.
You stare at it for another moment, for the first time in your life, you feel too overwhelmed to speak.
“I hope you like it-”
“I do,” you quickly tell her. “I very much like it.” You clear your throat, snapping out of your haze to hand it back. “You are doing a marvelous job. Thank you for helping him with this.”
Placing down the shield, she pulls out the coins you have given her. She holds some out to you. “I am glad to have your satisfaction, but I must inform you that you have overpaid. It is too much-”
“Keep it,” you beg. “As a thank you for helping him.”
“I cannot accept this amount,” she tells you. “It would not be right.”
“Take it as a donation to the puppetshow.” Your eyes gaze upon the half painted dragon. “It looks like hard work.”
She smiles. “Come see it. The main show will be in two night’s time.”
“I fear I’ve grown somewhat tired of tales of dragons.”
“Perhaps you will like this one. The dragon dies in the end.”
*****
You took great effort in perfecting your appearance that evening.
You spent nearly an hour in the bath, the servant girls brushing through your hair with the new oils, others plucking the hair off your body.
If being beautiful and quiet is what it would take to keep Aerion from getting violent with you, then so be it.
A beautiful, quiet, submissive wife. If that is what your husband wants, that is what you will force yourself to be.
‘Lips sealed,’ you tell yourself. ‘No replies, no rebuttals, and no backtalk.’
Your hair falls long down your back. You hold up your foggy hand mirror. A smile forms on your lips.
You look like a princess. A princess who dresses in the most beautiful of gowns in case she passes her knight in shining armor on the street.
You are so happy with the thought of Duncan that the smile stays on your face for a long time, dropping only when two visitors enter the room.
Ser Thenty and Madam Pricher. The sight of the woman makes your stomach hurt.
“Good evening, Lady (Y/N),” Ser Thenty greets with a quick bow. “I trust you got much needed rest today.”
“I did. Thank you. Were you able to rest as well?”
“Abundantly. Prince Baelor gave us the entire day to revive our energy. Your thoughts are appreciated.”
You risk a glance at Madam Pricher. She meets your eye with a sharp gaze. You look away.
Madam Pricher intimidates you in a way no one besides your husband does. She could get you killed one of these days. She has practically tried to already. She went behind your back to tell Aerion about Valarr approaching you the day prior, and you are lucky it did not end with another split lip.
“They brought in wine,” you tell Ser Thenty. “I will be called to dinner soon and have no way of finishing it. Please, have some.”
You are fond of Ser Thenty because he reminds you of Ser Donnel, as well as the other knights at home. He is the first knight of the Targaryen castle that is truly kind to you, and you hope that rewarding him for his kindness keeps him from turning into the devilish type of man the other knights were.
Yes, he is kind. But not as kind of Ser Duncan. You suppress another childish smile that starts to form at the thought of the tall man.
You begin to pout Ser Thenty a cup. “You are welcome to partake in any of the refreshments brought to me-”
“You are not to serve wine to a man that is not your husband,” Madam Pricher chides.
The thought of Aerion dulls you, but you try not to show it. “I merely mean to show him my gratitude-”
“Aerion will not be pleased when I tell him that you and Ser Thenty are sharing drinks together.”
Spiteful bitch, your mind screams.
“You will not bother my husband with such things.”
“I certainly will.”
You speak to her as you spoke to the guards earlier. “My husband tells me I can place orders on you,” you insist. “And I order you to be silent. If you fail to do so, you will have to answer to him.”
“I look forward to answering to him. Answering any questions he may have about your behavior.”
In a single moment, all the power you felt that day has been stripped down to nothing.
You feel like a nobody again. Nothing more than a misbehaved pet that’s being trained on how to act properly.
“I need no wine, Lady (Y/N),” Ser Thenty tells you. “Have some yourself. It will calm your nerves for your husband’s arrival.”
You know you cannot dare drink the wine. You cannot risk any drunkness. You must be hyper aware whenever Aerion is around.
“Your hair should be braided,” the older woman tells you. “It is improper to have it undone while you are a guest at a feast.”
“My husband enjoys my hair when it is down.”
“I have seen the things your husband enjoys, and they are classless.”
You burn with hate for her. “Aerion wants it down,” you insist.
You will do what Aerion wants. Her insults will never hurt as much as your husband’s fists.
