You were aware of everything, everywhere, all at once. It was overwhelming. Your thoughts spun at a dizzying pace, the wedding, the weight of your new title, the realization that you were now a princess, the future Queen of Westero, and, above all, Baelor's wife. Your mind leapt from one thought to the next, never lingering long enough for any single idea to fully take shape before it slipped away again. Each anxious thought was chased off by another wave of pleasure, chasing away the thoughts before they could fully form. Your husband's gentle touch, the warmth of his lips around your fluttering bud, the brush of his hands against your hips as they kneaded the flesh before traveling down to your thighs.
It was nice. No... more than nice.
For the first time since forever, you weren't thinking about anything.. You were simply here, wrapped in the hands of the man who was now your husband, listening to his princely mouth utter such filthy things.
Your whole body flushed as Baelor drew back, beard glinting with your release. The golden light that bathed the room seemed to deepen the warm glow of his skin, casting him in flickering shades of amber and gold. He stood at the foot of the bed, his eyes fixed unwaveringly upon yours. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he reached for the hem of his shift and pulled it over his head. The movement revealed the broad expanse of his chest and the firm planes of muscle beneath smooth skin, each shifting gracefully as he moved in the soft candlelight.
Without a word, his fingers found the laces of his breeches, deftly loosening the knots with practiced ease, all the while watching you with an intensity that stole the breath from your lungs.
Beneath your prince's unwavering stare, your husband's, you felt utterly exposed. Heat blossomed across your cheeks, and despite yourself, you shifted beneath the weight of his gaze, your heart fluttering wildly in your chest.
His boots struck the floor with soft, deliberate thuds, joining the growing pile of discarded garments scattered across the rushes. Every measured step brought him closer, each one making your pulse race faster than the last.
You pushed yourself up onto your forearms, instinctively retreating until your back met the plush pillows. Your breath caught between parted lips as you watched him approach, unable to look away. His gaze tracked your every movement with quiet, unwavering focus, as though there was nothing else in the world worth seeing but you sprawled against the bed.
"Please..." you whispered, swallowing hard. Your voice trembled ever so slightly as you leaned back against the headboard, your eyes never leaving his. A shy smile flickered across your lips. "Husband."
Xxxxx
Baelor was bare in front of you the moment your voice died on the air. Hands tearing at the laces and riding himself off the offensive layer before you could blink. Thick member bobbling heavily against his stomach, the tip swollen and red, balls hanging full and heavy beneath it. Your eyes lingered on him for only a heartbeat before he was above you.
The warmth of his body enveloped yours as he hovered over you, bracing himself on one forearm while his other hand slipped gently into your hair, his fingers threading through the silken strands. The mattress dipped beneath his weight, drawing you closer until there was scarcely any space left between you. With a slow, careful shift of his hips, he settled himself between your thighs.
A whimper fell from your lips as his cock nudged against the bundle of overstimulated nerves between your legs.
"Shhh... I've got you..." His voice was little more than a whisper, husky with emotion as he rested his forehead against yours. "If you need me to stop, I will. We don't have to do anything you're not ready for…I am more than content…. A cut on my arm and blood on the bed sheet is enough proof for the court. I…''
You closed the small distance between you, your lips brushing his in a kiss so feather-light. You hesitated for the briefest heartbeat, your breath mingling with his. Your lips lingered against his, soft and warm, melting together in a flurry of half-moaned kisses, his tongue teasing at the entrance of your mouth.
You could feel the smile that ghosted across his lips before either of you drew back, his hand still cradling your head. His thumb swept absent-minded circles just below your ear as though he could not bear to lose contact with you. The stern set of his jaw had softened; the lines carved there by duty eased away until only quiet wonder remained. Candlelight caught in his mismatched eyes, their fierce intensity gentling as they wandered over your face, pausing at the flush warming your cheeks, the slight tremble of your lower lip, the way your lashes fluttered before lifting to meet him once more. His gaze lingered as if he were afraid to blink.
''It will hurt only for a moment."
You searched his face. "I know..." you whispered, your voice scarcely louder than the gentle sigh of the wind beyond the chamber windows. Your fingers tightened around his hand.
Slowly, almost timidly, you shifted beneath him, your knees parting a little wider in silent invitation. He followed the movement with care, lowering himself until there was no space left between you, your bodies settling together. Your fingertips brushed lightly over his cheek before coming to rest against his jaw, your gaze tracing every familiar line of his face, his greying strands that stuck against his forehead, with the light sweat of his brow.
Your eyes found his once more, "Please..." you breathed, your thumb stroking gently across his cheek. "Make me yours."
xxxxxxxxxxx
His tongue was in your mouth. The same tongue that moment ago had taste between your fold and sent you into a bliss you never imagined. His grip is so hard you could not move but you didn’t want to. He had crawled over you with such desire in his eyes you felt a gush of wetness coat your thighs.
The first touch of your tongue is soft, sweet even, he was your prince after all, but lips swept over your feverishly, hungry, consuming as his hips rocked impossible slow against your soaked pussy. Whimper escaped your kiss as his hand abandoned your hair, travelling the expanse of your shoulder, fingernails scratching over your sensitive skin. At your chest, he stopped taking both breasts in hand, feeling the weight of them, callus thumbs circling your nipples till they were tight painful pebbles, yearning for something that you could quite name. Helpless, you withered beneath his teaching hips that dragged his cock over that tender pearl nestled between your legs. His hands a frenzy of movement, so frantic your mind could not conceive them, all you could do was moan under his moments. Anything that made your groan was repeated, anything that caused you to whimper was revisited. Anything that made your hip jerk was doubled down on. Too lost in the chase of pleasure you did not feel him he was at your entrance.
The feeling is strange. The strong drag of his thick cock against your soaked core felt… obscene. His cock kissed your entrance, demanding, begging, for it. You moan into your mouth as he devours you. His fingers dug into your hips, pulling you impossibly tighter against the hard ridge of his cock straining against your entrance, thick and insistent.
A surprise gasp erupted from your lips as he settled. A low sound started in the back of his throat, something between a growl and a groan as his cock edged its way in.
Your hands griping his shoulders as he stilled "I need to go slow, so I won't hurt you”He searches your face, breath warm against your lips as he moved, pushing in slowly,
The first thrust broke your maiden head, it was short and sharp, tears clung to your water line as your pussy fluttered desperately to accommodate such a large girth. Above you Baelor hovered, not moving, eyes tracking your every movement. The primal part of him preen, to have you as his wife, staring wide eyed up at him as his cock pushed down into your tight pussy that so earnestly tried to take him. Wanting…no needing to be his and his alone. And it was very hard to be the good, decent man you deserved when you whimpered all big eyed up at him.
“Seven save me.” he gritted through teeth, his fingers releasing your breast to find your clit, rubbing small circles over your bud as he held your for a moment, letting your walls adjust. ‘’Wife…’’ a hoarse cry fell from his lip as the sleekness coated him, your greedy wall trying to suck him deeper. ‘...you bless me.’’
Inch by inch he filled you completely, he couldn’t stop himself, not till you took him up to the hilt, which your pussy seemed all too eager to take.
The stretch burned, your walls spasmed around his cock, a cry escaped your mouth, swallowed by Baelor lips as they renewed their attack on them, his hand traveling down to your clit to rub soft soothing circles in on your clit.
You have no idea how long you laid there before the pain turns sweet, little plumes of pleasure curling round your core, your hips tilted up searching for more.
‘’So tight....relax wife.'' he hissed against you as you claimed down hard around him, his fingers never relenting from their duty of circling you clit.
''Ready my love?’’
‘’Please’’ you panted.
Baelor's body smothered your hands, grabbing at the softness of your thighs, hiking them up across his waist as he started to move. His cock dragging along your walls in shallow thrusts, tentative and searching.
‘’My darling saviour.’’ he groaned, changing the angle of his hips and pumped deeper. ‘’This will be our haven…gods your pussy.’’
The pain was still there but the pleasure, the pleasure was blinding as he worked into you. ‘’Baelor…’’ You wanted this, you need this, with an urgency you had never felt before
‘’I know… I…have you…’’ he rasped as he thrust deeper, again and again till he found that bundle of nerves. The patch that turned the pain into bliss and sent you babbling into the air.
‘’There it is…I got you.’’ he growled, as with renewed vigor he thrust into you, hips snapping back with every thrust, sinking into the warm velvet wall, sucking him deeper and deeper
‘’I love you…’’ he groaned low in his throat, the sound joining that of your wetness and the sleek slap of skin. His fingers never relented from your delicate bud, he felt the wall around his cock shiver and shake, your heels pressed hard into his side and he pulled all the way out, your tits jiggling beneath him as he drove back in.
God he was like a green boy. Ready to spill as the mere flutter of your pussy, so perfect around him.
The feeling clawed in way to your core, tightening harder and faster than before, with an intensity that was almost painful. Panicked eyes searched Baelor’s as you felt it.
‘’Baelor!’’ you choked, frantic and desperate, bucking against him.
But your husband did not relent, his hips steadily grinding against you, angled to hit that spot. "Bae..baelor.." you cried, your walls clenching around him.
"Come for your husband"
The world splintered around you, pleasure erupting through you, your pussy tightening around him as you came, crying his name as you clung to him. White hot pleasure rocking your body as his thrust became more erratic, pulling you through your orgasm as he chased his own, the one he had been holding at bay since he thrust into you. He gave one last thrust as you spasmed around him, milking him of every drop. His body trembling above you, a roaring moan escaping him.
xxxxxx
For a long time after the only sounds in the chamber were the dying crackle of the fire and the soft rhythm of your breathing as you lay wrapped together beneath the heavy furs. Baelor remained inside you, one arm draped protectively around your waist, his thumb idly tracing slow circles against your skin as the after shocked wreaked your body. Kissing every each of face before slowly he slipped from you. You whimper at the loss, watching as the light flickered over his face, his eyes darkening as they lingered between your legs.
He gathered you against his chest without a word, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. His fingers tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear before he drew the blankets higher around your shoulders, making certain not even the night's chill could find you.
‘’I…I didn’t think it would be like that…’’ you settled against him, blinking up at him, a smile stretching against your reddy skin, a glow still lingering on your skin.
His lips curved into the smallest smile as he looked down at you, his mismatched eyes warm.
"Sleep now, my wife." His fingertips brushed your cheek with the utmost tenderness. "We have a long day tomorrow to prepare for our tour...rest while you can..."a devilish glint gleaming in his eyes as his lips captures yours in a feverish embrace. ''I have a lot planned for us.''
Soooo the Wedding Night two parter is complete...let the grandtour begin!!!! I am very eager to get back to writing this. The masterlist schedule should be out today.
USED TO BE "Perfect Sins" IT HAS BEEN RENAMED!
Masterlist
Category: Ormund Hightower x Female reader
Summery
When she arrived in Old Town, she suspected her sister to be the one that would wed Ormund Hightower. When Ormund chose her instead, she couldn't figure out why. Was it her looks? Did he see something special in her? Or was it simply her smell?
This fic focuses heavily on neurodivergentcy (specifically OCD). I do not read the books. I am basing most of the fic off of own personal beliefs of his character, and what I have seen so far in the show. (i do a bit of research here and there though.)
Chapter Word Count: 5,069
Smut below
⤪⧼༻ ⚝ ༺⧽⤮
⤺ Previous
My wedding day had come quicker than I expected. Many people had traveled from all over the realm to celebrate. Even though I had a few months to get to know my soon to be husband, it seemed as though there was never a chance for me to do so.
I knew he would be busy, he was the lord that oversaw the citadel, in the capital of the faith of the seven. But with the wedding as well, he was completely unavailable. The only time I was able to see him was the few times he would join my family for supper.
Even with this, I still didn’t get to know the real him. We would only be able to exchange a few words before my father would cut me off, believing that what he had to say was more important. Ormund was clearly irritated at this, giving my father a false smile, yet he always knew what to say. He is a very charming man. It was easy to see why he was so sought after.
When preparing for my wedding, I only had one person helping me get ready, Veda, my trusted handmaiden. She understood me better than anyone else, the only one that was able to reach my standards. I was already overwhelmed by it all, worried about how everything would pan out. The last thing I needed was unknown hands roaming my body, so having Veda be the only one helping, calmed me down slightly.
Even though I was excited, I was also nervous. I barely had a say in anything about the wedding, my mother and father voicing their own opinions, saying it was mine. I wanted it to be perfect, everything the way I had always dreamed it to be. It stressed me out that I couldn’t plan it. That I wasn’t able to choose the flowers or tapestries, the food that would be served or the guestlist.
The only thing that was completely mine was the dress. I know I made the seamstress go mad with how many alterations I asked for. But it was the one thing that I had. So it had to be perfect.
My jewelry options were lacking, as my parents spent the money they had on Jessamyn. Somehow, the word of it made its way to Lord Ormund’s ears. I was gifted a new collection of expensive jewelry. Even though he didn’t know my preferences, he bought enough that I would at least like something that was there.
Veda presented the collection to me, letting me choose. I looked between the mirror and shiny jewels, figuring out which one matched best. Pointing to the ones I wanted, she walked away to put the rest away. Returning to me, Veda began to clasp the metal around my neck.
“I never thought the queen would be at my wedding.” I commented, watching the mirror, debating if I liked the way everything looked. “It is quite exciting.”
“It’s because you’re marrying her cousin.” Veda responded, kneeling on the floor so she could fluff out the ends of my dress.
“Right.” I responded planely.
“I heard your lord husband is taking the young Prince Daeron to ward.” Veda mentioned.
“I did as well. He is quite young to be leaving his mother.” I said. Daeron was only three years of age, I couldn’t imagine my child leaving home that young.
“He is. But rumor is, the queen was pushing for him to leave earlier.” Veda was always one to tell me the rumors the other help had heard.
“Strange.” I responded with my face scrunched. “I feel bad that the boy won’t have his mother. I will try my hardest to be there for him.”
Standing up, Veda took a few steps behind me, allowing me to see myself clearly. Staring from the bottom, I noticed how my dress hovered right above the floor, meaning it wouldn’t cause me to trip, nor collect dirt from the ground. The lace that overlaid the silky fabric showed a beautiful, repetitive pattern, not a single design differed from the rest. The jewels complimented my eyes nicely, making them pop.
It was almost as if Veda noticed at the same time as I did, the hair that fell out of place. Jumping in front of me, she was quick to tuck the strand under the clip that would keep it back. Returning behind me, I was able to double check it all, not able to leave the room until I made sure everything was the way I wanted it to be.
“Perfect.” I responded with a firm nod of my head.
“You look beautiful my lady.” She told me with a proud smile. “I really wish I could watch the wedding.”
“I do as well.” I sadly told her. “You have done so much the past couple of weeks. Take the night off.”
“Are you sure?” She asked for clarification. I could see it in her face, she didn’t think it was a good idea. “You would not want me to prepare you for the night? Before the consummation? Clean you up after?”
“I am.” I assured her. “I can handle it myself. You deserve a break.”
“Alright.” I could tell she didn't believe me, but couldn’t argue farther. “We should leave soon. It would be horrible if you were late to your own ceremony.”
I nodded in agreement, turning to her, instead of looking at her through the mirror. With one last deep breath, I headed out the door. Walking down the hall, I met with my family, who had all gathered in my parent’s guest bedroom.
The second I opened the door, my sister ran to me, throwing her arms around me once more. “You look beautiful!”
“Careful! You’ll ruin my hair.” I was quick to rebuttal, pulling myself out of her grasp. Responding to what she said, I thanked her for the compliment.
“Sorry.” She apologized, keeping her hands to herself.
My mother and father only stared, not saying a word. I didn’t want to stand around any longer and have pointless conversations, so I offered, “Shall we head to the Sept?”
“Yes, we shouldn’t keep Lord Ormund waiting any longer.” My father agreed, pushing past me to leave the room.
Together, we all huddled in the cart. I had almost forgotten how insufferable it was being crammed in there with the whole family. Thankfully for me, the ride to the sept was short, being right down the road from The Hightower.
My mother and sister were quick to enter the sept, making sure that they could take their seats before I entered. Standing before the door, I fixed my dress, making sure that it flowed nicely as I walked.
Looking down, I checked to see if my necklace was centered, I adjusted my shoulders, standing tall as the door opened. Both of my hands hung off my father’s arm delicately. From a far, it would look as though we cherished one another. That I was sad for my father to give me away, to leave my family. That he would be sad to see his daughter go.
At the other end of the hall, Ormund stood a few steps down from the Septon, waiting for me to join him. Instead of leather, like he normally wore, his surcoat was made majority out of green velvet. Though it did have its leather accents on his collar.
He wore a silver chain that connected one shoulder to the other, the star of the seven prominent in the center. Most of his body was covered under a large green cloak, the symbol of house hightower embroidered onto it.
With every step, my heart began to lose rhythm. It didn’t feel real. Here I was, about to get married. Attempting to calm myself down, my breath became uneven.
As everyone stood from their seat, looking at me, it felt as though every notable person in Westeros was here, minus the king and his other children. Many held warm smiles, excited to see me all dressed up in my wedding gown.
When I arrived to him, his normal deadpan had seemed the slightest bit softer. It was almost as if he were happy. Proud that he chose me. Or maybe that was my imagination believing what it wanted, my mind attempting to calm its nerves.
My father extended the arm that I held onto, handing me over to Ormund. The velvet texture felt nice under my fingertips. I could feel his warmth through the fabric.
Together, we step up to the altar. Turning away from him, I awaited him to cover me. I felt the weight of his cloak land on her shoulders. Ormund’s hands lingered, trailing down the side of my arms as he retracted them.
When I turned to look at him, he stared at me with an outreached hand, waiting for me to place mine on top of his. As I did, we faced the Septon, presenting our joined hands for him to bind together. His hands were warm, calloused with years of swordsmanship, grip strong as any lord’s should be.
With a white ribbon, the Septon tied us together, beginning his speech. “We stand here before Gods and men to witness the union of man and wife. One flesh. One heart. One soul. Now and forever. Father. Mother. Worrorir. Smith. Maiden. Crone. Stranger. Hear their vows.”
“You are mine, and I am yours, whatever may come.” Ormund pronounced.
“I am yours, and you are mine, whatever may come.” I repeated quieter than him, fearful of somehow saying the wrong thing.
“Here and now, I proclaim, man and wife.” the Septon announced, unwrapping the ribbon that tied us together. Because now we didn’t need a physical representation, as the gods had bound us as man and wife.
My eyes trailed from our hands, back to Ormund’s face. Letting go, his hand trailed to my cheek, holding it still so I may not move. He brought his face to mine, planting a light kiss to my lips. It was gentle, as though he were barely touching me. His lips were soft and plump. It was clear he put care into making sure it didn’t get dried out, unlike most men.
The attendees clapped, cheering on the union. The kiss didn’t last long, just enough to get the point across. When he pulled away, his hand found mine once more as he assisted me down the steps. Eyes looking down, he made sure that he didn’t step on my dress. Not wanting to get dirt on my white gown.
Guests stayed in their seats letting us leave the sept. The bells rang loudly in my ear, announcing to all the commonfolk that the wedding had concluded. That their lord had married and the line of House Hightower would continue.
Hand still in his, he assisted me into his carriage. After I was situated properly, he joined me, sitting across. An awkward silence fell on us. Or rather, I felt as though it were awkward, he didn’t seem to care as much.