Out of spite, you add, “But I will be sure he knows how classless you find him.”
You want her to be scared. Instead, she laughs. “I have known Prince Aerion since he was a small boy. There is no insult I have not given him straight to his face.”
Another feeling of hopelessness settles over you. You don’t understand how a maid is able to make you feel so powerless.
Even more so as Madam Pricher says, “If you intend to control me with your husband, you will fail. I answer to Prince Baelor and Prince Maekar. That spoiled Aerion has no hold over me.”
She has read right through you. She has seen your plans, and is letting you know that you have failed them. Your shoulders slouch.
You will never get a break from the cruel torture that is life.
Dinner was still half an hour away. Aerion was still ordered not to come near you yet. You spend the rest of the time in silence, counting down the minutes you have left before your tormentor returns.
Aerion arrives the exact moment the bells ring for evening dinner. It was if he was waiting directly outside the tent until the very second he was allowed to come back to bother you.
Your husband entered the tent with a smug smile, and overflowing confidence.
“Much better,” is the first thing he says to you.
You despise him.
Aerion stops himself just in front of you, eyes on your dress as his fingers graze over the fabric. The dark red seems to reflect in his eyes.
Aerion touches your hair next, running a hand through it and moving it out of your face. He leans in and places a kiss on your neck.
His face lingers as he inhales the scent of you. He is checking to see if you have obeyed him, if you have found new bathing oils. You wonder what the punishment would have been if you had not.
Pulling away, he seemed satisfied with the new scent. “You have listened to me for once, (Y/N). I am glad. I would have had to cut the dress off your body had you still been in the wrong color.”
You wish you could cut the heart out of his chest and watch him die in front of you.
Your husband’s eyes land on his second favorite thing in the room. “Have you not touched your wine? I had it chosen specifically for you.”
“I poured a cup,” you tell him.
He moves to the desk, and begins to pour a glass for himself. “You did not like it? Tell me now if that is the case. I will reprimand the boy that suggested it.”
You lie, “I liked it-”
“She poured a glass for Ser Thenty, Prince Aerion, not herself. She has not drank any.”
Your heart drops.
Aerion pauses.
Your lips part in mere shock at the comments. Ser Thenty seems just as startled.
Your husband slowly turns to you. “You gave my gift to your knight-?”
“I offered him a glass but he refused,” you rush out. “He did not have it.”
His jaw sets. “Why was my gift offered to him?”
A lie comes to you fast. “It-It is customary in my homeland for a guard to drink any open liquid before we drink it ourselves. The wine was sent unsealed, I did not want to risk sickness. That is why I did not drink any, because he refused.”
Aerion stares at you. One moment, two moments, three moments. Then, you hear a low scoff. “You think I would allow something to reach my wife without going through poison prevention? Do not be so stupid.”
He gives you a glass, and you take it without complaint. You will be obedient, as long as you are able. You take a sip as he watches you.
“Where did you go today after you left me?” he asks you. His voice is casual, the tinge of suspicion in his eyes is not.
“To the market,” you tell him. “And to the baths.”
He pours wine of his own. He takes larger drinks of it. You pray he will not be drunk tonight. “Only those two places?”
You knew the guards saw you at the Dornish tent. They would most likely inform someone. You quickly add, “I tried to stop by a tent for a puppet show. They told me they are only held at night, so I left.”
He halts the cup in his hand, frowning. “A puppet show?”
“I went in and left. I was there for only a few minutes. You can ask the guards, those are all the places I went.”
“What interest do you have in a puppet show?”
“They are...interesting.”
“They are childish. Do not seek one out again.”
He can’t even let you have that? It was a fake interest, yet he will not allow you to have it?
“As you wish, Prince Aerion.”
He finishes his wine, and he takes your cup from you as he realizes you have only sipped from it. He finishes it for you. Carelessly dropping the empty cup to the floor, he says, “My father is expecting us at dinner with Lord Ashford. Need I remind you of your rules?”
Your eyes go to the floor. “No, Prince-”
He snaps his fingers in your face. You flinch, eyes flying back to him. “Do not look away while I speak to you. Need I remind you of your rules?”
You quickly shake your head. “No, Prince Aerion. I remember them.”
“Stop looking so cowardly and pale. Stand up straight and act like a woman.”
You stand straighter.
“You have been a royal for almost a year yet you still hunch like a peasant.”
Half a year. You wish to correct him, but your mind screams at you not to. You stay silent.
He snaps his fingers at you again to say, “Let us go.”
He leads you out, Madam Pricher and Ser Thenty trailing at a distance, three other guards following as well.
“Valarr won his match today,” Aerion informs you. “But his competitor was hardly any competition. Sometimes, I wonder if his father pays for him to receive the worst knights to joust.”
There was a hint of disdain in his voice. He seemed disappointed he was not the only victor.
To combat his shifting mood, you tell him, “You also won your match today.”
A flicker of a smirk rises on his lips. “Not that anyone doubted I would.” He whistled behind you. “Pick it up, you old hag.”
You glance behind the two of you. Madam Pricher is struggling to keep up with his fast pace. You do not care to defend her. In fact, you hope she passes out from the exertion.
“Pick up your skirts when you walk,” Aerion commands you. “You are not a maid. You should not drag your clothes on the ground.”
You hold them higher, and say, “Yes, husband.”
He sends a look your way. “Use that mocking tone on me again and you’ll receive a slap to the face.”
You truly do not understand him.
Does he want you submissive, or does he find it mocking? Does he want you kind, or does he find it false?
You make a mental note in your head of the tone you used. It might have been too high pitched, or perhaps too soft. It was not a tone he believed, so you would make sure not to use it again.
You do your best not to make eye contact with anyone as you enter the Ashford Castle. You keep your eyes on the ground, where Aerion seems to like them.
The two of you are announced as you enter the dining hall.
“Prince Aerion and Lady (Y/N).”
You put so much work into keeping your head down, you had no idea who was at the table until you were fully seated.
It is an eight seat table.
Prince Baelor and Prince Maekar hold the ends of the table. Besides Baelor, on the opposite side of you, is Valarr. He does not look at you this time. You are grateful.
Aerion sits beside Maekar. The rest of the seats are empty. You risk glancing around, wondering if the Ashfords are late for the meal.
“The Ashfords are not coming to dinner,” Valarr says to you. “If that is who you are looking for.”
Aerion’s head snaps your way. You quickly stare at your lap, pretending as if you do not hear Valarr.
“Lord Ashford thought it best not to bring his wife and daughter,” Valarr continued, “After learning Aerion would be arriving.”
“Valarr,” Prince Baelor says cooly.
Aerion is staring at you, you can feel it, waiting for you to make a reply. You do not. You continue to pretend no one is speaking to you. The reaction seems to satisfy him.
“You sound spiteful this evening,” Aerion tells his cousin. “Are you angry that you were not the only one who won their match today?”
“I am more proud over the fact that no animals were harmed.”
Maekar hums in disapproval. Aerion chuckles. “You know, we may face each other eventually, cousin.”
“If you make it as far as I do,” Valarr nods.
“Perhaps we will be the finalists.”
“This tourney will be going longer than expected,” Baelor speaks. “Many knights entered the lists after learning of our presence here. I assume many men wish to apply for our royal guard. I estimate another week of jousts.”
Your blood runs cold.
Another week?
Another week of this torture of sharing a bed with Aerion?
The idea sounds horrid. Yet…another week in the same city as Ser Duncan the Tall does not.
“That is your doing,” Maekar tuts. “You allow in every knight that begs to enter.”
“Every rightful knight.”
“And you know them to be rightful?” Maekar asks. “Like the hedge knight that had not even a witness to his knighting?”
“I told you, I recall the Ser Arthur he spoke of.”
“Even the worst knight wouldn’t have thrown knighthood onto that giant brute.”
The word ‘giant’ catches your attention. You suppose it always will from now on.
“Regardless, he is entered.”
“Perhaps you should enter your favorite knight,” Aerion says to his uncle. “See if he is as brave as he pretends to be.”
Baelor barely glances at Aerion. He lets out a low sigh. “And who might my favorite knight be, in your opinion?”
“Ser Thenty, is it not?”
Your eyes widen, and you turn to see Ser Thenty is tense as he waits along the wall.
“He must be if you have chosen him to watch over my wife.” He turns to you. “And you find yourself very fond of him, yes-?”
Maekar made another sound of irritation. “Enough.” He snapped his fingers before his son could continue. “We have waited too long. Bring out the food.”
A serving boy asked, “Are we not expecting anyone else, Prince Maekar-?”