It was the first time we had been alone together, first of many occasions no doubt. I didn’t know what to say to him, what I should do. Wracking my brain, I attempted to find the best conversation starter.
“It was a beautiful ceremony.” I commented, trying to start off our marriage civilly.
Ormund nodded his head. “It was a lot shorter than I expected.”
“I agree.” I said.
The conversation quickly died out, but thankfully it was only a few minutes before the carriage came to a halt. Ormund was first to leave its small confines, standing next to the steps so he may assist me once more.
Looking up at The Hightower, it registered that it was now my home. I was the lady of house Hightower, no longer a Redfort. The moment I took the final step, Ormund dropped my hand.
“Congradulations.” were the words of the one who weren’t able to make it to the ceremony.
The grand hall was all prepared, a few nobility were already sitting along the tables. At the end of the hall, a large circular window was engraved into the wall. The star of the seven was outlined in metal. Stained glass filled the star, letting a rainbow hue flood in and mark the floor.
I stood in the colors, looking around the rest of the room. Ormund walked away to Jon Roxton, his trusted subordinate. I could only assume he was asking for Ser Roxton to do something for him, that he was not able to do himself.
Below the stained glass sat a long table, decorated better than the rest: lined with an embroidered white cloth, luxurious flowers potted in porcelain pots that were painted with the Hightower sigil, sat on the table.
I made my way over, meeting Ormund at the seats. A footman seemingly appeared out of nowhere, pulling the chair out for me. As my butt landed on the stiff cushion, the other guests began to flood through the doors. Most found their seats, but some stood around the doorway, greeting old friends or making new ones.
When the Queen entered, everyone parted, giving her the space to walk through with no issues. She held her babe in her arms, Kingsguard following close behind her. The ones who were seated stood, as one is supposed to do out of courtesy.
Once she had made her way to the grand table, she bowed her head ever so lightly to the two of us, showing her respect. “I am sure the two of you will have a fruitful marriage.”
“Thank you, my queen.” I gave her a small curtsy.
Walking around the table, she sat on the other side of Ormund, being his most high ranking family member. My family soon joined me on my side of the table, sitting neatly. After everyone was seated, Ormund grabbed his chalice that was already full of wine, standing up.
He put his hand on my shoulder as to acknowledge me as he addressed the other noble houses of Westeros. They settled into silence, noticing that Lord Ormund had something to say.
“I welcome you all. I appreciate the time and effort you have spent making your way to Oldtown for this event. Especially my cousin, the queen and her youngest, prince Daeron.” He motioned over to them with his cup. “May you fill your plates and your cups overfill with wine.”
When he ended his small speech, he sat once more. The hall erupted into cheers, ready to be fed and get drunk. The food was brought out by the servants, placing it all on the tables. Along with everyone else, I began to place the food on my plate.
“Will you pass me the bread?” Lord Ormund asked me, as it was just barely out of his reach.
“Of course.” I responded, leaning over the table to grab the basket.
“I see you are enjoying the jewelry I got for you.” Lord Ormund pointed out after grabbing his roll. His fingers reached out to my neck, taking the necklace between his thumb and index. “It suits you.”
“You have good taste.” I complimented him with a small smile. After he dropped it, I made sure to recenter it between my two collarbones. “Thank you for buying them for me.”
“You are now Lady Hightower.” He stated candidly. “I cannot have your looks be anything less than perfect.”
“I will do my best to be better than perfect.” I promised him, knowing I could achieve it.
Ormund let out a small chuckle, amused at my passion. Taking a sip of his wine, he seemed pleased. It only lasted a second, as he stiffened once a lord walked up to the table.
“I would like to congratulate the two of you. I wish for you to have a prosperous and fruitful marriage.” The lord said with a happy smile.
Ormund, not so discreetly, covered his nose with his finger. I tried my hardest to smell what he had, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. As Ormund wasn’t responding to the poor lord, I took the opportunity to speak first.
“Thank you my lord.” I responded to him.
Ormund grabbed something out of his pocket, a small metal ball with holes. Bringing the object up to his nose, he deeply inhaled, breathing in the contents. The lord stood there awkwardly, waiting to get acknowledged by Ormund.
“Husband?” I questioned.
While I thought whatever he was doing was strange, I made no comment on it, just wishing for him to be respectful so the man may leave.
“Yes. Thank you.” Ormund responded shortly, clearly wishing for the lord to flee the vicinity.
With a hesitant nod the lord left the table, returning to his seat.
Aside from that one encounter, the rest of the night went pleasantly. People drank and laughed. At one point Ormund asked if I wanted to dance with him. The guests gave us the space to move freely, enjoying ourselves.
But like everything, it had to come to an end. Long into the festivities, Ormund leaned over to me, suggesting that it was time for the two of us to make our way to his room. I agreed, having gotten bored of sitting there hours prior.
Bringing me to his room, Ormund and I were finally left alone with no one else to bother us. His room was large, decorated in mostly green: He had a bed that was centered against the wall, a couch and short table stationed near a window, another table that was clearly meant for private dinings, desk with neatly stacked papers and a bookshelf that looked more used than the one in his office.
I walked over to the desk, pulling the pins out of my hair so they wouldn’t stab into my head as I laid on my back. As I did so, I took in more details. The room was lit dimly with a few candles. Incense was burning in a few different spots around the room, filling it with the aroma of jasmine and vanilla. After I finished inspecting the room, I turned to him, waiting for him to say what he wanted me to do.
Ormund stepped up to me, being closer than ever before. In a way that only husband and wife should be. He brought his hand up from his side, pushing some of my hair from my shoulder so it would gather with the rest.
“What has your mother told you?” He asked. “Of consummation.”
“She told me how you’d enter me.” I told him truthfully. “And not to worry because it will be over quickly.”
He let out a laugh. I didn’t understand what was so funny. “Was that incorrect my lord?”
“Half of it.” Ormund responded, thumbpad drawing over my lip. “I prefer to take my time.”
Hand returning to my jaw, his head leaned into the crux of my neck. He took a deep breath before kissing the skin. I instinctively let out the softest sigh, enjoying the new sensation. I didn’t know what to do with my hands, keeping them stationed to my side.
Ormund’s hands reached behind me, untying the knot that held my corset in its place. I was surprised he was able to do it without looking, without needing assistance. Once the knot was undone, his fingers dug into the laces, loosening them.
Stepping away from me, he allowed me to shrug off the fabric, leaving me in my shift. We stood in silence as I waited for him to make his next move. Notioning to my body, he wanted me to undress completely.
Once I discarded it next to my wedding gown, his eyes scanned over my body, evaluating every detail. I felt bare, embarrassed to be showing him something that I had been raised to never show to anyone. But it was different now, my life wasn’t completely my own anymore, we had been joined together under the Gods’ eye and I was now his, as he was mine.
Something in his demeanor changed, or maybe it was because I had felt so vulnerable. When he stepped to me again, I stepped back. He continued to walk me backwards until my legs hit his large bed, causing me to fall onto my butt.
Pinching my chin between his thumb and pointer finger he dragged my gaze up his body to his face. Ormund leaned down to meet my lips, it was different than the one we shared at the altar, yet still delicate.
I chased his lips, but they moved away from me too quickly. Taking a half step backwards, he began to undo the buttons on his surcoat. His eyes were focused on mine, like he wanted to see every reaction I had.
After the surcoat was off, he was left in his tunic and trousers. Ormund was quick to discard the tunic. My eyes betrayed me, too curious to not look at his bare torso. He was built well, strong and sturdy. There was a mole that laid directly below his bellybutton.
His hands traveled to the buttons on his trousers, freeing his hardened cock. From head to toe he was clean shaven, the only hair on his body being on the top of his head. My eyes were quick to dart back up to his face, too embarrassed to stare. As he came closer, I moved farther onto the bed, allowing him the space to comfortably maneuver onto me.
Kneeling beside my waist, he hovered over my face, noses barely touching. Ormund’s eyes were searching mine as though he was looking for something, an answer to a question I didn’t even know. Whatever he found in them led him to kiss me once more.
With his lips on mine, his hand traveled down my body. Placing his knee in between my legs, he spread them ever so slightly, allowing him enough room to do as he pleased. It was hard to focus on both sensations: The crushing weight of his lips that kissed me so aggressively. And the hand that traced my skin, getting closer to the part between my legs.
Fingers brushed my lower lips. I jumped lightly at the foreign feeling of another's hands touching me there. Ormund’s thumb pressed through the two folds of skin, pressing onto my clit. A gasp escaped my lips as he continued to circle it, applying more pressure.
One of my hands balled in the sheets, ruining the perfectly folded fabric. The other one grabbed into Ormund’s thigh, needing to ground myself to him.
When I had gotten wet enough, he slid his fingers down to my entrance, prodding at my hole. I let out a guttural moan when he pushed one of his fingers in, pumping it in and out. My nails dug into his skin as I let out quiet moans that were closer to deep breaths.
I had my eyes shut tight as I reveled in the feeling. Adding another finger, I felt the muscles in the lowest part of my stomach to tighten. Just as I was about cum, he retracted his fingers, leaving me feeling empty.
My eyes shot open, looking over at Ormund with a deeply frown. He didn’t seem to care for my displeasure, only moved himself fully between my legs. I felt his hardened cock spread my lips apart, soaking himself on me.
Pushing it farther down, Ormund lined his cock with my entrance. Slowly, he pushed in, watching my expression, needing to see how I was feeling. All I could do was reach out for him once more. He was too far, too separated for such an intimate act.
Once he was fully in, he trapped me against the mattress, laying his weight on me. One of his hands held onto my hips, making sure that I didn’t squirm out of his grasp, the other locked with mine. Ormund held my hand tightly, pinning it above my head.
Low, deep groans slipped out of his mouth as he began to thrust in and out of me. His breath fluttered against my neck, as he kept his face stationed there. Wrapping my legs around his waist, I allowed him the room to plunder into me deeply.
Once more, my muscles began to tighten, I clung to him as though my life depended on it, not wanting him to stop even though I knew he wouldn’t. As I had wanted earlier, the tightness released pleasurably. A group of loud moans left my mouth as I finished, feeling satisfied by this interaction as my muscles contracted around Ormund’s cock.
I expected him to stop, or at least slow down, yet he did no such thing. His rhythm changed, but it was still as rough as before. Thrusting into me with all his might, he pulled out slowly repeating the process.
The pleasure slowly turned into something more painful, yet I didn’t want it to stop at the same time. Tears began to stream down my face as I became overwhelmed, but I didn’t know whether to push Ormund away or pull him closer. My moans morphed into something that was closer to a scream.
“Husband!” I cried out.
“I’m almost there.” Ormund informed me.
Ormund grunted loudly, burying himself deeply into me, allowing him to fill me with his seed. He made smaller thrusts, trying to push the liquid deeper into me so it’ll stay. Once he was done, he stilled, trying to catch his breath.
It only took a moment for him to pull away, pulling himself out of me. He laid beside me as we both tried to recover from the exhaustion. Ormund stared up at the ceiling, while I looked over at him, analyzing his features: His strong jaw, soft lips, reddish-brown hair with the smallest bit of curls beginning to form.
I started to feel my body again, focusing on the sensations: How the sweat clung to my skin, the sticky liquid of mine and Ormund’s was smeared all over my vagina and thighs, how all of these things seeped into the covers below me.
Feeling disgusting, I needed to clean myself as soon as possible. With a deep breath, I stood from the bed, finding my dress so I may return to my room and get everything washed off of me so I may sleep peacefully.
The moment I pulled my shift over my body, Ormund spoke up. “Where are you going?”
He seemed displeased that I would leave him on our wedding night, but I couldn’t handle the feeling of my skin.
“I need a bath.” I explained, “I cannot sleep in filth.”
“Are you calling me filthy?” Ormun’s face hardened, almost angered, clearly insulted by my insinuation.
“Of course not. I am talking about my own filth.” I was quick to correct him, motioning to myself. “I have been in a tight hot dress all day, followed by our consummation. I cannot sleep in my own fluids like this.”
Ormund’s body relaxed as he seemed to understand what I meant. “I will call for the maids.”
Standing from the bed, he went for his robe, using it to cover himself. He crossed the room in a few strides, making it to the door in a matter of moments. Before he opened it, he turned to me once more.
“Stay here.” He said in a commanding tone, as if I were one of his men.
Leaving me alone in the room, I couldn’t help but gravitate towards the couch, not wanting to sit on the dirtied bed. Exhaustion began to take over my body, as I wanted nothing more than to take a bath and sleep after such a long day.
The idea of getting a bath soon lulled me into a state of relaxation. I rested my elbow on the armrest, planting my head on my hand. I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I didn’t even realize I did until I awoke to a light tap on my shoulder.
“Your bath is ready.” The maid dressed in green told me.
Blinking my eyes slowly and tightly I tried to wake up. When I stood, heading for the copper tub that had been placed so quietly. I noticed that there was a second one that Ormund laid in.
The maid helped me remove my shift, allowing me to seep my nude body into the warm water. It was blissful, almost as much as the night with my husband, to feel the water wash away all the dirt and grime.
“Did you enjoy yourself?” Ormund asked me with an inquisitive eye. “I didn’t hurt you too much?”
My hair was tugged back by the maid as she went to brush out the mess that formed. My eye twitched as it did so, but I tried to ignore it.
“I enjoyed it.” I responded truthfully as the brush bristles caught on a knot, tugging my head backwards painfully. “The end was a bit much though.”
“We will learn each other's bodies in due time.” Ormund promised.
Once more, my head was pulled back, causing me to wince in pain. I was quick to move out of the maids grasp, not being able to take it any longer.
“Where is Veda?” I questioned irritatedly, only wanting my trusted friend to do it.
“You gave her the night off, my lady.” She reminded me.
My face scrunched in displeasure as I remembered. I grabbed the brush from her hand, “I will do it myself, you’re ripping my hair out.”
She was quick to shuffle away from me. I felt bad, yet the pain was beginning to get unbearable. I was quick to turn to Ormund, afraid of what he might think. He only held an amused smirk as he watched me.
Turning to the maid that stood off to the side, he told her, “Have the bedsheets changed.”
It was a shock, that he already knew what I would have wanted done, before I even voiced my opinion. Or maybe it was because he was the same as I, someone who demanded cleanliness, perfection.
If that was true, I could see this becoming a more enjoyable marriage than I originally thought.
Next ⥬
⤪⧼༻ ⚝ ༺⧽⤮
Hello all!! I am glad that so many of you enjoyed the first chapter!! this one is a lot longer (than I expected as well) I finally figured out where I wanted to go with the fic, so this will only be 5 chapter long!!
I also have changed the title of the fic from Perfect Sins to Perfect Matrimony as it fits way better to what I have planned!
If you want to stay up to date with me, or the progress of my fic, I suggest you join the discord server! My asks are open if you wish to ask me any kind of question!! or if you wish to say something annonmously!
Thank you for the love and support! I should get the next chapter out soon!
Taglist: (comment or dm me to be added or removed)
the thought of playfighting with bb 🤤🤤🤤 he seems so serious about attacking entities and it’s such a job for him that i think he’d adoreee getting all silly and touchy with companion 🙏 and imagining it after he’s been chasing her too !!!
the first time you shove him he doesn’t move. obviously.
you put both hands on his chest and push and he just stands there, blinking at you with that confused furrow. because you’ve applied force to him, and the force was not effective and he’s now concerned you might be malfunctioning.
“fight me,” you demand.
“…no?”
“BB. fight me.”
“I don’t want to fight you.” genuinely distressed now. his eyes scan you for injuries, for signs of possession, for any reason his beloved might be requesting combat. “are you—is something—“
and you have to explain. it takes a minute. you have to walk an ancient predator through the concept of roughhousing. play. physical affection disguised as aggression. like pack animals.
you shove him again for emphasis and bb’s hands come up automatically to catch your wrists and you grin at him, and go “see? like that” and something clicks behind the blue eyes.
and then he loves it.
because you’re so cute. that’s the core of it, really. you’re slapping at his chest and biting his arm, squirming in his grip like you could actually get free if you tried hard enough and you can’t (you absolutely can’t) he could hold you still with one hand and a passing thought. but your face is scrunched up with real effort, and you’re growling at him, you’re actually growling, and his chest is so full of adoration he could choke on it.
you catch on fast that you can weaponise this.
you learn where the line is between play and play, and you get mean with it on purpose.
you bite harder. you scratch. you lean up and hiss something sharp against his ear, a taunt, a challenge, and you feel it happen… the shift. that low rumble replacing the purr. the frequency dropping from amused to older and heavier, the vibration changing texture in his chest. and the loving softness melts off his expression like frost off a window and underneath it is that predator shine, that flat black-edged stare, the grin pulling too wide.
there you are, you think, and it thrills you. every time.
you two wrestle through the nest like animals. blankets everywhere. pillows destroyed. he lets you win for a few seconds at a time, lets you pin his wrist or straddle his chest, crow about your victory smugly before he flips you like you weigh nothing and pins you flat with both wrists above your head, his body heavy on yours. his face is inches away. and the mockery on his tongue is soft, that low, amused murmur: “oh, you almost had me that time. so close. very scary.”
and you lift your chin. wrists pinned, chest heaving, completely trapped. and you stretch up and press the softest, sweetest kiss to his mouth. barely a brush. just your lips on his and the grin dissolves and the black bleeds out of his eyes and BB flooding back in, all warmth and want. that needy, desperate rush of tenderness crashing through the predator like a wave through a sandcastle.
his grip on your wrists goes slack. his breath stutters. his whole body softens against yours because you kissed him and the kissing is always his undoing, every single time, the gentleness after the roughness short-circuiting every ancient instinct he has. because you’re his love, and your mouth makes all the loving, protective instincts flare to life.
and in that half-second of melted composure you twist free. roll out from under him. hit the floor running top speed.
you’re through the apartment door and sprinting down the corridor barefoot, cackling before he’s even lifted his head, and behind you there’s a beat of silence, just one, and then that low, dark chuckle rolling down the hallway after you like smoke. pleased. impressed. delighted.
“oh,” he says, and you can hear the grin in it. “oh, that was good.”
his footsteps start. slow. unhurried. that casual lethal stroll.
you’re not going to make it far. you never do. but the chase is the whole point and you both know it, and somewhere in the nest behind you there’s a pile of destroyed blankets and a dent where you were pinned and this, this, this stupid silly reckless game of bite and shove and run and catch…. this is the happiest he’s ever been.
not the quiet adoration or the worship. this. you choosing to play with the thing in the dark. you teaching it that teeth can be gentle and fighting can be a love language and the corridor doesn’t always have to end in fear and death.
he’s going to catch you in about thirty seconds and the catching is going to involve pinning you to the nearest wall and kissing you until your knees give out, then he’s going to carry you back to the nest like his greatest prize.
omg hii idk if you’re taking requests, but if you are hehe, can i request what maekar is like with an introverted/shy-ish wife pleasee 🤭?
also i hope you had a wonderful vacation!! and can i just say, i love your writing so much!! i’ve gone through your masterlist multiple times already aslfjdjfgk it’s just so good and i always love the dialogue and how you write maekar. you’re amazing! thank you for sharing your writing with us :P
Maekar Targaryen Doting on his Shy Wife Headcanons
18+ MDNI
Maekar Targaryen x fem!reader
Warnings: smut, insecurity, misunderstandings
AN: Sorry this took so long, I just started a new job so things are kinda crazy lol but I promise I’m back at the writing thing and have lots of wips coming soon! But anyway thank you so much for reading what I write! It means so much to hear :) hope you enjoy <3
1.8k Words
- Initially, Maekar is a little irritated with his shy, genteel wife.