“No. Serve the food now.”
“No other guests are comfortable dining with the family,” Valarr begins. “Here we are, in someone else’s castle, yet no one else wishes to dine with us-”
Maekar slams his hand on the table.
Valarr falls silent.
The whole room falls silent.
It is so interesting for you to see how much power Maekar holds over this family, despite being the younger brother. Baelor will inherit the throne one day, yet his brother commands the rooms.
“Speak of the tactics used during your match today,” Baelor tells his son.
Valarr does so. He speaks of the books he’s been reading on jousting, how he’s been practicing holding his lances at different angles, how he’s taken notes.
Valarr is finally behaving like a calm scholar, the one others in the kingdom so often describe him. He is said to be a good man that is right and just, and finally you begin to see it. In fact, all the men seem to finally be able to converse without argument.
Except, Aerion isn’t conversing much. He is only listening.
Listening, and watching you, as if waiting for you to misbehave so he can put you in your place.
Again, the family seems to read right through you. Dinner is halfway over when Baelor says, “As you can see, Lady (Y/N), this family is capable of sharing a decent meal together. It is not often the boys bicker so much, I hope you do not see them in a bad light because of this.”
You do not answer him, especially not while Aerion stares right at you.
Baelor then says, “I hope you were able to enjoy Ashford more today. My guards tell me you made your way around town.”
He speaks to you, but it is your husband who answers.
“Yes, she came to watch my match,” Aerion tells him. “She helped me discard my armor, and recover from my soreness.”
You hear Valarr’s voice, “I’m sure she was thrilled to be there.” His tone held thick sarcasm.
Aerion seemed amused by it. “She was. She came on her own accord, even after your father tried to banish me from seeing my own woman.”
You clench your skirt fabric in your fist. You hate when they do this. When they speak about you as if you are not there.
You tense when he reached over and brushed his thumb over your cheek. “She brought me much luck.”
All eyes have fallen on you once more. You think of what to do. Your husband lives for flattery, so you give him flattery. “You had no need for my luck, Prince Aerion, you win every match you are in.”
You have pleased him with the comment.
Dinner ends smoothly. You are proud of yourself for your silence.
When the two of you return to your tent, Madam Pricher and Ser Thenty stand near the entrance. You try to pretend they do not exist.
“You did well tonight, wife,” Aerion says to you. “You will be rewarded for it.”
The reward he gives you is his mercy.
He does not rip your clothes when he strips you. Instead, he unbuttons them and places them on the table.
He does not shove you onto the bed to fuck you, he merely lays you down and gets on top of you.
His hands do not grab and pull at you, they merely brush over your skin.
When he enters you, it is not brutal and all at once, it is slow, and the pain is lessened.
Aerion kisses you. And when he kisses you, you are able to flutter your eyes closed, and you pretend he is another man.
content includes sexual themes, fem!reader, mentions of pegging, mentions of perversion.
A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)
adam is so soft with you after. he gets you a glass of water, runs you a shower & sits on the closed toilet lid talking to you through the curtains and/or get in with you, makes you a sandwich whilst you getting changed. just wanting to make sure you’re okay.
B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)
he’s shamelessly obsessed with your boobs, big or small. hes not even subtle either if you wear a low cut top it’s OVER for him & his brain short-circuits. expect him to always wanna be holding them or kneading them when making out.
for himself, he wouldn’t have anything specific since he got picked on when he was younger, but he does like how much bigger he is now. also if he did have to chose something, it would probably just be his biceps because you seem to like them A LOT (tehe)
C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)
i don’t think he would like cuming on you all that much. might do it once or twice but he is waaaayyyy more into the idea of you being the one who cums on him. especially if you’ve been grinding on his chestMMM he loves it
D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)
before you two were official, he was absolutely a down bad pervert. always trying to catch a glimpse of your breasts when you lean forward, and then acting like a he wasn’t if you saw him staring. once he stole a pair of your undies and you never saw them again (he would rather die than confess), and he kept them like some kind of pathetic little trophy because he couldn’t have you yet. they got thrown out after the first night you two kissed.
E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)
he’s had sex once or twice before, but he’s nowhere near as experienced as you. he’s a little nervous the first few times, as all he wants is to make you feel good. and once he realises you like taking the lead, he melts into it, all eager and grateful and trying so hard to be good.
F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)
he loves when you’re on top. loves loves loves it. it’s like his religion. especially the view of you breast in his face & how easy it is for him to grab one in his mouth and suck on it.
G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)
he’s not cracking jokes per say, but he is talkative in a breathless, needy way. will talk and ramble about how much he wants this, and how much he loves you the whole time.
H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)
he’s pretty tidy, and keeps up to date with grooming & he’s darker in the downstairs department compared to his head hair.
I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)
he’s so romantic it’s stupid. he loves holding eye contact, his hands always find some part of your body to caress whether it be your waist, your thighs, etc, he’ll be touching it. he’ll kiss you mid-anything just because he likes the feeling of you lips on his.
J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)
before you, it wasn’t really his thing. he did it, sure, but it wasn’t obsessive. and then you showed up and suddenly he can’t go to sleep without thinking about you — your laugh, the way you look at him, the tiny mean things you say when you’re flirting. it’s not even always explicit in his head half the time it’s just the feeling you give him. he’d get all worked up and then feel guilty about it, and then do it again the next night anyway. stopped doing it as much when he had finally had you though.
K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)
he’s mostly vanilla, but he loves when you’re a little bossy. he also has a small, thing for being teased in public. nothing too wild, just you sliding a hand up his thigh under a table … OOO he loves it.
L = Location (favorite places to do the do)
he prefers the bedroom over anything. but he is absolutely not immune to impulse. if you tug him into the changing room whilst your buying new clothes just to kiss him until he’s dizzy, he’s going along with it.
M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)
like what i said before, you being dominant makes his brain turn into soup. any kind of command, any kind of “be good,” and he’s finished
he also loses it when you do domestic stuff. you cooking for him, the two of you getting ready together in the morning …. he LOVES it. will always interrupt you and it will always end in either a quick make out or him eating you out.
also can definitely see him going crazy if you ever wear some eternia fashion.
N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)
he doesn’t want to actually hurt you, ever. he’s okay with being a little rough if he knows you want it, but anything that feels mean in a real way is a hard no.
O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)
MUNCH KING!!!111!!1!!, always so enthusiastic when getting the opportunity to eat you out. could do it for HOURS and HOURS and HOURS. don’t get me wrong, he likes receiving too, but he’ll always prefer the feeling of your thighs wrapped around his legs more than anything.
P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)
he’s a messy mix of desperate and gentle. he just wants you all the freaking time that it makes it hard for him to go slow, but he does want to appreciate you as much as he can.
Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)
quickies happen a lot, mostly because he’s almost always half a second away from getting a boner when around you. he’ll try to be patient, & a good boyfriend, but it never actually works.
R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)
he’ll take risks if you make him feel safe about it. he’s not the one who suggests something wild first, but he will absolutely follow your lead if you’re confident. he prefers getting home before things go too far, though like what i said, is not opposed to certain exhibitions.
S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)
he has ridiculous stamina, and he’s kind of smug about it once he realises. the most you’ve done in one session is probably 7–8 rounds, and after, he’s so proud of himself
T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)
doesn’t really get it at first and he’s a little intimidated by the concept. not in a judgmental way more like “am i not enough?”. low-key comes around once you bring up the concept of pegging him though 😊😊😊
U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)
he prefers being teased, which is unfortunate for him because you’re so so good at it. he’ll try to tease you back sometimes but realistically, he just ends up teasing himself and always breaks first.
V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)
he’s is SO FREAKING LOUD. he’s not trying to be, but he forgets how to be quiet when he’s overwhelmed. he makes these soft, pathetic little sounds when you’re teasing him and then deeper ones when he finally loses control. he’ll try to muffle himself with a pillow once & fail immediately. you have gotten many noise complaints.
W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)
he would absolutely let you peg him if he trusted you enough. he’d be nervous, but he’d be weirdly into it. wants to do it a lot after the first time.
X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)
he’s big. maybe 6inches when soft and up to 8 inches when hard. he’ll act like it’s no big deal, but if you ever compliment him, it boosts his ego so hard.
Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)
his sex drive is ridiculous. he got worked up just being around you before you two were dating, and that didn’t go away once you were if anything, it got worse because now he can have you and he’s addicted to it. he’d have you in his lap all day if you let him. and even when you’re not doing anything “sexy,” he’s still thinking about you in that manner. you’re just so beautiful to him all the time
Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)
like what i said earlier, he’ll do everything for you to make sure you’re okay but once he knows you are he will be lights out almost immediately.