- It's not because you're introverted, gods know he’s not interested in chatting with dreary nobles and conniving gentry, but he finds he cannot get a read on you and it vexes him greatly. Why are you keeping your thoughts so close to your chest? Do you not trust your husband with your heart? He is so used to prying the sly words of courtiers apart, but you give him little besides soft smiles and lowered eyes.
- He knows he’s not good with words, better on the battlefield than charming young ladies, but for the life of him he can’t seem to get you to like him. He’s not even sure why he cares so much. It would be far easier to let you to your own life, and he to his, but there’s a nagging feeling in his chest that keeps drawing him back to your calm demeanor.
- Maekar is not a gentle man by nature, but he is honorable and had set out to do good by his wife, as well as he could anyway. His deep-set insecurity rises to the surface when your shoulders tense when he steps close, when you quickly curtsey and zip off when he enters the room, and when you can barely hold conversation with him when you dine alone together.
- Obviously, he handles this poorly. Anger getting the best of him and staining his image of your relationship. He’s curt, sharp, unsettled by your apparent indifference and bruised by how you obviously don’t care for him.
- He’s grumpy when he watches himself in the mirror, closely monitoring the imperfections in his face and the places time has changed. Then he’s grumpy that he even cares about something as foolish as a pretty wife thinking him grotesque.
- This is, of course, not actually the case. Maekar is just so intimidating. His longstanding reputation as the Anvil, legends of swordplay, snide words and furrowed brows. When you were told he’d be your husband, you’d fretted over how you’d overcome finding him so daunting.
- How surprising it was, then, to find him quite palatable when you finally met. Handsome as sin; tall and broad with his piercing lavender eyes and glittering silver hair. In place of the boorish words you’d expected, you were met with princely honor. He was not warm, or delicate, but he was formidable in his duty, and you soon realized he was daunting in a far more frightening way.
- It was not like he was the only one you didn’t make much conversation with. Maekar watched you like a hawk at feasts, eyes following you as you trapezed around the crowds, avoiding nosey guests and keeping to yourself. Whispering softly to the ladies you knew but generally staying clear of new acquaintances. He equates it to the nerves of being the new lady of Summerhall, nothing more. Your feelings for him and your disinterest in mingling have nothing to do with each other. Obviously.
- Maekar’s staunch belief in your apathy is tested when one afternoon, as he sits with you in the gardens of Summerhall, sweating in his leather doublet but pretending to enjoy his present condition for your sake. You’d finally risen to leave, something about a meeting with a Septa, when you turned back to him with an unreadable look on your face. As quick as lightning, you leaned in, fingertips gliding over his chin as you pressed a chaste kiss to his jaw. You’d backed away in an instant, eyes wide and fingers to your lips, before you curtseyed and ran off.
- It was not often that the Prince found himself bewildered, but that had certainly thrown him off.
- His mind was once again proven mistaken when upon idling up to the door of your chambers, he heard you conversing with a maid.
“I cannot ask him to spend an entire morning with me! He is a Prince, he has far more important matters than entertaining his wife.”
Maekar pushed down his embarrassment as he pressed his ear against the smooth wood of the door.
“M’lady, you could always ask him. Has his grace not treated you with kindness?”
You let out an exasperated sigh.
“He has been the very picture of a gentleman, yet I do not think he cares for me.”
The defeat in your voice made Maekar’s chest clench. You were the one who did not care for him? Why would it matter to you that he couldn’t get you out of his head, that the very thought of you upset with him gripped his heart.
- After months of marriage, Maekar finally begins to understand that maybe you feel the same skepticism toward him as he did to you. He does try to come off less harsh, less hardheaded, and slowly he watches with hidden delight as you open yourself up to him.
- It’s gradual, but eventually you start offering him answers to questions he’s asked himself about you. Why you favor chiffon gowns over velvet, how do you get ready for bed, what dessert makes you lick the sugar off your fingers (he’s particularly interested in watching that one). It dawns on him that you are allowing him in, that few people get the gift of your affections, and Maekar is exceedingly pleased that you feel safe in your marriage to him. Protection is his way of showing love, and he is more than happy to keep you close.
- When a knight becomes too forward with you at a tourney, leaning in low and asking after your favor, Maekar’s head almost explodes with white-hot anger at your wide eyes and worried brow. He’s there in an instant, stepping up behind you with a hand firmly gripping your elbow and his chest against your back. The Prince will gladly be your shield if it means you aren't frightened.
- Banquets are no longer the same dull, awkward affairs as before. Maekar sits close to you at the high table. The leering eyes of the court are harsh, but the arm he has possessively slung over the back of your chair, coupled with a glare that would make the bravest of knights turn tail, keeps anyone from staring too long. It also means he gets you all to himself; leaning in to whisper against your ear, and listening to you speak softly back. The first feast you laugh openly at something he says, leaning over and pressing your palm against the bulk of his thigh, his ears are turning red and his trousers are bursting at the seams.
- He craves your attention, proud to be a place you go when you cannot face the brunt of court. He is more than happy to tuck you into his cloak, mumbling some lame excuse before leading you off to have you alone.
- Even years into your marriage, there are still times Maekar makes you feel bashful and demure. Sometimes it's a grand gesture; a jeweled necklace that must have been a fortune he insists on clipping around your neck, a book so rare it was thought that every copy was lost to time. It has you giggling sweetly and insisting it's too much. Of course, to him, nothing is too much for his wife, the very thought is ridiculous. Sometimes it's the little things that get to you. Giving you his gloves when he feels your hands are too cold, fresh flowers on your nightstand every morning in spring, a gruff compliment that’s just the right combination of romantic and stoic awkwardness. It always has you biting your lip, covering your face, and shuffling your feet. Maekar will roll his eyes, a halfhearted comment about the ridiculousness of your shyness after all this time, but he’s still so charmed to get the reaction out of you.
“Surely you cannot still be coy around me, my lovely girl?”
- You kiss him so sweetly he can barely stand it. Hands curled around his face, mouth soft and timid against his own; he wants nothing more than to take you in his arms and kiss you properly, but he bides his time and lets you lead. He’ll blissfully sit back and let you perch in his lap as you explore him with your tongue. The nervous giggle you let out when you bite at his bottom lip ignites dragonfire deep in his belly, and the startled yelp you let out when he grips your hips tighter only fans the flames.
- The sounds you make in bed are music to his ears, but he has to work to get you to let them show. He’ll be tongue deep in your cunt, juices dribbling through his beard and hands gripping your thighs before he realizes you’ve got your hand over your mouth. He reaches up to bat it away, set on hearing the sweet moans you release as he pleasures you.
- “None of that, little lady, I want to hear you.”
- He’s holding your chin while he slides his cock through your folds and pressing into your entrance. He doesn’t want to give you the chance to look away; he likes watching your eyes as he sinks into your cunt, the way they roll back a little as he cants his hips up, the fluttering of your lashes as he thrusts into you and you fight to keep looking at him.
- Maekar insists on you being clear with what you want from him when he takes you. He will not have you silent, laying by as he takes his pleasure. It's mortifying at first, the way he presses close over you, whispering that he will not move again until you’ve told him how you feel. Is he too much? Would you like him slower? Faster? Do you prefer his fingers or his tongue? Pierced atop his cock or held underneath him? You mumble out responses, and he makes you repeat them until he can hear you clear as day. He’s a soldier, he lives to serve, and so knowing exactly what you want pleases him greatly; it means he can take your orders and execute them to the fullest extent.
- His kisses are hot on your neck, hands roaming from the swell of your bottom to the curve of your breast, clutching your waist and tugging you close to his chest. You whimper softly until he bites at our throat, a grin on his lips at the sudden shriek you let out.
“What do you need from me, my love? What can your husband do for you?”
Moons apart, moons sent gifting your husband panties, drawings and letters detailing everything you wanted him to do to you. Three moons and he had arrived to give you just what you wanted. (1.4k Words) Can be read as standalone or part two off scent of you
Ormund Hightower x wife!reader
Content: MDI, 18+, smut, scent kink, oral (f receiving) p in v, pantie sniffing. Ormund is his own warning. Gagging and light choking. Ormund uses your panties to gag you. Religious imagery? idk this man is the religious sex freak of westros.
I shall be home by weeks end, do not wash
Ormund arrived three days after his letter's arrival. Three days of not bathing, much to your maids' distress. Three days of ensuring everything was to your husband's liking. That the walls of the Hightower were adorned with his favourite tapestries, that anything that annoyed him greatly or anyone was kept out of sight and far away from your husband's gaze. Three days of ensuring everything was to his liking. And most of all that you were to his. Not that you need do anything, just follow his simple request and Ormund would die a happy man between your thighs, smelling the sweet aroma of your cunt.
Three days of muttering from lords and slides of your husband's impending rage. Forced to surrender a war he had spent years planning. Three days and they grew wary of his arrival, but for those three days you merely heard and more heard and saw your husband and what he had in store for you.
The door to your chambers burst open, the fast footsteps of your husband quickly entering your chambers, his sword and belt quickly finding themselves tossed to the floor, your name on his lips as he entered rooms, where you sat with maids, me at to ready you for the day, that fled the room the second your name left Ormund's lips.
A dark look was set in Ormund's eyes as he took in the state of your undress, adorned in a sheer slip that left little to the imagination.
“Ormund,” you greeted, standing to meet your husband as he prowled across the room, neither of you paying attention to the slam of the door or the sounds of your maids giggling as they walked down the halls.
Ormund’s hand reached for your throat. Once he reached you, his hand squeezed ever so lightly, as his eyes assessed you. He took in your every detail, ensuring his instructions were followed. No doubt.
He kissed his teeth, his hand moving from your neck to your chin, his thumb sliding over your lips and pushing into you gently, coaxing you to suck in his thumb.
“Good girl,” he muttered, his head falling down to smell you, heaping at your scent, “ you followed my instruction?” He asked, though both of you knew no answer was expected. His thumb fell from your mouth with a pop, his hand reaching to pull your chin towards him, his eyes closing in bliss as he smelt you. “My sweet wife,” he nearly moaned.
Your hands rested on his chest, reaching for the ties of his doublet, undressing him as he took in the sight and smell of you.
“I have waited moons to see your face,” he moaned, “to smell your sweet scent, to taste your nectar.” he spoke as he soft kisses along your neck, working his way up to your jaw, before finally placing a kiss on your lips.
You moaned as he kissed you, your hands still working to tug the clothes off his body as you shared a heated, messy kiss. Moans fell from your lips as his hand reached for your throat, your body pulled against his as he squeezed your throat. His mouth took yours possessively, giving you little chance to breathe as his own hands reached to bunch your slip over your hips as his hands reached to toy with the lace of your smallclothes.
You broke the kiss as his finger circled your clit through the fabric of your small clothes, your face still held close ot his as his hand remained wrapped around your throat.
“Ormund,” you breathed, your head flying back with a moan as his fingers slowly pressed into you.
“Gods, I have missed you,” he groaned as his fingers fucked into you, his cock growing hard in his breeches. “I missed your cunt,” his head fell to the nape of your neck, breathing you in, as a loud moan fell from your lips, pleasure flaring through your body as your husband fucked into you. “Your smell,” he breathed you in, relishing the smell of you. Pleasure sparked through your body, your peak washing through you as He pulled his fingers from your cunt, your eyes drawn to his lips as you watched him slide his fingers into his mouth and taste you, “your taste,” he moaned, tasting you and the sweet nectar of your cunt that he had spent moons dreaming about.
He took a step back from you slowly, watching the rise and fall of your chest, the flushed look on your cheeks.
He smirked, watching your eyes follow the movements of his hands as he undressed himself fully, his chest toned from moons of sparring in preparation for war. His body clean and well-groomed, as always and his cock as hard as ever. A pitiful whimper fell from your lips at the sight of his cock, your own hands reaching to tear your slip from your dress.
Ormunded tutted, stopping your moments, “Let me, wife,” he breathed. Prowling towards you and tearing the slip from your body, with the ease of a man who did it often enough that the fabric of your clothes was like paper to him (he did). “On the bed,” he commanded, his eyes set on your arse as you crawled towards your bed. He let out a pleased hum as he followed after you, pulling your legs to the end of the bed, before dropping to his knees and kissing his way from your feet to the heat of your wet cunt.
Toying with the strings of your smallclothes, his head burying into your heat as he licked at the fabric of your panties, moaning at the taste of slick.
“Ormund, husband- please,” you moaned. Ormund looked up, his eyes meeting yours as he slowly tugged your panties down your legs, holding them to his nose before placing them to the side.
Ormund wasted little time before moving to feast on your cunt, his tongue lapping at your cunt, his own moans vibrating through your body as he relished in your taste and smell. Pleasure soared through you, your second peak building. Omrund's name spilled from your lips as you moaned, relishing the feeling of him.
Moving away from you, with one last sniff of the musk of your cunt, Ormund licked his way from clit to naval, his eyes never once looking away from you. “On your knees.”
Doing as your husband bid, you moved to your knees, your arse on full display for your husband as he reached to kneed on your arse.
“Husband, please, I need to feel you,” you groaned, as you felt Ormund position himself at your entrance, teasing you with the head of his cock. He chuckled, pressing his cock into you slowly, your legs falling from under you as his cock fucked into you.
Ormunbd slapped your arse, reaching to straighten you out as he thrust into you. “Be a good girl,” he tutted, a please sound leaving his mouth as he felt your cunt flutter and tighten at his words.
“Oh gods, please,” you moaned, as Ormund fucked into you, every nerve in your body on fire as he filled you perfectly.
“There are no gods here,” Ormund tutted, pressing into you with a hard thrust that had you falling flat on your stomach, as Ormund's hands reached for your panties. “Only me…worship me, only me,” he moaned, gripping you tightly as he fucked you.
“Ormund, please,” you moaned, feeling Ormund's cock hit that sweet spot inside of you, hitting it perfectly. Your moans grew in pitch, filling the room with the sound of pleasure, your bed hitting the wall with force at Ormund's movements.
Ormund reached for your panties, bunching them in his hand as his other hand held steady to your waist. The panties moved to his nose as he smelt your scent, moaning at the smell of you before moving to cover your body, pressing you flat to the bed, his hand moving to stuff your panties in your mouth, silencing your moans as he fucked you both to completion.
His pace was brutal, his own moans and groans filling the room as he felt you flutter around his cock your peak washing over you, swiftly followed by his own.
Rolling from your body, Ormund pulled you against him, kissing your cheek lovingly before pulling your panties from your mouth and stuffing them in his bedside drawer.
“I have missed you,” he sighed, placing a soft kiss on your head, his nose breathing in the smell of your hair.
Being parted from your husband is never easy, for you or for him. You always crave to keep a piece of him with you, and he craves a piece of you. It’s only fitting you send him off with a gift. (1k+ words) read part two - taste of you
Ormund Hightower x wife!reader
Content: MDI, 18+, pantie sniffing, male masturbation. Aka Ormund jerking off to his wife sending him used unwashed underwear. Smut. Scent kink. This is pure filth. Brief mentions of pregnancy. Ormund is his own warning. I am gross and perverted. Don’t know what came over me but this idea has been in my head since the second he sniffed that vile and somehow pantie sniffing has now turned me into a rapid animal. Not proofread.
“I miss the sweet taste of your nectar. I miss the smell off your cunt after you peak. The smell of your sweet cunt in the morning when I wake you with my tongue. The taste of you after a day in the hot sun of the reach where I have forbidden you to wash and the musk of your cunt overwhelms my senses. The taste and scent of you when I drop to my knees and bury myself between the soft plush of your thighs. I miss you my sweet wife, I miss your face, your voice and most of all your sweet scent.”
Ormund was never a sentimental man, never did he care for the idea of carrying objects meant to symbolise meaning or memory of a loved one. That was until he took you to wife, and suddenly the idea of keeping something to remind him of you filled him with complete and utter lust. And he supposed love but the mere thought of you made his blood pump and his cock grow hard.
You rarely parted from one another but when you did Ormund made sure to leave a part of him with you, whether a babe in your belly or some extravagant gift that had the envy of all the ladies of your court. And you always made sure to give your husband ample gifts in return. Weather a miniature of your naked form. Letters full of each and every thing you desired to do to him and he to you upon his return in excruciating detail. And he loved each gift you gave him, but his favourite kind was when you gifted him your small clothes.
The first time he had asked you had been hesitant. Not over the action of sending your small clothes, no Ormund often stole yours, whenever he would drop to his knees and burying himself under your skirts to lap at your cunt, your panties always ended up in the pockets of his doublet, where he would reach for them as the day went on sniffing them when the stresses of the day got to him.
But the idea of sending them, of them being intercepted or the men of the camp seeing your panties in your husbands hand as he sniffed them? That had made you hesitant. But ormund already kept a vile of your perfume to sniff when he felt like it, panties where not much different. At least that’s what he reassured.
So you had sent them, and he had sent them back you ruined and covered in his cum. The fabric torn from the endless rutting of his cock against the delicate fabric.
He had done that after three days apart. And now with this godsforksane war he had been parted from you for three moons. Three moons of lust filled letters, three moons of you depicting the most sinful of words on paper that would no doubt get your both exiled from old town and excommunicated from worshiping of the seven. Three moons before Ormund snapped and his requests grew into pure filith.
Panties where before you would wear them for perhaps an hour before rolling them in your letter to him and sending it away. Now ormund grew depraved in his requests.
Asking you not to bath for days, wearing the same pair of underwear each day before sending it to him. Begging you to touch yourself and coat your panties in your silk before gifting them to him. And you complied, even when your maids whispered about your lack of hygiene and the growing amount of underwear missing in your draws.
You cared not, not when your husband would detail exactly what your underwear was used for.
My dear wife,
I must thank you for the small clothes you gift me, for the it has allowed me to dream once more of you and to know what the musk of your cunt smells like.
The sweet aroma of your cunt fills me with undying lust my sweet wife. Dreams of you riding my face fill my slumber, as I lick and feast upon the delicious aroma of your small clothes. My hand fisting my cock as I imagine you riding my face with recklass abandon, my tounge fucking your cunt with a passion no man has ever known. I cum each night with your panties wrapped around my cock, wishing it was your cunt, wishing I was fucking into you and not the mattress if my tent. Each night when I sniff your panties, the husk of your cunt lingering even days after their arrival, each night I feast upon them with more hunger than a starved man.
I crave you and your cunt, I crave to sleep by your side, where my cock can rest and soften within your warmth. To fill you with my cock every moment of every day. I wish for you to ride my cock as I work through the endless paperwork that no doubt awaits me upon my return. I wish to stuff your mouth with my cock and fuck your full of my cum. I wish for you to ride my cock with your small clothes stuffed into my mouth, were all I can feel and taste is you.
I need you my sweet wife, I crave the very air your breath. I crave your cunt, your taste I crave you. Fucking my fist each night hardly compares to the warmth of your cunt. To the feel of your lips in my mouth, and your small clothes hardly replace the want that pumps from my heart down to my cock.
I write this with love and leave you the knowledge that I fuck my fist with your newest panties wrapped around my cock as I write this, staining them with my cum.
Though my love, my sweet wife, this shall be the last pair of panties you should need to send to me, the last time I wait days to smell the aroma of your cunt, to know that you wear the very panties I will demand to smell and taste upon my arrival.
When she arrived in Old Town, she suspected her sister to be the one that would wed Ormund Hightower. When Ormund chose her instead, she couldn't figure out why. Was it her looks? Did he see something special in her? Or was it simply her smell?
This fic focuses heavily on neurodivergentcy (specifically OCD). I do not read the books. I am basing most of the fic off of own personal beliefs of his character, and what I have seen so far in the show. (i do a bit of research here and there though.)
Chapter Word Count: 1,565
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It was always going to be her, my perfect older sister. She knew exactly how to dress, how to act. Her morning routine consisted of going to the sept, never skipping her prayer, even when sick. She always knew exactly what to say to everyone to make them swoon. The exact traits any nobleman would want in a wife.
I try to hold myself to the same standards as her. For the most part, I am able to. Yet, I am constantly reminded of my shortcomings. That I get lost in my own head often. How I focus too deeply on the wrong things. That I am not as perfect as her.
She was bred to wed a high ranking nobleman. And I was the second born.
Ormund Hightower was a very serious man, knowing exactly what he wanted in life, and she embodied all of it. The devout faith, self respect, a woman willing to wed and produce heirs for the continuation of the house, someone who was personable and could get along with everyone.
Even from the moment we left Redfort, my parents praised and pampered her, preparing for the upcoming wedding, so sure that she was who was leaving the household. I was forgotten as they bought her new jewelry, made sure she had the best rooms at inns for her to sleep peacefully in, while I was left with the smaller, dirtier room.
That is why when we stood side by side, letting Lord Ormond inspect us like cattle being chosen for slaughter, I didn’t put too much care into my posture. I didn’t look him in the eye like I was supposed to, I observed my surroundings.
We were in his study, the place he spent most time. There was a large bookcase, holding many different kinds of books. Most seemed to be about the histories, or works of poems and ballads. It was clear he didn’t read the books often by the build up of dirt and dust on the wood of the shelf. Next to the bookshelf was a pitcher of wine. Two shiny silver cups sat upside down. A tapestry depicting the gods of the seven was perfectly centered behind it.
He made sure to keep his desk tidied. The papers neatly stacked, his pen being placed in its holder, chair pushed in, flushed against the desk. In comparison to the bookshelf, it was the cleanest thing in the room.
My eyes were drawn back to Ormund, starting at his boots. They were leather, dyed black for more sophistication. His pants were made out of wool, but the upper part of his legs were covered mostly by his cotehardie. That too was leather, but it was dyed a deep green, the color of his house. His black belt held it all together: The green velvet sash, his swords that were stationed tightly to his hips, making sure nothing moved out of place.
When my eyes reached his face I noticed that he was looking directly at me. That he had caught me engraving every detail of his being, his every day life, into my head. I was quick to divert my eyes away in embarrassment, looking over to my father who stood beside my sister, but he too was looking at me, disapproval written all over his face.
“Huh?” I wondered, not understanding why everyone suddenly had their attention on me.
Most would take my staring as admiration, unabashedly wanting of him. But it was further from the truth.
It was a calculation. An attempt to reach into the deepest parts of his being without even speaking a word. I know I had no say in the matter, but I wished for my sister to marry a good man. A man that would take care of her, a man she may fall in love with, in due time.
From my observations, and past knowledge. I was able to deduct that he would be able to fulfill the practical half of my hopes. For a man like him, love didn’t seem to be something in his vocabulary.
“Are you sure my lord?" My father was quick to draw his attention back to the lord in front of me. “I do not doubt your preference, but Jessamyn has been preparing herself for this marriage.”
“Is there something wrong with this daughter of yours?” Ormund asked, pointing a degrading finger in my direction.
My father hesitated before responding. His grasp on my sister’s shoulder tightened. I could see it behind his eyes, he wished to say yes. “No. But-”
“Then that is on you.” Lord Ormund responded coldly. “I told you I would choose once they had arrived. I made no promise to which one I would pick.”
My father couldn’t argue anymore. Whatever the deal that led to this marriage was, my father was most likely coming out of it better than the Hightowers. Which is why my father couldn’t argue, couldn’t force him to marry Jessamyn.
I was shocked, stunned into silence. The clock had started counting down the second he made up his mind. In approximately two months time, I would stand on the altar and marry him under the god’s eyes. All I could do was stare at him, my soon to be husband.
My mother grabbed at my sister and I’s shoulders, stepping between us. Leaning into me, she had to remind me of my manners.
“Say thank you.” She whispered quite enough for Lord Ormund to hear.
I was snapped out of my trance, jumping as I did so. I bowed lightly to him. “Thank you my lord. I am looking forward to marrying you.”
Ormund Hightower only gave me a curt nod, knowing he didn’t need to do more. The motherly hand on my shoulder began to tug me back, trying to drag me away before I could embarrass myself further.
“We will leave you two to go over the details.” My mother said before pulling my sister and I out into the hall.
She took a few steps away from the closed door before stopping. Turning to my sister, my mother grabbed her face, caressing her cheek with a sad frown. “I’m sorry my darling. I know you really wanted to marry him.”
Jessamyn stood tall, holding a polite smile on her face. “It is fine, mother. I am happy that he liked her.”
My mother’s sad eyes turned to me, as if she were blaming me for ruining my sister's perfect match. Turning back to Jessamyn, she pulled her face forward to give a kiss on her forehead. Without a word to me she left, leaving my sister and I alone in the hall.
Now that our mother had left, Jessamyn’s demeanor changed completely, giving me the largest smile I had seen on her face. Leaning toward me she wrapped her arms around my shoulders squeezing them tight.
“You seem happy sister.” I mumbled into her hair, doing nothing to hug her back. “I thought you wanted to marry Lord Ormund?”
Jessamyn seemed happier than I expected. Ecstatic to get out of the marriage with a highly respected lord. Which made me realize, my sister was the best actor in the realm. That she never wanted it in the first place, like she made everyone believe.
“Gods no!” She chuckled out. “I pretended I did so mother and father wouldn’t reprimand me for ‘not upholding the family standard’.”
“Oh.” I simply responded as she pulled away from me.
“Jayne promised to bring me to the Eyrie with her if I didn’t marry Lord Ormund.” She clarified with joy. “I may finally see her more often.”
Lady Jayne Arryn was the woman who ruled over the Vale. When we were younger, our father brought Jessamyn with him to live in the Eyrie for a few years. From there, Jayne and Jessamyn grew close. I knew my sister always wished to be with Jayne. But due to our own duties as noble ladies, she was expected to marry Lord Ormund.
“I am glad that you are happy, sister.” I told her with a small smile.
“Do not be so down. I know you will make a good wife for the lord of Old Town.” My sister tried to raise my spirits, even though they weren’t down. “Plus, I saw the way you were looking at him.”
“It wasn’t like that!” I was quick to retort. I knew that my attempt to survey him would be taken incorrectly. “I was trying to read him, find out who he was as a person.”
She scoffed at me, not believing what I had to say. “Well, did you like what you ‘read’?”
“He keeps tidy- for the most part. He is a practical man, and I am a practical woman.” I deduced. “I believe we can satisfy one another.”
“I believe he could see the same in you.” She nudged me. “And that is why he chose you over me.”
“Most likely.” I agreed.
“Ugh! I’m so happy!” She groaned in joy, changing the subject once more. “You don’t even understand!”
She was right, I didn’t. After months of believing all she wanted in life was to marry Lord Ormund, I was thrown for a whirlwind that she didn’t. That I now would have to be uprooting my life, because I was the one he chose.
Next ⥬
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Hello all!! thank you for reading this fic so far! The next chapters will be much longer than this! This is mainly the prolouge to get a little glipse into the rest of the story. I hope to post the next chapter soon! Mainly the thing thats driving me to write this is the interview James Norton did explaining how particular Ormund is with things and his looks, it really resonatted with me as someone who has OCD so i wanted to write a fic where its him and his wife understanding one another on a deeper level!!
If you want to talk to me, or keep up with this fic, please consider joining my discord server! I will also announce whenever theres a new chapter on there!
Taglist: (comment or dm me to be added or removed)
Summary: Your boyfriend nor your fingers are not enough to make you cum, so you visit Dr Hightower to be examined.
Your whole life, you’ve never been able to reach an orgasm often. Even your boyfriend of three years hadn’t been able to bring you to your peak. Not that he tried much anymore, after several unsuccessful attempts.
You couldn’t take it anymore, and booked an appointment with your usual gynaecologist to get it checked out to see if it was maybe a medical condition. Unfortunately, she was on leave, but had reassured you over text that her replacement was just as good, if not better.
“I assure you, Dr Hightower is very good at his job.”
When you got there, you barely had to wait before you could go into the examination room. You were unsure of doing this with an entirely unfamiliar doctor, hesitantly walking into the cold room. The doctor, who was sitting down, stood up to greet you.
The first thing you thought was that he was extremely good looking and had you willing a small blush off your cheeks. Curly brown hair, deep and enchanting blue eyes, along with a strong bone structure. And as if he couldn’t get better, his smile was charming when he greeted you, his low voice patient.
“I understand I’m not your usual doctor, but you’ll be in good hands with me.” He said it quite confidently, causing most of your doubts about him to disappear. Glancing at his tag, you saw that he was Dr Hightower.
Seeing him gesture for you to sit, you sat, butterflies beginning to flutter in your stomach at the thought of telling your problems to him. You had a fear of being judged, even when it was just purely for medical reasons.
But it was like he’d sensed your apprehension, leaning towards you, his intense blue eyes softening slightly. “There’s no need to be nervous.”
You’d become even more flustered at the sight of a handsome man leaning towards you, but managed to not show it outwardly. “Ah, well…it’s just that—I’ve not been able to get an orgasm at all, even during the times where I’m sexually active…”
Dr Hightower didn’t interrupt or say anything like other doctors normally did, still looking intensely at you. “That can be caused for a number of reasons, but if there’s anything else you’d like to say, maybe that could point towards the issue.”
“It’s just that, I think. I’ve been trying to, with my boyfriends or myself, but it just doesn’t happen. At all. Even my current boyfriend can’t get me to.” You stuttered a little while speaking about your bedroom activities, still unused to describing your issues to someone. Especially when they looked like a Roman god with a jawline that could cut.
When you mentioned your boyfriend hadn’t been able to pleasure you properly, you could’ve sworn he seemed unimpressed before he looked away. He leaned back against his chair, frowning slightly to himself, before his eyes met yours once more. “I have suspicions, but not quite enough to have a proper diagnosis. I’m going to be checking if your nerve endings are working.”
Usually, you removed your pants and underwear behind a screen before lying down on the examination bed, but you didn’t bother with it this time. He’d see you without your underwear on anyway. Lying down and spreading your legs instinctively, you could’ve sworn you saw his eyes darken further while he slid his gloves on.
You watched him apply lube onto his fingers, half nervous and half shivering with anticipation. Turning back towards you, he moves closer, until you swear you could feel the heat of his body beside you.
“This won’t hurt, but it will feel somewhat…uncomfortable, if you haven’t done this in some time.” He looks to you again, as if checking whether you were okay with it, then proceeded to insert one finger into you.
You nearly jerked away from his touch, but managed to stop yourself, hands clutching the sides of the examination bed. While slowly moving his finger in, you could feel his dark eyes on you, watching your every reaction and causing you to blush. His movements were gentle, unlike the crude way your boyfriend did it.
“Is this alright? Is it comfortable?” His question nearly made your head spin, his voice was low and smooth, his eyes looking directly into yours and never wavered for even a second. This felt intimate, as if you weren’t just there for a checkup.
You nodded quickly, breath quickening. You could feel yourself getting wetter, and it certainly wasn’t the lube. “It’s—it’s okay.”
“Good.” Something about the way he said that seemed final, and his second finger followed his first. It went in just as slow, but two of his long fingers inside you, spreading you open slightly, was enough to make you barely stifle a moan.
You feel his fingers moving deeper, brushing against a spot that makes your hips twitch and for a loud gasp to escape your mouth. It is at this moment he abandons the facade of being strictly professional, starting to pump his fingers in and out of you, making you blush with the sheer pleasure and the sound that it’s making. He remembered where that particular spot was, making sure to rub it with the tip of his fingers, watching as your hips buck and your eyelashes fluttered.
Watching you completely lose yourself in sheer pleasure has an effect on him, and he finds himself already sporting a semi hard cock. Hearing your soft moans and gasps get him even harder, and he wishes he had recorded this. You sound like an angel, every sound you were making would most likely feature in his fantasies for a long time after this.
A thrill shoots through him as he remembers this will be the first orgasm with a man you will have, and it is him. With this in mind, he determines to give you an unforgettable experience.
You were already so wet that sliding in another finger is no issue, and your hips buck against his hand while his fingers spread you wider. Moving his thumb, he feels around for a second, then rubs against your clit, causing your pussy to practically clench and throb around his fingers. It feels like an electric shock of pleasure through your body.
Your thighs almost clench around his hand, but he quickly spreads your legs with his other hand, fingers pumping in and out of you. He keeps on providing simulation on your sweet spot and your clit, until he feels you tense and cry out. You had come so hard that you’d squirted on his hand, shaking and whimpering from the aftershocks of your first orgasm.
Pride fills him, seeing you wrecked from the first orgasm you’ve ever had, given by him. All those years that you or your boyfriends couldn’t succeed, and he did on his first try. He reached for a towel nearby on a shelf, making sure to wipe you clean properly before sliding your panties back on.
After a few moments of sluggishness and your hazy pleasure had faded away, he speaks. “Well, it seems I was rather successful at tackling this issue, hm?”
Author’s note: Inspired by this post
This ain’t medically correct which bothers me, but then again this is fanfiction and I am no medical professional. So I gotta put up with that 😭
If there is any spelling errors, I apologise, and do tell me if it bothers your flow of reading (because I get that)
Overview: Clark called you one night- told you he had something amazing to show you. Something that would change both of your lives. Now you're stuck here in this endless hell with a thing that wears your boyfriend's face and wants to consume you whole.
a/n: I haven't even seen the Backrooms movie. Although I do enjoy playing the games with my friends. But this is born solely from the fact that I've got a Finn Bennett earworm rn, basically. And I just caught up to the latest part of @the-darklings Better Bobby series. It's literally the only fanfiction I've been able to wholly consume- in one sitting, no distractions, absolutely enthralled- in months. Her writing is crack, I'm not even joking. Finishing that gave immediate inspiration for this odd exploration into the liminal horror of the Backrooms.
wc: 6.6k
warnings: canon-compliant minor gore and body horror
“Hey, Bobby, it’s me. Look, I’m sorry, I… I can’t really explain what happened. This place– I can’t leave. Not now. Not anymore. Forget about me, Bobby. I can’t find my way back– what was that– Hey! Hey! No! Don’t go that way, Kat–”
The message abruptly cuts off; three beeps from the answering machine follow your scream. It rattles through him, echoes through the dark apartment. He’s been sitting on the couch for two hours, just listening to your message over and over and over…
Until he’d memorized the words, the exact tremble of fear in your voice. You’d tried to sound brave at first, for his benefit. You’d pretended that this was a decision you had made autonomously. Like wherever you were didn’t have you petrified and screaming out your best friend’s name.
Kat went missing the night after you. He doesn’t know where either of you are. But you’re together, and that would comfort him if he wasn’t so terrified by the agonising, inhuman screeching he’d heard in the background of your last message. How could you pretend everything was okay when he could hear that it wasn’t? He could still feel your last words echoing through the marrow of the apartment, seeping and staining the last evidence that you’d been here.
The mugs on the counter, the coffee you never finished drinking, your clothes left scattered on the bathroom floor. It was all here; in this liminal space between where you’d once existed and the absence you’d left behind.
Bobby gets to his feet; he grabs his keys and walks out the door. He doesn’t have a real plan in place. He’s been walking in a fog ever since the morning he’d realized you were missing. When you failed to come back from your night shift and the hours dragged on too long for you to just be out running errands.
He’d been forced to wait the full forty-eight hours before he filed the missing persons report. And then he’d had to file one for Kat, too. It wasn’t enough that you were gone; now your best friend was gone with you.
The police looked at him first. Poked holes in his alibi and watched him with mistrusting eyes. It didn’t take long for the accusations to melt away and turn into something more pitying. They’d asked about your relationship with Kat. How close the two of you were? Had you seemed unhappy before you left?
As if you’d run away with her. Like you couldn’t stand being with him a moment longer in your cramped apartment and listless life, he’d almost believed them, until he got that message. Until he’d heard the fear, the screaming, his name on your tongue. It was soft in the way you used to say it, but that softness was ruined by the jagged edge of your own panic as you rushed out one last message to him.
Bobby didn’t know what his plan was until he found himself standing in front of Clark’s store. The last place he could honestly say you were. The lights flicker behind the glass doors, so dim they might as well not be on, but it catches his attention.
He knows the police picked this place apart with a fine-toothed comb. When they couldn’t point the blame to Bobby, they’d turned to Clark instead. And then they couldn’t find him, either. It all circles and drains back to this one shitty, dying furniture store.
Bobby swipes away the police tape and pushes at the door. It shouldn’t be unlocked, but it falls open nonetheless. The lights brighten as he steps inside and chills break out along his skin. It feels like there are eyes in the corner of the room, watching him as he slowly makes his way through.
With each step closer to the back of the store, the lights burn brighter, the hum of the fluorescents buzzing incessantly at his back. He struggles to shrug off the feeling. Rather, he chases it, follows it until he’s standing at the top of the basement stairs.
There are muddy footprints on the stairs, from where the police investigated or from you… He doesn’t know. But he’s going to find out.
He rushes down the stairs, and it feels like there’s a touch on his back. Something just there, just out of sight, guiding him down the same path you’d taken the night you went missing. It leads him down to where you used to do inventory.
Sometimes you’d invite him to keep you company. You had that night, but he just… decided not to. He was tired and didn’t want to spend the night at Clark’s stupid fucking furniture store. And now you’re gone.
He finds himself standing in front of a wall. Just a wall. Nothing special, nothing important, nothing… Except the perfect square outlined in blue tape. The size and relative space a door would take up. Bobby’s head tilts, brows furrowing as he observes it. Something about the way the light of the basement catches it: it almost seems to shimmer, to shift right before his eyes into something that is… definitely not a wall.
Bobby reaches out, expecting to find nothing but solid cement beneath his hands. And then… he’s falling through.
“Don’t fucking move,” you hiss, trembling as you take Kat’s hand in your own. You’re tucked into one of the holes in the wall with Kat. It’s one of the few places the thing seems to look over.
It calls your name again, in his voice. Kat’s wide eyes shoot to you. “Are you sure it’s not–”
“It’s just another trick,” you choke out, tears burning across your cheeks as you peer out into the hallway. You see his back, the cutoff denim shorts, cropped tee, messy blonde hair. But the spine protrudes too much at the neck. The arms are too long. His gait is stilted like he’s still getting used to his body.