"Because it was you, I won't ever regret anything."
𝑷𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈: Uzumaki Naruto x Hyuuga Hinata
𝑾𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒔 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕: 24k
𝑻𝒂𝒈𝒔: One-shot, College AU, Horror, Supranatural, Mystery, Angst, Major Character Death, Crime&Homicide
𝑺𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚: Dead souls. Dead body. Dead love story. Until death do them apart, will they really accept it?
One begs to die and one refuses to leave; while hauting the living, what's left for them to hold on?
Written for NHMonth2025 ( @nhmonth2025 ) day 11: College AU
Click here to read!
Content warning: graphic depiction of violence that might not be suitable for some readers. Please heed the tags and read by your own accord.
- in which…jungwon ends one of his live streams early to meet up with someone, that someone being you
⋆.˚ ⤷ paring : idol!jungwon x fem!reader
⋆.˚ ⤷ genre : Romance, fluff, idol au, slice of life, a bit suggestive towards the end (making out)
⋆.˚ ⤷ summary: Jungwon ends his livestream early, surprising fans who expected him to stay longer. While the chat floods with confusion, it’s revealed that he’s rushing off to meet someone important to him. Outside the dorm, you’ve been waiting for him in the quiet night, and he chooses to leave behind his idol duties for a moment of real connection with you.
a/n : i’ve never actually read a fanfic like and i’ve always thought of about making one sooo my daydreams are coming to life (daydream mentioned!?) not proofed again cause idk w.c : around 700+ prob i’m guessing
The room was quiet except for the soft glow of the ring light and the steady buzz of notifications rolling in.
Jungwon sat cross-legged on the floor of the hotel room, phone propped up against a water bottle, reading comments as they flooded the live chat as he leaned his head back against the couch behind him.
“Did you eat yet?”
“Please take care of yourself, Jungwon!”
“Stay longer!!”
He smiled softly his dimples showing briefly, that familiar gentle expression that always made fans feel like they were being personally looked at through the screen.
“I did eat,” he said, nodding. “Don’t worry about me.”
The chat exploded with heart emojis.
He leaned closer to the camera. “I’ll stay a bit longer today, okay?”
A promise he didn’t entirely intend to keep.
Because every few seconds, his eyes kept drifting off-screen. To his phone. To the silent message that had lit up his lock screen earlier:
“Are you done yet?”
It wasn’t demanding. Just soft. Patient. Waiting.
And somehow, louder than anything in the chat.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
You were sitting on the hood of your car in the hotel parking lot, hoodie pulled over your hands, watching the night air fog slightly in front of your breath. Music played faintly from your airpod’s, but you wasn’t really listening.
You were just waiting.
He’d told you he had a live.
You understood that. Of course you did.
He was an idol after all.
But youstill came anyway.
Because sometimes, just being near someone—even in silence—felt better than watching them through a screen.
Your phone buzzed.
‘I’m almost done.’
You smiled to yourself.
“Take your time,” you whispered, even though he couldn’t hear you.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Back inside, Jungwon shifted again, chat still scrolling endlessly.
Then he paused.
There it was again.
That message from you.
He stared at it a second too long.
The comments blurred slightly. The noise of the live suddenly felt far away, like it belonged to another version of his day.
He blinked, then sat up straighter.
“Guys…” he said slowly.
The chat froze, sensing the shift.
“I think I have to end here today.”
Instant chaos.
“WHAT??”
“WHY??”
“STAY A LITTLE LONGER 😭”
He gave a small apologetic laugh, scratching the back of his neck.
“I’m sorry. I… have something I need to do.”
A pause.
Then, softer:
“I’ll come back next time, okay?”
He reached forward and ended the live before they could argue him out of it.
The screen went dark.
For a second, the room felt too quiet.
Then Jungwon exhaled, almost like he’d been holding his breath the entire time.
And grabbed his jacket.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
You heard footsteps before you saw him.
Quick ones. Familiar ones.
Then the sound of the dorm door opening somewhere behind you.
“Hey.”
You head turned.
He was there, slightly out of breath, hair a little messy like he’d rushed straight out without thinking twice.
You raised an eyebrow. “You ended early.”