He’d almost gotten you when you’d first gotten here. And then Kat. He doesn’t care which one of you he gets; he just wants someone new. Someone else to consume.
You’d found his lair a few– days? Has it been days? Or months?
It doesn’t matter. Time has no meaning here.
The point is, you found his lair. Found the skeletons and shredded clothes of pets he’s taken and devoured. The bodies of wanderers he’s found himself enchanted by and then bored with. Now, he’s taken Bobby from your memories, made a clone of him, and wears the skin suit like that’ll be enough to convince you it's the man you love.
The fluorescent lights flicker before they burst. Kat lets out a sharp gasp, clapping her hand over her mouth. You shoot her a crazed look, eyes rimmed red from too many nights without sleep.
“There you are,” you screech as a skeletal hand reaches inside the hole. The skin it wears stretched taut around the arm until you hear it begin to rip. It claps its hand around Kat, dragging her. You scramble forward, reaching desperately for something to grab hold of.
But she’s screaming, being dragged from safety into the dark. You crawl out after her and find some of the lights beginning to turn back on. Like emergency backups, they barely make anything visible, but you can see enough.
You can see the face of your lover, crooked and painted on wrong, back bowed, and form largely monstrous as he holds Kat in his hand. His jaw opens inhumanly wide, and there’s nothing you can do but watch as his sharp teeth clamp around her neck. Blood spurts out from his maw as he rips her head clean from her body.
“Wake up!” Hands wrap too tight around your shoulders, shaking you until your eyes are shooting open and you're surging up with a gasp. Kat kneels beside you, head tilted and hair messy as she regards you warily.
“Are you okay?” she asks, hands trembling as she hovers over you. Her eyes are bloodshot, head constantly on a swivel, too afraid to take her gaze off the shadows.
You shake your head, wipe sweat from your brow, and force yourself to forget the nightmare. It’s another warning from it. Another threat of what will happen if you continue to deny it. “I’m fine. We need to get out of here, though.”
Kat frowns as you stand, wiping your sweaty palms off on your jeans. “But the door–”
“I know, Kat!” You hiss, glaring down at her. “Just… trust me, okay? We can’t stay here, right now.” It’s not safe. Not with those hungry eyes watching you from the dark alcoves.
“Where should we go, then? Nowhere is safe,” she snaps back at you, getting to her feet. It’s hard, maintaining your composure down here. Those fluorescents flicker; there’s a constant, droning buzz that settles in the back of your skull that never lets you completely relax. It’s a never-ending reminder that you don’t belong here. You’re an outlier in a place where everything wants a taste of you.
Nerves have been fraying ever since your first encounter with it. Him. That thing that lurks in the liminal space between one breath and the next. For you, he wears Bobby’s face. But for Kat, he had worn your face. Had beckoned her from the basement and down here with you, using your voice.
It’s hard to rebuild that trust when yours had been the first face she’d seen. And your face had nearly ripped hers off.
“Party rooms,” you tell her, taking her hand in your own. “It’s risky, but it's the closest place.” Kat shudders, but she follows you without protest. You can’t blame her; you don’t like the party rooms. You don’t like the children’s birthday decorations. Or those fleshy monstrosities that look like hazmats chemically bonded to human skin. Their drawn-on, twisted smiles make your stomach churn. But it’s easy enough to manage if you stay quiet and hidden.
His presence is weaker there, anyway. He seems more powerful, more potent, on this first level. With its yellow walls, musty smell, and never-ending flickering lights. That is his domain. And he can find you anywhere, but you’re not going to make it easier for him.
Kat’s grip is tight around yours, fingers lacing together as you walk side-by-side. It had been Clark who had dragged you down here, tricked you into thinking this was something grand. Something miraculous.
It was miraculous in the most twisted sense of the word. That a different pocket of reality full of eldritch horrors and a labyrinth of never-ending rooms could exist beside a furniture store was miraculous. But he had been crazed, talked to you about staying down here forever.
He had tried to drag you into this hell with him, and when you’d refused, he’d attacked. Knocked you out and left you stranded without a way back to the door. When you’d found Kat, after she’d come looking for you, you’d both learned how important it was not to let go of one another. How easy it would be for an entity to rip you apart.
Having an actual human beside you is the only reason you’re still sane; you’re sure of it.
“This way,” you mutter, leading her down the hall and to the third door on the right. It’s concerning, but you’ve been here long enough to start learning some of the curves to this place. Kat opens the door, but it’s not confetti walls and stiff carpet you’re greeted by. There are no balloons or party decorations.
This…
This is a poorly reassembled copy of Clark’s store. The store you’ve worked the past year. It’s the display floor, the couches and tables arranged almost exactly how it had been when you’d left.
“What the fuck?” Kat mutters, stepping into the room, leaving you no choice but to follow.
“This isn’t right,” you whisper, turning slowly. You haven’t found this room yet. You shouldn’t have found it. This should have been the party rooms. “Is he changing things?”
“Clark?” Kat’s hand rips from your grasp and you whip around. She’s running from you, toward one of the couches. Frowning, you follow behind her. Then you see it, the back of Clark’s head, the collar of the purple shirt he’d been wearing when he’d disappeared and left you for dead.
Kat rushes toward him, and you try to stop her, but she’s already leaning on the armrest of the chair. “Clark–” she swallows, eyes widening with horror and whatever she sees. She doesn’t have time to scream as two gnarled hands shoot out, wrapping tight around her throat.
Bobby falls to the floor, nose slamming to musty carpet. He lets out a low groan, slowly crawling to his hands and knees. He looks up and around, eyes widening as he takes in his surroundings. This is all wrong.
This can’t be real.
Walls with fraying and stained wallpaper stand freely in the large room he’s in. There’s tape that goes down a few of the hallways. Fluorescents flicker above him. He can’t make out much more beyond that. There’s a shadowed abyss beyond the walls that swallows whatever light tries to breach it.
He stands on unsteady legs, breath shortening as he tries to take everything in. He looks over his shoulder and sees nothing but a wall. There’s no marker for where he’d fallen through. Frowning, he walks forward and presses his hand to the surface. But it doesn’t sink or give way, not this time.
The doorway he’d used to get through has sealed.
With no other choice, he turns back around, trying to tamp down his rising panic. It’s hard, though, when all he can think about is you. He doesn’t even know if you’re here or if he just got himself trapped in some hellish purgatory with no way out.
Maybe this isn’t even real.
Maybe he’s at home, on the couch, tripping on something. You’ll walk through and roll your eyes at him, make him take a cold shower while you cook dinner. It’s all just been one bad acid trip.
There’s a scream somewhere in the distance. Bobby jumps back, heart racing as his back falls against the wall. It’s not human– not right. This is something else. Just like the noise he’d heard in the last message you’d left him.
Something runs past in the dark, a flash of color that has his heart leaping to his throat. Beneath the buzz of the lights, beneath his blood rushing, he hears what sounds like his name. Whispered in your voice, panic edging your tone as you call out to him.
Something runs past again, and Bobby surges forward. He calls out your name. “Bobby!” He hears in return: you’re screaming now. Bobby runs forth without a second thought, shouting your name as he follows the figure in the shadows.
“Bobby, this way!” You scream; something lurks beneath your voice. A low growl that doesn’t sound right. But he doesn’t have time to think about that as he follows after you.
He finally sees it, a flash of your hair, the tilt of your face over your shoulder as you race ahead of him. Bobby screams your name, trying to catch your attention as you race through the darkness. He’s not paying attention, doesn’t notice as the walls begin to close in. You turn a corner, and he follows… barreling right into a wall.
His head bounces off it as he drops to the floor.
There’s low laughter, familiar and distant all at once. A cold touch against his arm and he jerks up, eyes shooting wide. You jerk back, surprise painting your face as you hold up your hands.
Bobby scrambles to his feet, glancing around with a sick sort of shock. He’s back home. Back at the apartment. You’re still kneeling on the ground, in your favorite pair of pajamas with brows raised. You look relaxed, comfortable, more at peace than he’s seen you in weeks.
“Hit your head too hard?” You tease, getting to your feet. You brush past him, cold touch lingering on his arm as you turn back toward the food you’d been cooking. Bobby’s still standing there, still just staring.
Everything looks right. The sun is setting in the background, golden light filtering through the living room. The radio is on, soft music playing that you’re humming along to. This is his apartment. His home. You… you’re just like you always are. Cooking on the weekend because you don’t feel like eating his shitty attempts at cooking right now.
But this doesn’t make sense. He had just been in that– that–
Where had he been?
His head is fuzzy. You said he’d hit it. Did he? He doesn’t remember.
He knows that he’d been doing something. But what? What had been so important that he’d been chasing you, calling out your name? Just to end up right back where he started. Did he start here?
“Bobby,” you call, finally giving him your full attention. Your head tilts in concern, but your jaw tips too far, chin slants strangely as you watch him. “Are you okay? What’s going on?”
Had he been looking for you?
He looks over at you, and there’s relief, but he doesn’t know why. He reaches for you, and you fall into his arms easily. It should feel good, familiar like it always does. Your softness pressed up against him, head tucked into his neck. But your arms are too tight, the bones press against him in a way that bruises.
“I don’t–” he can’t finish the thought. It slips through his hands like water, dribbles down to the floor. His eyes drop, lingering on the stove, on the “food” you’re cooking. It’s just a white hunk of something in the pan, melting down like butter. It bubbles and creates the nauseating smell of burnt flesh.
“No,” he shakes his head and looks down at you again. Your hair is ragged, different than he remembers. You smell not right. “No,” he shoves back, and you stumble. Or the thing wearing your face does.
Your eyes narrow, the color being swallowed by a void of darkness as you scoff. But it’s not your voice anymore; it’s something darker, older. “Almost,” you mutter, clicking your tongue in annoyance.
He hears it now… the sound the music was trying to cover. Your voice, your real voice, screaming. But it’s not his name you’re screaming; it’s Kat’s. “Kat! Watch out!” over and over, echoing until it’s all he can hear.
Beside him, the thing wearing your face begins to let out a long croaking noise. Your mouth drops open inhumanly wide, and he stumbles back a step, watching as your shoulders bow. Your spine snaps in two as you contort in ways no human should. Your form grows taller until the skin begins to rip at the edges.
Bobby turns, running before it can sink its hungry teeth into him. He runs through the apartment door and finds himself back in the room with the yellow walls and winding paths. It’s welcome compared to what he’d just seen.
He follows the sound of your voice until he’s worried it was just another trick of this place. Then, he comes upon a hallway filled with doors. Decaying doors with stains, steel doors with rusted locks, all kinds. And behind the one on his right, you’re the loudest.
He barrels through and finds himself standing on the display floor of Clark’s store. It’s not quite right; something about this place feeds into that off feeling he’s had since he dropped into this hell.
But there you are, waving around a floor lamp like a weapon as you beat on something that’s crawling over Kat. You let out another scream, cocking the lamp back and hitting it as hard as you can.
The body goes flying off, and he realizes you’d been beating another failed copy of someone. Clark, he thinks. You drop the lamp and reach for Kat’s hand, tugging her into you. Bobby hesitates at the door. Is this you? Is he dreaming? Is it just another trick?
Kat sees him first; her eyes go wide, lips parting in silent shock. You frown, turning to follow her gaze. He waits for it, the recognition, the relief, the way you say his name when you’re happiest to see him.
But it doesn’t come. Instead, your stare hardens as you stumble back from him. “I told you not to use that face!”
He shakes his head, holding his hands out hopelessly. “Baby,” he breathes out. “It’s me. I swear it’s me,” he’ll get on his knees and beg if that's what it takes for you to believe him. You stalk forward, ripping your arm from Kat’s grip. He almost smiles, but then you’re reaching out, hands wrapping tight around his throat as you slam him into the wall.
“Fuck you,” you hiss, tears lining your eyes. “You’re not him, don’t call me that!” Your teeth are bared, like a wild animal lashing out. He wants to stop you, to fight back. But he doesn’t want to risk hurting you. He tries pleading with you again, swearing it’s him, not some entity wearing his face.
But your thumbs are digging into the hollow of his throat, and his eyes are rolling back as you let him fall to the floor.
You stand over that thing's body, brows drawing in as you stare down at it. It should have disappeared, sunk through the floor, and started hunting you once more. You shouldn’t have gotten close enough to choke it before it snatched you up.
Kat comes up behind you and takes your hand tentatively in her own. “He’s not getting up,” she whispers, just as confused as you.
You glance over at her before kneeling. Reaching out, you press your fingers to the pulse point of its neck. There should be nothing. No pulse, no warmth, nothing to give away life. But it’s there, faint after your attack, a heart beating beneath flesh that’s been warmed by real, pumping blood.
“Fuck,” you gasp, tears lining your eyes as you stare down at the body of your boyfriend. “I think he’s real.”
Kat frowns, dropping beside you. She reaches out, same as you, and sees for herself. Her hands come up to her mouth, gasping as she looks over at you. “Oh, my god. Did you kill Bobby?”
“No!” you hiss, whipping around to glare at her. “I can feel his damn pulse. I just… knocked him out. Shit.”
This place doesn’t give you time to linger or rest. Not once since you’ve gotten here have you been able to catch your breath. Even now, just behind you, you can hear creaking. A body pulling itself back together. Flesh reknitting from where you’d busted it open with the heavy end of a lamp.
“We need to get him up, help me.” Kat doesn’t waste time; she throws one of Bobby’s arms over her shoulder while you grab the other. Neither of you spare the entity wearing Clark’s face a second look. You can’t. They only get more horrifying when they come back. You can’t afford to let terror freeze you.
You drag him back through the door you’d come from and slam it shut behind you. Clark’s copy slams against the door, pounds his fists, and lets out inhuman, croaking noises that make your entire body shudder.
You’re back within the yellow walls. And nothing about this place is safe. But, at the very least, you’re more comfortable here. Because here, you know what lurks in the shadows; you know what to expect.
“Over here,” you tell Kat, nodding toward one of the larger holes that have been beaten into the wall. You don’t know who put it there. If it was someone else who got trapped here like you. Or those people who you occasionally see in hazmat suits. But these little alcoves in the wall are one of the few places the entity seems to pass by.
You crawl in first, grabbing Bobby’s wrist as you help Kat drag him in. You pull him up into your chest, folding his legs so there’s room for her to squeeze in on the other end. “What do we do now?” she asks, voice trembling as she wraps her arms around her legs.
You shake your head and glance down at your boyfriend. Tears line your eyes as you squeeze him, his arms, his hands. Feel the warmth that you’ve missed for so long. Your head falls forward, tears leaking into his t-shirt as you wrap your arms tighter around him.
“Please be real,” you whisper, and the lights flicker in response.
The lights are out now, just a dim humming that it can’t completely extinguish. It’s passed by your wall three times now, calling out your name, wearing Bobby’s face. Bobby stirs in your arms, and Kat’s eyes shoot up in alarm.
You curl around him tighter and see his lashes flutter as he begins to wake up. Quickly, you clamp your hand around his mouth. He seizes in your grip, panic beginning to take over. “It’s me, it’s me,” you whisper. “Don’t say anything, Bobby, please. It’s right there.”
Kat’s across from him, frantically shaking her head as she keeps her own hands wrapped around her mouth. She can’t trust herself not to make a noise either. The thing outside the wall goes still, and you duck down, watching as it turns on too long legs.
Bobby goes lax in your grip, head tilting up to get a better look at you. His eyes widen as he takes you in. The sharper angles of your face, the deep circles beneath your eyes that almost make you look corpse-like.
You’re not perfect, not a flawless uncanny representation of yourself. He turns in your grip, arms thrown around your waist as he buries his face in your neck. You cradle the back of his head, forehead pressed to his shoulder as the thing walks past you once more.
The lights flicker back on, and its form disappears before you can blink. “Okay,” Kat mutters, motioning outside with her head. You nod, and she begins to crawl out. Her head swivels around, checking your surroundings, before she turns around and waves you forward.
“Come on,” you nudge Bobby. “We gotta go.” He slinks back, but his grip doesn’t leave you. He holds onto your hand as you both crawl out from the wall. The second you’re standing, he jerks you forward, dragging you into his arms.
He lets out a shuddering breath against your hair, shoulders shaking as he holds you. Kat cares little for the reunion. Her hand finds yours on instinct, too afraid to let go for so long.
“I thought– I didn’t think I’d see you again,” he whispers, pulling back. His hands go to your face, cupping your cheeks as he looks you over. “You’re here,” he can’t quite seem to believe it.
You reach up and take his wrist in your hold. “What the hell were you thinking coming in here?” you scoff with a wet laugh, tears spilling down your cheeks. It’s him, it’s really him. He’s alive and here and warm and…
This fucking idiot never should have followed you.
He should have been safe, mourned you and Kat, and moved on. But you can’t find it in yourself to scold him. The lights flicker and Kat gasps, hand tightening around your own. You don’t have time for a reunion, either. That thing will be circling back soon.
“We need to leave,” you tell him, lacing your fingers through his. Bobby trails behind you and Kat, gaze roaming across the vastness of the strange backrooms.
“Where are we?”
You suck in a shaky breath, coming to a stop at a dead-end. For however long you’ve been here, you’ve been looking for the door that brought you here. At every turn, you’ve been kept at bay by something you can’t see.
“I don’t know,” Kat answers.
“Clark brought me here,” you tell him, turning to face them both. “He called it the backrooms. Said he wanted to stay here. I haven’t seen him since he left me.”
Bobby’s face screws up, “Left you?”
The lights begin flickering behind him, popping off in the distance one by one. Something creeps ever closer in the darkness. Not the thing that wears your face. This is something different. Something new that follows behind you with thudding footsteps that shake the floor.
“We have to move,” you hiss, tugging their arms. “Now!” you shout, dragging them both behind you.
There’s no time to find a hole to crawl into. No time to do anything but race through the endless darkness and yellow halls, hoping for something new. Another door. Another path. Anything to put space between you and the footsteps following slowly behind you.
“Watch it!” Kat shouts, tugging you back before you slip into a shadowed abyss. Before you is a sharp dip in the floor. It slides down into nothing but darkness. You haven’t seen this before. Haven’t found it while you explored.
The footsteps stop suddenly behind you, and you whip around. Bobby tugs on your hand, and you frown. He lets out a yelp as something grabs him in the darkness. His fingers slip through yours as he’s dragged to the floor.
“Bobby!” He screams your name as his legs descend into the darkness. You throw yourself onto your stomach, desperately grasping at his flailing hands. You manage to grab one of his arms as Kat drops, hands grappling at the collar of his shirt.
“Come on,” you grunt, glancing over your shoulder and watching as a form splits from the darkness. You tug on Bobby, not giving up until he’s dragged from the darkness and lying beside you. Your eyes drift over him, down to his ankles, and you see angry red welts going up his legs.
Kat moves to help him to stand just as that touch snatches up your leg. Their eyes widen as they turn toward you. But you don’t even get to scream before you're dragged down.
There are no fluorescents down here. Just the dull buzzing that usually comes along with them. You lay curled up in the shadows, knees tucked to your chest as you weep. You want to be strong. You want to face the monsters in the dark with some form of bravery. But you’re a coward. You always have been.
It’s easy to pretend, when you have someone to pretend for. When you have Kat or Bobby beside you to take care of. You can live in a world where you have to be the strong one.
But in this dark hole, with wide eyes staring at you from the shadows, you’re not strong enough for anything except crying.
You can hear them, above you, screaming your name. Feet beating against the floor as they search for you.
“They won’t find you,” that voice – his voice – whispers in your ear. The creature that wears Bobby’s skin and wants you trapped here with it.
“Leave me alone,” you cry. It chuckles, inhuman and unnatural as its form curls around you. Hands, too many hands, grapple at your body, tug on your clothes. Testing your mortal form as it keeps you locked away here in the dark.
“Why should I? I finally have you right where I want you.” You’re ripped from your spot, forced to your feet as you’re pinned to the wall. There’s a little light– just enough for you to see the twisted visage of your lover’s face on the wrong body.
Fingers that are too long drag along your skin. Like a snake’s tongue learning the air around it, the environment, through taste and touch, he licks at your skin tentatively. His nose pushes up against your neck, taking in a deep inhale of your scent.
You can’t help but whimper, eyes clenched shut as his body contorts around your own. His lips trail up your skin, rough tongue scraping at your flesh as he goes. It reminds you of a cat’s, too barbed and too demanding to be human.
His face hovers over your own, skin warping like a stone that’s just been tossed into a puddle. You can’t stare into those black eyes too long. Did he even know his mask had begun to slip?
“If you stay here,” it’s Bobby’s voice, but something is lurking beneath it. Something very old, something lonely and unused to the company of mortals. “I’ll let them go.”
Your heart races, eyes shooting up to the voids where irises should be. “You’re lying.”
He shakes his head, lips curling into a too-long smirk. “I don’t need to,” he whispers, jagged finger tilting your chin up toward him.
He doesn’t need to because you’re desperate. Because you’ve been running through the seven layers of hell and now you’re stuck in an endless, looping purgatory faced with all your worst fears. You’ve been here so long that you’re losing parts of yourself, and these rooms are filling in the holes left behind.
You can’t let that happen to Bobby.
Slowly, you nod, his face goes slack, as if he hadn’t actually thought you would accept. His eyes narrow, head tilting at an inhuman angle, and you just nod again. “If you swear you’ll let them leave.”
“A deal struck,” he whispers, and that ancient voice reminds you of mythological tales of fairies. Of eldritch horrors that trapped humans in bargains and deals they hadn’t realized the enormity of.
His head dips, lips slotting hesitantly over your own. He doesn’t understand this mortal shape. He knows that he craves this; the taste and touch of you. But he doesn’t understand how to retrieve it. He’s pilfered through your memories, stolen your favorites and replicated them poorly.
Now, he can’t even give you this.
There’s a violent tremble in your hands as you reach up to grasp his shoulder. You almost push him away when the distinct lack of his taste fills your mouth, when his rough tongue scrapes against your own. You have to remind yourself who this is for.
This face that it wears is the man you’re trying to save. The one you love enough to sacrifice yourself for.
Your heart races, breath stalling as you feel his tongue begin to explore the wet caverns of your mouth. Two hands settle around your waist, but there’s still a touch pushing up your chin. You can’t open your eyes. If you do, you’ll see too many arms, too many eyes and teeth.
You clench your eyes tightly shut, chest heaving as that tongue steadily expands. It strokes against your own as he pushes you further up the wall, thigh slotting between your own. Rough barbs tickle the back of your throat before probing deeper. It wants to explore every inch of you, map out the workings of your frail, human body through touch.
Your stomach seizes with panic; tears slip from your eyes as your nails dig into shoulders that are too broad and bony. Pleasure spikes in your core against your will. Another hand, dragging up and up until it’s wrapping around your throat and feeling your pulse beneath cold flesh.
Wrong. Wrong. WRONG–
Something inside you– your hindbrain– pieces of yourself from the eons where humans were the prey and these creatures were worshiped– Whatever it is, it screams at you that this is inhumane and heartless.
It will hurt you. It will split you open and lap your blood up from the floor like a starved mutt.
In the distance, you hear him, screaming as something thunders just behind him. He’s not screaming for himself, though. It’s you, your name that he’s calling out.
Through sheer force of will, you make your eyes open. Make yourself look at the twisted visage and poor attempt at humanity. And just beyond its shoulders, you see it, a light. Like a flashlight, desperately searching through the darkness for you.
Your teeth clamp down around the tongue. Thick, viscous blood pools in your mouth and the thing backs up with a hiss. The tongue slithers from your throat, dragging along the flesh of your mouth until you’re gagging, gasping for breath as you slump to the floor.
“We had a deal,” it hisses.
Bobby screams your name in the distance, and you spit out the blood pooling in your mouth. It splatters black against the carpet. “Deal’s off,” you hiss, ducking under its too many arms and running toward his voice.
“Bobby!” You scream, and you hear it roar behind you. Anger and misery that’s too complicated to formulate into something your human ears can understand echo throughout the entire level. You follow that waving beam of light until you’re crashing into your boyfriend.
“Bobby,” you gasp out, trying not to sob. There’s no time; that monster is still behind you both.
His arm wraps around you, his other hand stuck in Kat’s vice grip. And just behind him, the flashlight– it belongs to a group of people in hazmat suits. “This way,” one of them orders. And then they’re all running, barely giving you time to follow.
You chase after them, hold tight to Bobby, and force yourself not to turn around. Not to face the hunger and lust of something that wants to chew through you until it hits marrow, until it's licking at your soul and consuming you entirely.
The people in the suits weave through the narrow passageways with ease, following black tape on the floor. Your eyes try to follow the path, but you only feel yourself grow dizzy with panic. “Hurry!” they shout, the booming footsteps growing closer behind you all.
They come to a stop near what looks like a research post. Cameras, computers, all sorts of technical equipment stacked haphazardly on desks that have been abandoned. Beside it, there’s a shimmer on the wall, the type that Clark had first dragged you through.
They run through, and Kat doesn’t hesitate to follow, dragging Bobby and you behind her. There’s a loud screech, a sting down your back as you fall through. Bobby trips on Kat and you both hurtle to the floor.
You land on his chest, the air rushing from you as pain screams down your back. “Ah,” you croak, reaching behind you. Your hands come back bloody.
“Shit, it got you,” one of the researchers hiss. You look up and realize you’re in what looks like a warehouse. More people in hazmats, more equipment you don’t understand. “I’ll go get a medic,” they tell you before rushing off.
Bobby still sits below you. His eyes rake over your face before he’s tugging you into his chest, arms wrapping around you, uncaring for the blood that stains them. You wind yourself around him like a serpent, grip damn near choking as you grasp onto these last strands of reality.
“You found me,” you whisper, too afraid to start crying again.
“Always,” he swears, burying his face in your neck.
Something clicks in your head. Something you haven’t had time to think of while you’re running for your life. “Bobby…” you pull back, catching Kat’s eyes over his shoulder. She’s still shaken, still catching her breath. “How did you know how to find me?”
His brows furrow as he shakes his head. “You called me.”
Your heart stops, chills raise along your skin, and you would swear you could feel eyes from the wall behind you. “No, I didn't.”
pairing: entity!bobby franklin/bb x f!reader
wc: 9.1k 💀
summary: BB has waited an eternity for someone to choose him. You finally let him in. All of him.
contents/warnings: 18+, explicit smut (entity sex, oral (f receiving), crazy amount of overstimulation, marathon sex, body worship!!!), non-human anatomy && shifting during sex, tummy bulges!!! (you're his cocksleeve i'm afraid <3), eldritch features (elongated tongue, additional appendages, iridescent skin), mutual praise && desperation, emotional themes of loneliness && touch starvation (yeah,,, in your monsterfucking smut ikik), references to emotional neglect in a prior relationship/guilt over moving on, past references to real bobby/reader.
notes: this took years off my damn life because I kept reworking parts but I did enjoy writing it overall. pic used is for aesthetic purposes only && is not representative of the reader character. I just like looking at Finn with his mouth gaping open mid moan :) also this is NOT canon compliant for the main series. y'all just want to fuck bb && I respect that (also this was put off twice & I reckon I owe you one after Part 6). essentially this can be read as "entity x/bobby/plot never happened & you chose to stay with bb forever" au.
✶ better bobby series.
“I found something for you.”
BB is crouching beside the nest when you open your eyes, his cool fingers turning something small and bright in his palm. A button. Red plastic, chipped at one edge, the kind that falls off a coat and rolls under a shelf and gets forgotten. He holds it out to you with the nervous care of a child presenting a drawing.
“It was in one of the lower hallways,” he explains, watching for your reaction. “Near a door I haven't opened yet. It's the same red as the mug you told me about. The one your mom had. I thought—” He turns it in his fingers. The yellow light catches the glossy surface. “I thought you might want something red. There's not a lot of red here.”
You take the button. It's warm from his hand, or rather warm from the contact with his hand, because BB himself runs cool, always cool, his body temperature a few degrees below what feels human until your skin draws the heat out of him. The red plastic sits in your palm. Cheap. Cracked.
It's the most thoughtful gift anyone's given you in over a year.
“Thank you, BB.”
He smiles. That shy, lopsided thing that doesn't belong on Bobby's face because Bobby never smiled like that; Bobby's smiles were teasing and self-aware and loaded, and this one is open and unguarded and a little bit terrified that you won't like it.
“You do? You like it?”
You lift your eyes toward him, and smile. “I love it.”
The yellow warms toward gold around you. Just slightly. Just enough to notice.
You hold out for months.
That's the part that's going to eat you alive later, the part you'll turn over and over in your head. The part where you knew.
You knew what kissing him did to you from the first time, that clumsy mortifying moment in the blankets when he'd come in his shorts and watched himself discover his new body. The look on BB’s face had carved itself into you like a brand.
You knew because kissing BB isn't kissing. Kissing BB is a substance. It enters your bloodstream through the point of contact, and within thirty seconds, you can feel it spreading. Warm and heavy and stupid, a fog that settles behind your eyes and at the base of your spine.
The longer his mouth is on yours, the worse it gets. Or better. You can't tell anymore which of those words applies. The two collapse into the same sensation when BB is touching you because his version of pleasure isn't built on the human axis where good and too-much are different categories.
His skin is cool when he isn't touching you. That's one of the things that took getting used to. The temperature of him. His hands when they find your wrist in the dark, his chest when you lean against him in the nest. Cool like marble or water from a deep well.
There's warmth underneath the surface, banked and dormant, waiting, but it only comes alive when he touches you. The warmth bleeds through contact, drawn out by your body heat, rising to meet you and then surpassing you. And once the warmth is going, it does things. It sinks. It reads. It feeds information back to him through his palms, fingertips, and mouth, a living scan of your nervous system in real time through his skin.
So you hold out. You let BB kiss you sometimes. Short, careful, your hand on his chest when it threatens to become more. His immediate compliance every single time, pulling back to press his forehead to yours. Just breathing even though he doesn’t need oxygen the way you do, hands shaking on your waist, always mortifyingly patient.
For months after the first kiss. Just that.
“Do you dream?” BB asks one evening, his fingers working over your hair.
You're lying with your head in his lap. The yellow hum is low tonight, and the ghost-flowers on the wallpaper have settled into stillness for once.
“Sometimes,” you tell him honestly.
“What about?”
You almost say Bobby. You catch it in your teeth. “Home, mostly. The apartment. My side of the bed.”
BB's fingers pause over your hair for half a second. Then they resume, slower.
“Do you miss it?”
You think about that. Really think about it, while his cool fingers stroke over your hair and the hum fills the silence with its tuneless drone. Do you miss it? Do you miss the apartment where Bobby's camera equipment colonised every surface? Do you miss the kitchen where he stopped looking at you? Do you miss your side of the bed, which was your side because Bobby took the other side and the middle and left you the edge.
“I miss what it used to be,” you say quietly. “Before it went bad.”
BB's hand settles on your temple. Warm now, from the contact with your skin. His thumb traces the curve of your eyebrow.
“Tell me about before,” he says softly.
Before was good. That's the thing, the thing that makes the after so unbearable. Before was so good.
Bobby in the early months was a revelation. Bobby with his camera aimed at you across a crowded room, lowering it to grin at you with his whole crooked face, saying the light's doing something crazy on you, babe and meaning it with every fibre of his skinny sun-browned body.
Bobby who kissed you in parking lots and edited footage with his head in your lap and rolled joints on the kitchen counter while telling you about his day in that low lazy drawl that made your stomach flip even when he was talking about lens caps.
Bobby who touched you like you mattered. Hands on the small of your back in a crowd, arm around your shoulder or waist, always. Fingers laced through yours during movies. His mouth on the back of your neck while you were doing dishes, warm and idle, a press of lips that said I'm here and I like being here. Bobby in bed in the early days, Bobby with his chain tangled between your bodies, looking at you with those pale eyes and saying come here, baby, let me feel you with a softness that undid you every single time.
The good was so good it spoiled you for everything that came after.
The good taught you what Bobby was capable of, what he contained, and that knowledge made the withdrawal so much worse. Because you knew. You knew he could be tender. You'd seen the inside of him, the soft unguarded core he showed you, and then he'd locked the door.
You'd tried to get back in. That's the part that hurts the most now.
You'd asked him what was wrong. You'd asked him if he was okay, if he wanted to talk, if he needed space, if you'd done something. You'd tried every key you could think of, and the door stayed shut. And the worst part, the very worst part, was that you could hear him on the other side. You could hear him breathing. He was right there, your Bobby, the real one, the one who filmed you sleeping because the light was good, and he wouldn't open the door for a reason you didn’t know.
That hurt more than the silence. More than the grunting. More than the nights he turned his back. Because the silence you could have explained away. You could have told yourself he'd changed, that the tenderness was a phase, that you'd imagined the depth of it. But you hadn't imagined it. You'd been inside. You'd touched the walls. And knowing what was in there and being locked out of it was a cruelty so singular it felt designed.
You tell BB some of this. Not all. You tell him about the parking lot kisses and the kitchen touches and the way Bobby used to look at you through the viewfinder. The way he hugged you with his whole body every time he saw you, nuzzling into your shoulder with a muffled sigh. You tell him about the door closing. BB listens with his head tilted, his fingers still in your hair, his pale eyes fixed on your face with that total, unwavering attention.
“He had all of that,” BB says quietly when you finish. “And he put it behind a locked door and won’t even tell you why.”
“Yeah.”
“And you kept knocking.”
You force a breath over the lump in your throat. “Yeah.”
BB is quiet for a long time after that. His thumb traces your temple. The yellow walls warm around you, trying to bleed toward gold again.
“I don't have a door,” he says softly, quietly. “I don't know how to build one. Everything I have is right here. You can see all of it.”
You close your eyes, and the purr starts low in his chest.
You don't say anything. But you reach up and press his hand against your cheek, keeping him there, close. BB's breath catches, and he holds perfectly still, and the yellow turns gold.
You hold out for months, and the guilt sits inside you like a stone.
Guilt for wanting it. Guilt for not wanting it enough. Guilt for thinking about real Bobby while BB's mouth is on you, and guilt for not thinking about real Bobby enough. Guilt for the fact that some traitor part of you has stopped flinching at BB's touch and started anticipating it, leaning into it.
You go to bed with your back to him and wake up curled into his chest, because your body made a decision before your conscious mind could.
And you didn't leave.
That's the thing you can't explain to yourself, the thing that damns you.
You didn't leave because after what happened with Bobby, after months of being invisible in your own space, being wanted felt so good. Being needed felt so good. BB looked at you every single day like the sun rose and set in the shape of your body, and that kind of attention was a drug more potent than anything his kiss could do to your bloodstream.
You were terrified of how much you liked it. You were more terrified of losing it.
The nest also changed. You don't remember when. You'd been asleep, and BB had been out, doing whatever BB does when he leaves the territory, and you'd woken to find your apartment.
Not exactly. A yellow-tinged approximation of it, laid overtop the warm patch of carpet. The blankets rearranged into a bed with your bedspread from Santa Clara, the one with the faded blue flowers. The pillows you'd left in the apartment when the wall took you. The little side table with the lamp from the yard sale in Sunnyvale. Even the pattern of the wallpaper had shifted, not away from yellow but around it, a suggestion of the flowered paper you'd hung in the bedroom, ghosted through the buttercup background.
BB had been sitting cross-legged beside the nest when you woke, watching your face for the reaction, hands twisted together in his lap. He'd looked at you with such raw nervous hope that you'd started crying before you understood what he'd built.
“I heard you,” he'd said, voice unsure, small. “You said you missed home. So I—” He gestured at the room, his hands shaking. “I don't know if I got the pattern right. I only saw vague glimpses in your mind. I could change it, if it's wrong.”
You'd crawled into his lap. Buried your face in his neck. His cool skin had warmed slowly under your cheek.
That was weeks ago. Months ago. Time is soft here. It's before you started noticing the flowers on the wallpaper moving when you weren't looking directly at them. Before you noticed the lamp doesn't have a cord. Before you noticed that when BB is happy, the yellow warms toward gold, and when he's worried it cools toward green, and the whole territory has become an extension of his mood.
None of it scares you the way it should. That's the part that actually scares you.
“Baby?”
BB is sitting on the edge of the bed. He's holding a blanket he found somewhere, a thick, dark green wool one, and he's folding it with careful absorption. His long fingers crease the edges. He’s already gazing at you when you glance his way. His eyes are Bobby's blue today, human-shaped, the entity safely tucked away behind the mask.
“Yeah?”
“Can I ask you something?” he asks carefully.
You nod. “Of course.”
He visibly hesitates, his head lowered. “Do you want to go home?”
Your chest tightens. “BB—”
“You don't have to answer.” He folds the blanket smaller. His voice is steady, and his hands are also steady, but neither of those things is true underneath. “I just… I've been thinking about it. About whether you're staying because you want to or because you don't know how to leave. And I want, baby, I want you to know that if you—” He swallows. “If you need to go... I won't…”
He stops, staring at the blanket in his hands.
“I won't stop you,” he finishes, practically choking the words out.
You gaze at him. At the green blanket folded in his lap. At his hands, which are familiar and gripping the wool hard enough to dimple the fabric. At his face, which is Bobby's face and isn't, which is the face of a thing that heard you crying through a wall and built itself a body to hold you and is now offering to let you go because it loves you more than it loves having you.
“I don't know,” you say honestly. “I don't know, BB.”
He nods, keeps folding. You sit together in the quiet, and the yellow is the palest green you've ever seen it, almost grey, and BB's hands are shaking slightly around the blanket, and he's pretending they're not.
That night you lie awake in the nest that looks like your old apartment with BB's arm across your waist, and you think about going home. Really think about it. You think about the apartment in Santa Clara and the kitchen and your mug on the drying rack and your shoes by the mat. You think about Bobby. You think about whether Bobby is sitting in that apartment right now, or if he moved on without you there to nag him.
You think about going back to him, walking through the wall and climbing the stairs. Finding him. And you try to feel what that would be like, the reunion, the homecoming, and what you feel is—
Grief. You feel grief.
Because going home means going back to Bobby, and going back to Bobby means going back to a man who locked the door. Who might open it now, might fling it wide, might weep and hold you and swear he'll be different. But you've spent months on the other side of that door. Months knocking. Months making yourself smaller and smaller to fit through the crack underneath. And even if Bobby opens the door now, you know what it's like when it's closed. You know the sound of his back turning. You know the weight of his indifference. You carry it in your bones.