“I did,” he admitted.
A beat.
Then, quieter: “I wanted to see you.”
That was all.
No elaborate explanation. No excuses.
Just that simple truth, standing there in the cold night air like it belonged there.
Jungwon walked closer towards you just inches away from your face then in a blink of an eye kissed you on your lips.
After a few seconds you reluctantly pulled away and look at him with a hint of desperation in your eyes.
You tilted her head, studying him. “You got in trouble?”
“Probably,” he said honestly.
That made you laugh.
And something in his expression softened at the sound, like it was exactly what he came for.
He glanced around the area making sure nobody else was there, hands tucked into his sleeves. “You waited a long time?”
“Not really.”
A lie.
He knew it. You knew he knew it.
But he didn’t call it out.
Instead, he just nodded and said, “Next time, I’ll be faster.”
He glanced down at your lips for a split second before looking back into your eyes. It was faint but hard to miss.
“You know what I miss the most?” He said in a low voice.
Before you could answer he closed the gap between your mouths again but this time with a more desperate effect.
You made a whiny sound at the impact but relaxed right after. The sound was like music to his ears as he lifted his hand to cradle the back of your head gently caressing you’re soft strains of hair.
As the kiss depended you could feel Jungwon’s tongue graze your teeth waiting your approval to enter. You immediately opened your mouth letting his tongue interlock with yours.
The sensation felt as if you were in heaven and you didn’t want this moment to end. And, as you continued you could hear faint whimpers coming from Jungwon’s mouth.
After what felt like hours the two of you finally pulled away to catch your breath as a string of saliva extended between both of your lips.
“Next time, don’t end your live early,” you said in a breathless voice.
He looked at you for a second, then smiled faintly.
“No promises.”
And for a moment, standing there under dim parking lot lights, it didn’t feel like he’d left anything behind.
Just like he’d chosen something else instead.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ ໒꒱
AYYYY how was it guys??? alr lowk been obsessed with this man since 2021, and im def gonna do WAYYY more fanfics of dada bc he’s just perfect like oml 🤤 anyways byee yalll ❤︎
cassie who drops victoria off at her parents house after a shift one night and tries to say goodnight but victoria just looks up at her with her big brown eyes, a pout viscously coving her face and begs her to come in.
cassie tries to tell her no, that it would be inappropriate and your mother would have my head on a stick if she found out i stepped foot inside of her daughters bedroom. but victoria is relentless and honestly kind of mean about it, so minutes later cassie finds herself sitting on victorias victorias bed, arms folded neatly on her lap as victoria gives her a show and tell.
she’s showing her little trinkets around her room and cassie really doesn’t want to seem uninterested, and she’s not, but she’s so nervous about eileen shamsi busting through the doors and firing her on the spot. even though that wasn’t even possible.
cassie breathes out a sigh of relief when victoria rushes into her closet and tells her one last thing! every feeling of relief flies out of her body when victoria prances back out into her room wearing nothing but a skimpy lingerie set.
she’s choking on her words as victoria giggles and saunters over to her. she’s nudging herself between cassie’s thighs and she knows she’s not a good person because she lets it happen, even lets her hands ghost over victorias body.
you like it, cas? she’s whispering as wraps her arms around her neck. i was thinking about you when i bought it.
cassie can’t even form a sentence, just mutters out fuck, yeah in a deep breath. victoria straddles her at some point and uses a hand to shove cassie’s face right into her plump chest.
she lick and sucks over victorias tits for a while before looking up at her, big eyes hungrily watching her. cassie’s sure she’s lost all sense of sanity as she flips victoria onto her back and rips off her little set. she devours victorias body, mouth attaching to her soaked cunt as she pulls the thong fully off her body.
she eats like a woman starved before unlatching herself from victorias heat. she kisses all the way up her body, spending extra time on her nipples before licking all the way up her neck. she plunges two long fingers inside of her pussy, victoria moaning loudly at the sudden fullness
shh, she whispers as she fucks her relentlessly with her fingers. wouldn’t want your mom to come home and hear her daughter slutting herself out for me, right? her smart baby girl getting fucked by a resident twice her age.
victoria whimpers at that and cassie feels her fingers get soaked with even more arousal. oh, you like that? you want everyone to know how easy you are. alright, baby girl, let’s see how loud you can fucking get.
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