The relationship was over months before you left. You know that now. The wall in Clark's basement didn't end your relationship with Bobby. Bobby ended it. Quietly, one day at a time, one turned back at a time, and you'd stood in the wreckage pretending it was still standing because the alternative was admitting you'd been alone for months in a room with someone who used to love you.
You're only here because you're finally letting the ghost of going home go.
Because letting BB in means choosing the yellow. Choosing the hum. Choosing a place with no sky and no weather. No yard sales on El Camino with golden retrievers named Mango. Letting BB in means letting the real world go, and admitting that the girl who fell through the wall in Clark's basement is not the girl sitting in this nest.
That girl was going home. That girl was holding on.
This girl has let go of everything except the creature beside her, and she doesn't want to pick any of it back up.
It means letting Bobby's ghost go, too.
The real one, the Bobby who exists in Santa Clara, the one who grunts at your goodbyes, that Bobby has been a ghost to you for longer than BB has been real. And the Bobby you've been holding onto, the candle in the draft, the one who filmed you sleeping and called you my girl, that Bobby is a memory.
A beautiful, aching, preserved memory of a man who doesn't exist anymore.
Loving a memory is not the same as loving a person. A memory can't change. A memory can't hurt you, can't grow, can't learn. A memory just sits in your chest, glows, and keeps you warm, and slowly, slowly starves you because you're using it to feed a hunger it was never designed to fill.
BB is not a memory. BB is real. He’s flawed in his own inhuman ways, learning in real time, and holding you right now, his cool arm across your waist, his purr a low vibration you can feel through the mattress. BB is the one who brought you a red button because your mom had a red mug years ago. BB is the one who offered to let you leave even though it would destroy him.
You love him. Not as a replacement. Not because he wears the right face. You love the thing behind the face. The thing that has no door, that never had it.
You turn over. Press your face into BB's chest. His arms tighten around you at once, his skin warming under your cheek.
“I'm staying,” you tell him in a tender whisper.
BB goes still.
“You—”
“I'm staying, BB,” you tell him again, pressing closer, tucking yourself close. “I'm choosing this. I'm choosing you.”
The purr cracks. Breaks apart. Reassembles into something so deep and so full it vibrates in your skull. BB's arms crush you against him and his face buries in your hair, and he's shaking, shaking, his cool body warming everywhere you touch him, and the yellow floods gold.
The whole room, the whole level, gold as sunlight, gold as the thing inside his chest that has waited longer than time itself for someone to say those exact words.
You kiss him the next day.
He's beside you in the nest, cross-legged, telling you about a level he found that loops back on itself, and you're half-listening, more focused on the shape of his mouth than the words coming out of it. You lean over and press your lips to the hinge of his jaw. Just there. A small, warm press between his ear and his chin.
BB falters mid-sentence. A stutter, a swallow, his eyes flicking to you and away.
“—and the walls change texture right where it loops, which is, um. Interesting because—”
You kiss the corner of his mouth. Lightly. Barely there. And your hand finds the back of his nape.
BB stops talking.
His neck is cool under your palm. Smooth, the tendons shifting as he swallows. Your fingers curl into the short hair at his nape. The change is immediate: his skin warming under your touch, temperature rising from mild to warm in three heartbeats.
“Baby,” he says carefully, his voice dropping half an octave. “What are you—”
You kiss him again. On the mouth. Full. Your lips part against his, and you make it different. You don't hold back. You don't keep your hand on his chest as a brake. You kiss him with your whole body leaning into it, and your hand on his nape tightens, pulling him closer.
BB makes a sound against your lips. Small. Startled. His hands come up to your waist on instinct, and you can feel them warm against your skin in real time, heat blooming where you're connected. He's bracing himself for the pull-back. He's already preparing to be patient about it.
You press forward instead. Your weight shifts, your knee coming up onto the blankets, your body tipping into his. BB's hands tighten on your waist. You can feel the exact moment he realises you're not stopping, his fingers digging in, his breath hitching, his mouth opening wider for you. And you push him.
Gentle but firm, both hands on his chest now, and BB goes where you push him.
His back hits the wall. The ghost-flowered wallpaper presses against his shoulder blades, and you're in his lap, knees on either side of his hips, chest against his chest. You kiss him fully. Mouth open. Tongue sliding against his. Your fingers in his hair and your hips pressing down against him and every last ounce of restraint you've been maintaining for months dissolving into the heat flooding through you.
The heat. The fog. It hits you the second you stop fighting it. Months of buildup pouring through. Your head swims. Your skin goes electric. BB's warmth blazes against you, drawn out by your body, his cool skin going hot wherever you touch him.
BB moans. Deep, ragged, pulled from somewhere below his chest, vibrating through his ribs into yours. Hungry and wanting. The sound of a creature starved, weak with wanting you so much.
His hands move. They stop being still on your waist, and they move. Both of them, everywhere at once, kneading. His fingers grip the fat of your hips. His palms slide up your ribs. His hands cup your breasts through your shirt, fingers pressing and kneading with a desperate, tactile hunger. He needs to touch all of you at once, and two hands aren't enough.
His tongue slides along your lower lip, longer than it should be, and you open your mouth wider and let him in. BB groans desperately, his hips rolling up against you.
The sound is wet. BB’s tongue slides against yours in a coil that tightens and releases in eager pulses, saliva building between your joint mouths. The kiss is messy and open, drool collecting at the corner of your lips because you can't swallow around the thickness of his tongue filling your mouth.
You roll your hips against him again, harder. BB makes a broken sound, and his head drops back against the wall, his throat baring. You kiss it. The spot his pulse should be, his Adam's apple, the hollow at the base. His skin is warm now, fully warm, almost hot.
You pull back, your face inches from his. Your hands settle on his chest, feeling his heartbeat slamming against your palms. BB’s eyes are half-black. His mouth is swollen and wet, gaping open. His hands grip your hips hard enough to leave marks, his whole body trembling.
“I want you,” you gasp against his lips.
BB goes still. Every muscle in his body locks, his hands freezing on your hips. His breathing stops. His eyes search your face with an intensity that has nothing to do with Bobby and everything to do with the ancient thing behind the mask.
“You—” His voice trembles, going thin. “You want—”
You press your forehead against his. “I want you, BB.”
“Do… do you mean—”
“I mean all of it,” you rasp, your hand slipping into his hair. “I mean you."
BB’s face cracks open. His expression unravels completely, and what's underneath is raw and enormous and terrified and so, so joyful. His eyes go fully black, the entity surging to the surface, and he looks at you like you've just handed him the universe.
“You want me,” he whispers desperately, testing the words, faint with disbelief.
You cup his face with both hands. Your palms on his jaw, your thumbs on his cheekbones. His skin is burning under your hands.
“I want you,” you repeat, and you kiss him. Deeper. Slower. His tongue coils around yours, gentle, trembling, the grip shaky because BB is shaking, his whole body is.
He pulls back a centimetre, forehead nudging against yours. Eyes black and wet as they drink you in.
“I waited so long,” he whispers, his voice pained. “I waited so long for you. You don't know how long I was alone. And there was nothing. Just the hum, and the yellow. And then there was you. I heard your voice and I—”
His breath hitches, a wounded sound vibrating at the back of his throat.
“I'd rarely heard anything except the hum and the things in the dark, but then you were on the other side of the wall, and you were talking. Your voice… it was the first beautiful thing I ever heard. I built this—” He touches his own face. Bobby's face. His hand trembling. “I built all of this for you. Because I heard you crying and needed hands because you were sad. And I… I wanted to hold you, and I didn't have anything to hold you with.”
Tears burn your eyes. BB's thumbs trace your cheekbones lightly, wiping the tears as they threaten to escape.
“You were born for me,” he breathes, fierce and tender all at once. “I know that now. I was in the walls for—I don't have a number. But then you came along, and I knew. I was waiting for you this whole time. You were always going to be mine. I just had to learn how to deserve you.”
“I love you,” you choke out. “BB. I love you.”
He makes a broken, needy sound, pressing kisses to your face, your cheek, your jaw, your eyelids, the corner of your mouth. “I love you. Let me touch you. Please. Baby, please. I've waited so long.”
“Yes,” you whisper. “Take me to bed.”
He carries you. Two steps, three, his inhuman strength on casual display, and he lays you down on the bedspread with the faded blue flowers.
His hands are shaking. The purr starts in his chest, a deep warm vibration you can feel through the mattress. He kneels between your legs and looks at you, just looks. His mouth swollen and wet. His chest heaving.
“I don't know how to. I've never—”
“I know.” You reach up and cup his face. His cool skin warms immediately under your palm. “I know, baby. I'll show you. I've got you.”
He drops down against you, his weight settling along your body, his face burying in your neck. His mouth opens against your pulse, and you feel his tongue, just the tip, tracing the vein under your skin. His lips close over your pulse point, and he sucks gently, the purr vibrating through his mouth into your neck.
“You're so warm,” he breathes against your skin. “Baby. You're so warm. I've been cold forever. And you're like a fire. I can feel your heartbeat through your skin. You're so alive. You're the most alive thing I've ever touched.”
His hands slide up your sides, pushing your shirt. His palms drag over your ribs, warming as they travel, and you can feel each finger pressing independently, the cool-to-warm transition happening in streaks along your skin. He pushes your shirt up and off, and his breath catches.
“Oh,” he exhales. Awed. “Oh.”
His hands hover an inch above your body, fingers spread, trembling. He looks at you like touching might break him entirely.
“It's okay,” you whisper. “BB. Touch me.”
Both hands settle on your breasts. Cool palms cupping you, and his temperature spikes, warming fast from the centre of his palms. His thumbs drag across your nipples, and you arch into the sensation, shivering.
“There,” he breathes. “Look at you. You're so soft. I've been touching concrete and monsters forever, and you're, you're so—”
He ducks his head and presses his mouth to the swell of your breast. Open-mouthed. Hot. His tongue slides out, the tip tracing the curve of you in a wet drag, and you gasp. BB makes a hungry sound against your skin, half moan, half purr.
“You taste alive,” he murmurs between greedy, slick licks. “I don't have a word, baby. You taste like everything I was missing.”
His mouth finds your nipple. His tongue coils around it, wrapping and squeezing gently, and he sucks. The purr intensifies, vibrating through his lips and his tongue into you. You cry out, sharp and broken, cupping his head to keep him there.
BB's hand kneads your other breast, fingers gripping, the wrong-textured pads of his thumbs dragging across your nipple. Between the attention to both at once, your head swims, your hips lifting off the bed. He murmurs praise into your skin, pulling off with a wet pop to press his open mouth to the underside of your breast, licking the crease there, nosing into the soft skin desperately.
“So beautiful. You have no idea what you look like. I didn't even know what this body was for until I saw you.”
He sucks a mark into the inner curve of your breast, suckling greedily. Then his mouth moves lower. BB’s tongue draws a long, unbroken line from between your breasts to your navel. He presses his mouth flat against your stomach and breathes in, eyes fluttering shut.
“I could stay here forever,” he mumbles against your belly. “Just breathing you in. You smell warm. I didn't know warm had a smell until you.”
BB’s fingers hook into your underwear and pull them down gradually. His breath catches as he bares you. His eyes go wide and fully black, fixed between your thighs. He's looking at you with such naked reverence it steals your breath.
“You're wet,” he says, hushed. His thumbs trace the crease where your thighs meet your hips, slow even as you sense the shaking still quaking his fingertips. “So wet, baby. Is that for me?”
You shiver at the touch, squirming. “Yes. All for you, BB.”
BB’s whole, borrowed body shudders at the confirmation. His tongue slides out, long and sinuous, and he licks his lips with it. The hunger on his face is staggering.
“Let me taste you,” he begs quietly. “Baby, please. I've never… please.”
Heat floods through your veins, molten and thick, at the pleading note in his voice. “Yes. God, yes.”
BB drops down immediately. His mouth presses to the inside of your knee. Cool lips warming as they drag up your inner thigh, pressing open-mouthed kisses into the soft skin there. His tongue traces the path, licking long wet stripes up your thigh. He pauses an inch away. Breathes. His breath is hot and damp, and your hips jerk toward him.
“You smell so good,” he murmurs. “And you're hot. I can feel it on my face.”
His tongue makes contact. Long and wet, dragging flat from the base of you all the way up. You sob, and your hands fly to his hair. BB makes a deep, guttural moan that vibrates through his tongue and into you, the purr kicking up so hard it vibrates the bed frame. His fingers dig into your thighs, and his mouth opens wide, and he licks you again. Slower. Longer. The tongue lingering at the top, the tip curling and pressing between your folds curiously.
“Baby. Baby. You taste… you’re dripping for me and so alive. I can't stop, I can't—”
He buries his face in you. His mouth open and his tongue extended to its full impossible length, lapping and stroking and coiling with the desperate, artless hunger. The sounds are obscene. Wet, squelching, sloppy. Saliva and your own arousal mix and drips down his chin. BB’s moaning into you with a continuous low vibration, his fingers gripping your thighs hard enough to bruise, pulling you closer, pressing his face deeper, taking more.
“More,” you gasp through a breathy moan. “BB, more. Please.”
His tongue extends further. Longer. Longer. You feel it pressing inside you, and your hips buck, and BB growls against your clit then keeps pushing. The muscular length of it curls and coils inside you, filling you, reaching deeper than fingers could reach. Deeper than anything human could, and you feel it pressing against the back of you, the very deepest place, and your whole body seizes.
“BB, that's, oh God, that's—”
His tongue presses against the mouth of your womb. The tip of it, delicate and hot, nudging that innermost barrier, and the sensation is so deep and so foreign that your entire body goes rigid and your hands yank at his hair and you make a gasping, yelping sound. High and ragged, pitching toward half a scream.
BB moans into you. The vibration travels through the full length of his tongue, from your clit where his lips are sealed to the deepest place where the tip is pressing. Stimulation at both ends simultaneously and all through the middle, his tongue moving, coiling and uncoiling, massaging places that have never been touched. His lips close over your clit and suck, hard, and the tongue is so deep you can feel it in your stomach.
You're thrusting into his face. Your hips rolling, grinding against his mouth, and BB makes a pleased sound and holds you tighter to him, delighted. Then his hands clamp on your thighs, and he pins you. Presses your hips flat to the mattress with an inhuman grip you couldn't break if you tried, and the sudden loss of control makes you writhe.
Your sounds don't belong to you anymore. You're gripping his hair with both fists. BB is purring so hard the vibration sits at the back of your throat, and his tongue is touching places that have never been bordered. His chin is soaked, and you can hear the wet, filthy sounds, and you're sobbing, thrashing against his grip.
“You're gonna come for me,” he mumbles against you, his mouth never fully leaving. “I can feel it. So close, baby. Give it to me. I want to taste you when you come.”
You come. Hard.
Your whole body arches against BB’s grip, thighs clamping around his head, hands pulling his hair. BB moans into you and holds you down and licks you through it, his long tongue working inside you as you clench and spasm around him.
He's swallowing, sucking, drawing every last drop into his mouth and gulping it down hungrily. His lips close over your swollen folds and he laps at them, slow and thorough, licking you clean with long flat drags. Each pass over your over-sensitive skin makes you twitch and whimper, and he keeps going. Collecting every trace of wetness, every last drop, his tongue dragging through the mess of you with a patience that borders on worship.
“Every drop,” he's murmuring, practically slurring. “I want every drop. My perfect girl.”
His tongue retracts gradually, inch by inch, and you can feel every inch leaving you. The emptiness when it's gone is aching.
BB presses a kiss to your cunt. Right there. Soft. His swollen lips against your swollen folds, gentle and lingering. He pulls back just enough to breathe against you.
“I'll be inside here soon, baby,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your throbbing core as he speaks. “Right here. Right where my tongue was. I'll be so deep. I'll fill you up.” Another kiss. Softer, absent. Like he has no idea what his words and actions are doing to you. “I'll take good care of you. I promise.”
He crawls up your body. Wet open-mouthed kisses up your stomach, between your breasts, on your throat. He tastes like you. You can taste yourself on his tongue when he kisses your mouth, wet and deep, and the intimacy of it, tasting yourself inside his kiss, makes your whole body clench.
“I need you,” he pants against your lips. “I need to be inside you. Please. I need—”
You peck his lips, breathing against them, “Go on. Need you, too. But I want you to show me. Show me what you really are.”
He goes still. The fear rises behind Bobby's eyes. His whole body goes rigid, and his hands tighten on your hips.
“It’s fine.” His voice quivers. “I can keep the shape. You don't have to—”
You trace his cheek, outlining the ridge of his cheek. “I want to.”
“I don't—” He swallows hard. “I don't want you to see me and—” His jaw pulses from how hard he’s clenching his teeth. “What if you can't look at me after? What if I'm—”
“BB.” You cup his jaw, the constructed bones trembling under your palms. “Whatever you're comfortable with. Whatever you want to show me. I'm not going anywhere.”
He gazes down at you. Black-eyed and trembling, searching your face for the lie, for the flinch, for the moment you take it back. He doesn't find it.
“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay. Just, just a little. Let me just…”
His jaw sharpens under your hands. Just slightly. The line of it going harder, more angular, the bone shifting beneath his skin. He watches your face the whole time, ready to snap back at the first sign of revulsion.
You stroke your thumb over his newly sharp cheekbone. “Beautiful,” you exhale.
BB makes a low, choked sound. His eyes go wider, blacker. The pupils elongate slightly, going vertical. He's shivering. Genuinely shivering, full-body tremors, and you can feel his skin gaining a faint iridescent sheen under your palms, cool and smooth.
“More?” he asks, barely audible.
You take him in, all of him. “More, baby.”
His shoulders lengthen. His neck gains an inch. The proportions of his face slide further from Bobby, the mouth too wide, the cheekbones too high, and you trace the new angles with your fingertips and press your mouth to his jaw and lick the iridescent skin and BB whines. High and desperate and pleased.
“You're… you're not—” He's stammering, trembling in your hold. “You're not scared?”
“I'm not scared, BB. Keep going.”
He gives you more. His spine gains extra vertebrae you can feel through his skin, his torso gaining a sinuous quality. The ghost of a diamond pattern moves beneath his skin, the suggestion of scales. His fingers lengthen slightly, extra articulation appearing in the joints.
You run your palms down his chest, trace the diamond pattern. You press your mouth to his collarbone, where the iridescent sheen is strongest, and kiss the skin there, open-mouthed, tasting the chilly smoothness of him.
BB drops his face into your neck. Hiding. He's hiding, his too-sharp jaw pressed against your shoulder, his shivering intensifying, and you can feel his features still shifting against your skin. He's giving you more, but he can't watch you see it.
“Hey,” you coax, putting your hand under his chin. Tip his face up. “Hey. Look at me.”
He resists for a second. Then he lets you lift his face.
He looks alien. His eyes are polished obsidian, no whites. His jaw is too defined. His mouth is too wide. The iridescent skin catches the yellow light in shimmering refractions. He looks terrified. He looks beautiful.
“There you are, baby,” you whisper, and lean up and kiss him.
BB produces a broken, grateful sound against your mouth, and the purr comes back so hard the walls vibrate.
He adjusts his position, still kissing you as he settles between your thighs, and you understand, immediately, that he’s not a copy.
The mimicry that he's maintained for months falls away the second BB pushes inside you. He's BB. A creature in a body he built to love you, figuring out what it can do in real time.
The shape of him inside you is not human. It's close enough that the entry works. But once he's seated, the texture is wrong, and the temperature is wrong, cool at first then warming fast, and he fills you in ways men don't. His anatomy is adjusting, learning you, reshaping moment by moment. Ridges where there were none. Swells of pressure in places human anatomy couldn't produce. The length of him moving with a sinuous quality. And it's still changing, adjusting his shape to hit exactly what makes you cry out.
“Oh baby,” he breathes, his voice cracking, ragged. “I can feel everything. I can feel your heartbeat through your—” He shudders, his back arching like it’s too overwhelming. “How do humans survive this?”
“BB, you feel so good, right there, don’t stop, baby—”
You press your hips up against him, taking him deeper, squeezing him with your inner muscles, and BB makes a choked, groaning sound, his whole body going taut above you.
You can feel the fullness of him shifting inside you, the ridges dragging, his cock reshaping in response to the pressure of your squeeze. Where you tighten, he swells. Where you release, he fills. It's a feedback loop made flesh, his anatomy learning yours in real time, and the sensation is so foreign and so full that your eyes water.
“Yeah? Is that good?” His voice breaks. His hips roll again, deeper this time, and the ridges snag and drag on the withdrawal, a slow slick pull that makes an obscene dripping sound. You both gasp at it. You both hear it. The slick, filthy evidence of how wet you are, how aroused, and BB's eyes go glassy, his mouth falling open. “Tell me. Tell me I’m good.”
You adjust your thighs again, opening even wider, hooking your ankles behind his back and pulling him in until he's nestled so deep you can feel the cool-turning-warm base of him flush against you. The fullness is immense, a stretch that borders on too much, and you squeeze him again and BB's arms buckle. His elbows hit the mattress on either side of your head, and his face is inches from yours.
His mouth opens, and the sound he makes is a raw, ruined whine.
“Y-You're perfect, BB. Don't, ah, stop.”
He rolls his hips again. Slow, sinuous, that serpentine wave he can't suppress anymore, and the motion drags his cock against you, every ridge and swell and shifting contour lighting up nerve endings you didn't know you had. The slick sounds between your bodies are continuous now, a gushing symphony between your joint flesh. You can feel your own arousal dripping down onto the sheets below, and you don't care because the fullness is extraordinary, and every roll of his hips makes the ridges snag against your walls and catch and pull, and each pull sends you closer to the edge.
You push your hips up to meet his next stroke. The impact makes you both groan. You do it again. Finding a tempo together, his wave and your thrust, the wet lewd sounds getting louder, and BB is panting against your mouth, his breath hot and damp, his eyes half-closed.
“You're so tight,” he gasps. “Baby, every time you squeeze me I can feel your whole body, I can feel everything tighten, you're gripping me so hard, and it's, it's—”
You squeeze him harder. On purpose. Clench around the shifting shape of him and hold. BB's eyes fly open, and his mouth stretches wide, and a sound comes out of him that’s pure entity, a harmonic moan that vibrates through his cock and into you and through the walls. His hips stutter out of the wave and slam forward, involuntary, and the ridges catch deep inside you and your back bows off the bed.
“There,” you gasp, your eyes burning from burning pleasure ravaging through your body.
“There,” he echoes, awed. “I can feel what that does to you. I didn't know anything could—”
He shudders, and his features shift with it. His jaw sharpens a degree. The iridescence pulses brighter on his cheekbones. He ducks his face into your neck, hiding.
“No,” you say, breathless, your hand tangling into his sandy hair. “Let me see you.”
He resists. His jaw pressed against your shoulder, his breath ragged against your throat.
“BB. Let me see.”
He lets you lift his face, his features having slipped further. Cheekbones too high. Mouth even wider. The iridescence brighter. His eyes are completely black and wet, and he's so scared, you can see it. You look directly into them and say, “Don't hide from me. You're beautiful.”
BB makes a strangled sound, his hips stuttering. The purr cracks and reforms. His features shift more, right in front of you, and you watch them move, watch his face rearrange itself in real time, and the intimacy of it makes you reel. Because it’s more intimate than the sex. He’s literally coming apart in front of you and letting you watch.
“Good,” you moan, stroking his shifting jaw. “That's it, BB.”
The pleasure isn't building in a line; it's accumulating in layers.
His hand under your back, lifting you. His mouth on your throat, usually cool lips searing. His thumb at the hinge of your hip, longer now, bending where thumbs don't bend. The appendages emerging one by one, warm and tapered, gripping your thighs, holding your legs open at an obscene angle. Each one a new layer feeding into the one beneath it.
His hips slam deeper, and your breasts ripple with the force. BB is watching, his too-wide mouth lolling open, and his eyes are glazed, his features shifting faster now, responding to pleasure the way a human face flushes. His jaw sharpens then softens then sharpens again. His pupils dilate and contract in pulses seemingly against his control.
“Look at what I do to you,” he pants, his voice hitting a deeper register that’s decidedly not Bobby. “I can't stop touching you. Your skin is so soft, every part of you is burning for me, and you're—” His voice fails him. He ducks his face into your neck again, his features shifting against your skin, and you feel the rasp of scales that aren't quite scales, there and gone.
You pull him back up again, hold his face. He's whining, high and continuous, his eyes wet.
“Stay with me,” you say.
He moans loudly. His features ripple again, even further from Bobby, and his mouth is trembling, and BB looks destroyed, open, the ancient thing behind the mask laid bare while he fucks you, and the vulnerability of it makes your chest ache.
“You're incredible,” he breathes. “You're so wet for me, all of this is for me. I can f-feel how close you are. I can feel it building. Baby, please. Come for me."
Your orgasm rips through you, and BB snarls at the sensation, his features sharpening, the entity surging to the surface, and he doesn't stop, doesn't slow. His hips keep working ruthlessly. The shape of him inside you keeps shifting with each thrust. The appendages grip your thighs tighter, and your orgasm rolls into another one immediately, pinned down, taking whatever he gives you.
“That's it,” he purrs against your ear, nuzzling. “My girl. I can feel you fluttering around me. I've never felt anything like you.”
His tongue slides out, longer than it should be. Drags up the side of your neck. His teeth catch your earlobe, too sharp, and the tiny sting makes you gasp. His hand kneads your breast, gripping, his ridged thumb dragging across your nipple.
“You're so perfect,” he mumbles against your ear, his hips still working, the wet squelching symphony filling the room. “Every time I push in, I can feel you opening and closing around me, and it's—baby, it's the best thing I've ever felt, it's better than anything, you're better than anything—”
His length adjusts on every stroke, swelling and contracting, ridges rubbing against your sensitive walls. The sheets are getting damp beneath you. BB is moaning with every thrust now, layered over the purr, and the purr is vibrating through his cock and into you.
You can't control the sounds coming out of you. You're moaning and sobbing continuously, mindless, drool on your chin, tears on your face, your nails clawing at his back and leaving furrows in the iridescent skin.
The third hits. Your whole body seizes with it. BB cock swells inside you, expanding impossibly, and the stretch shoves you over again, a fourth on the heels of the third.
“That's it,” he gasps. “You're taking me so well. You're the first. The only one. There's never been anyone except you.”
The truth of those words hits you straight in the heart. He made this body for you. It has never known anyone else, and likely never will.
By the fifth round, you can't produce words anymore. Your mouth is open, and nothing's coming out. BB is murmuring into your skin, his tongue licking the tears off your cheeks, tasting your throat, your sweat, every available inch of skin. Your body is nothing but sensation. He's whispering, awed and dazed: “I've got you, baby. So brave. So warm. You're everything, my everything.”
Around the sixth, your hands go limp. Your whole body goes slack except for the involuntary tremors. You're drooling freely onto the pillow. Your eyes are glazed and half-open. You’re conscious but only just, held in a state of continuous pleasure that has dissolved every boundary between your body and his.
BB feels himself getting close. His breathing changes. His hips lose their fluid wave and become harder, urgent, perfectly ruthless. The purr breaks into a low keening sound, and he pulls back.
He cups your ass. Both hands, those long wrong-jointed fingers gripping the flesh of you. He raises your hips off the mattress, tilts you up toward him. Holds you there, suspended.
And he peers down. At your stomach.
You follow his gaze through the fog. You look down at your own body.
You can see him. The shape of him moving inside you. A subtle bulge beneath the skin of your lower stomach, pressing outward with every thrust, the length of him shifting and adjusting. The bulge presses up and recedes in time with his hips. Your stomach ripples with each motion.
BB is staring, transfixed. His black eyes are nailed to the sight of himself inside you, his mouth parted.
“Look at that,” he purrs, and this time you see and hear the predator underneath, satisfied with what he’s seeing. “Look at that. I can see myself inside you. You're so full of me.”
He presses deeper, and the bulge pushes higher. You moan, a thin broken sound, and BB makes a soft noise back, almost soothing, and his hips work faster, holding you up, watching himself move inside you.
“You're taking all of me,” he remarks appreciatively, head cocked. “Every inch. Look at what you're holding.”
His tongue extends, slipping to wrap around the spot where his cock keeps sliding into you, and you moan when the tip prods almost playfully at your swollen clit.
He thrusts into you twice more, hard and deep, finishing inside you with a pleased sigh.
Warm. Impossibly warm. It pulses in time with the harmonic, filling you, filling and filling, overflowing, spilling out around him. The faint gold glow. Pale and luminescent, pooling on your inner thighs, gushing down onto the sheets. Puddles of it. The bed soaked. His release casts a soft light upward onto both your bodies. BB is still inside you, still shaking through it, his mouth on your neck, licking slow grateful stripes up the column of your throat now.
You’ve never heard the purr going louder.
“You did so good, baby,” he rasps affectionately, peppering small kisses behind your ear. “Look at what you took. All of me.”
You can't answer. You can barely breathe. Your whole body is a limp pile of limbs beneath him. You’re boneless against the pillows, drool on your chin, tears drying on your face, hair plastered to your forehead.
BB pulls back to examine you. His face is a mess, too, half-slipped, jaw too sharp on one side and human on the other. Black eyes and swollen mouth, chin still dripping with you. He's grinning. That dark pleased grin, all predator, the purr rumbling on in his chest cavity.
His hips roll again. Slow, testing. Still hard inside you.
“Again, baby?” Low, dark, almost mocking. “One more for me?”
You don't have one more in you. You’re empty, wrung out, incapable of forming sentences.
You nod anyway.
BB whines, high and pleased, and drops his mouth back to yours and starts moving all over again.
He fucks you until you black out.
You lose consciousness somewhere in the middle because your body cannot sustain the amount of pleasure being poured into it and your brain, mercifully, shuts down. The last thing you're aware of is BB's purr vibrating through both your bodies and the faint gold glow pooling under you and his mouth against your temple whispering I love you, I love you, I waited so long, I love you.
When you come back, you have no idea how long it's been. You're clean. He's cleaned you. The bed is dry. You're wrapped in the blankets, wearing one of his shirts. BB is curled around you, human-shaped again, mostly, his face buried in your hair, his arm heavy across your waist. He’s purring. Low and pleased and constant. His skin is cool again, warm only where you're pressed together.
You stir. He notices immediately.
“Baby,” he calls out, his mouth finding your temple. “You're awake. Are you okay? Did I… was I too—”
“Perfect,” you slur, your throat aches from the sheer amount of moaning and screaming you’ve done. “You were perfect, BB.”
He goes still. Then he shudders, his arm tightening around you. He presses his mouth to your hairline and holds it there for a long time. The purr deepens into something so full it borders on mournful, loving, perfectly content.
“I love you,” he says, his voice small, shy again. “I love you more than anything.”
Your eyes burn, but for a different reason now. “I love you too, BB.”
He shivers at the words, a full-body reaction. Under the blankets, one of the appendages, not retracted all the way, probably never fully retracting again, curls around your thigh. Possessive. Settling. Warming as it holds.
“Again later,” he murmurs against your temple. That cocky dark satisfaction layered underneath the tenderness. “We're going to do that again.”
You should be terrified.
But you’re not. Because you’re finally home.
You fall asleep to the sound of BB’s purring, and his whispered I love you in the yellow light of a nest that looks like your old apartment, in the arms of an ancient lonely being that has finally, finally been chosen.
an: never written monsterfucking aside from that one shorter piece a few weeks back so if this sucks i'm sorry. I tried.
𖥔 ݁ ˖ summary: you made it your mission to break valarr’s perfect composure. the only problem? he was always better at the game than you were. and now, with your grades on the line, there’s only one person who can save you—your annoyingly perfect, effortlessly composed boyfriend, valarr targaryen. (wc: 2.1k)
𖥔 ݁ ˖ cw: mdni, fingering, bratty!reader, fem!reader, tutor!valarr, brat tamer!valarr, tension, power dynamics, teasing, stubbornness, he just loves to put you in your place
𖥔 ݁ ˖ a/n: okayyyy so we’re back on the brat tamer!valarr propaganda. do we love bt!valarr or do we love him? also can you guys guess i just love the word composure/composed. + rewatching gotham knights rn, only for oscar morgan
the scent of old paper and expensive sandalwood clung to the air of valarr’s study. it was a room that mirrored him: pristine, organized, and suffocatingly composed. you sat across from him at the heavy mahogany desk, the glare of the desk lamp bouncing off the pages of a textbook that felt like it was written in a dead language. to the rest of the campus, you were the darling—the girl with the permanent, sunny smile and the helpful hand, the one who never missed a beat in social grace. but here, under the steady, judging gaze of your sweet boyfriend valarr targaryen, that mask was slipping.
you weren't stupid. you were just bored, and the effort of actually caring about the curriculum felt like a chore you weren't paid for.
"the third paragraph outlines the economic collapse of the era," valarr said, his voice a smooth, effortless.he didn't look up from his own notes, his posture perfect, the sleeves of his white button-down rolled up to reveal forearms that were far too distracting for a tutoring session. "i believe i asked you to summarize the primary catalyst. you've been staring at the same page for ten minutes."
you let out a long, dramatic groan, leaning back in the chair until it creaked precariously.
"this is torture," you whined, tossing your pen onto the desk. "why is it so long?why are there so many dates? val, please, just tell me the answer so we can stop."
valarr finally looked up. his eyes were cool, shimmering with a hint of amusement that didn't reach a smile. he was the golden boy, the pride of his father baelor’s connections, the man who had volunteered to save your GPA not out of pity, but because he viewed your laziness as a challenge to be conquered. and cause he loved you
"because knowing the answer isn't the same as understanding the process," he replied calmly. "and because you are currently failing, which is a tragedy for someone with your intellect. focus."
you glared at him, your chest tightening with a mixture of irritation and an ache you refused to acknowledge. you loved it when he was like this—composed, untouchable, acting as if your tantrums were nothing more than a mild breeze. it made you want to tear that composure apart.
slowly, you shifted in your seat. you kicked off your shoe, the soft skin of your foot meeting the fabric of his charcoal trousers. you didn't start bold; you just let your toes brush against his ankle, a tentative, teasing ghost of a touch.
valarr didn't flinch. he didn't even pause his breathing.
you emboldened yourself, sliding your foot upward, tracing the line of his calf, feeling the hard muscle beneath the fabric. you pushed further, your toes seeking the heat of his inner thigh, moving slowly, deliberately. you watched his face for a crack—a twitch of the lip, a widening of the pupils, anything.
suddenly, his hand shot out.
his fingers clamped around your ankle with a grip like iron. the suddenness of it made you gasp, your breath hitching in your throat. he didn't squeeze hard enough to hurt, but the possessiveness of the hold was electric. he didn't look at you; he simply guided your leg back down to the floor and released you.
"the catalyst, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave. "unless you'd prefer i report to your professors that you're spending our sessions practicing your footwork." you felt a flush creep up your neck. the rejection should have stung, but the way he called you 'sweetheart'—that low, commanding tone—sent a jolt of heat straight to your core.you weren't finished.
"my chair is uncomfortable," you declared, standing up abruptly.
before he could respond, you rounded the desk. you didn't ask. you simply stepped between his legs and lowered yourself onto his lap, sitting sideways. you felt the immediate, firm pressure of his thighs beneath you and the heat radiating through his clothes. you leaned back against his chest, settling your weight comfortably, your hip brushing against the growing hardness in his trousers. valarr stiffened for a fraction of a second, but he didn't push you off. he didn't even stop holding the textbook. he simply shifted his arm to keep the book open in front of your face.
"if the chair was the problem, i'm glad we've resolved it," he said, though his breath was slightly heavier now. "now. the catalyst. try again." you let out a soft, feline hum, tilting your head back to look at him. from this angle, his jawline looked like it had been carved from marble. you reached up, your fingers tracing the line of his collar, playing with the top button of his shirt.
"i can't think when you're being so mean to me," you whispered, shifting your hips. you ground yourself against him, a slow roll that made you feel the exact shape of his cock through the layers of fabric.
valarr’s hand left the book. be didn't grab you; he simply rested his palm on your waist, his thumb digging slightly into the soft flesh of your hip. "you aren't being bullied," he noted, his voice steady despite the friction. "you're being tutored. there is a difference."
"i hate you," you lied, leaning in to press a lingering, wet kiss to the corner of his mouth. you didn't stop there. you trailed your lips down to his jaw, then to the sensitive skin just below his ear. you nipped at his lobe, feeling him shudder beneath you. you could smell him—the sharp scent of leather,cedar and the cologne he always wore. you moved your mouth to his neck, sucking a small, bruising mark into the skin, your tongue darting out to taste the salt of his skin.
"valarr..." you breathed against his pulse point.
"love," he commanded.
you paused. you didn't want to give in. you wanted him to beg. you wanted the golden boy to break. you shifted again, rubbing yourself against him, feeling the dampness of your panties soaking through to his lap.
"hmm?" the composure finally snapped, though not in the way you expected. he didn't lose control; he took it.
one hand slid from your waist to your upper thigh, his fingers digging in with a sudden, bruising intensity. his other hand moved to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair. he didn't pull hard, but he exerted enough pressure to force your head back, making you look him directly in the eyes.
his gaze was no longer cool. it was predatory.
"you think this is a game," he whispered, his face inches from yours. "you think you can just distract me with a few rubs and some kisses and I'll forget that you're failing this course."
"maybe i don't care about the course," you whimpered, your voice trembling.
"i care," he countered. "i care about your education. and i care about the fact that you've spent the last hour trying to see how far you can push me."
he shifted his hand from your thigh, sliding it upward.his palm brushed against the hem of your skirt, the fabric sliding up as he pushed his hand underneath. you let out a sharp moan as his fingers found the lace of your panties. he didn't go inside yet; he just pressed his palm firmly against your slit, rubbing in a slow, circular motion.
you were drenched.the friction of his palm against the thin lace sent sparks through your nerves, and you arched your back, pressing yourself harder into his hand.
"are you really that needy?" valarr asked, his voice returning to that terrifyingly calm, analytical tone. "can't even focus for one hour without needing to rub yourself on me? i thought you were my smart girl. i didn't realize you were this desperate."
"i'm not..." you gasped, but a loud, wet squelch sounded as he pressed harder, the moisture of your arousal lubricating the fabric. "i'm not desperate."
"your body says otherwise," he murmured.
he hooked two fingers under the elastic of your panties, tugging them ruthlessly to the side. the sudden exposure to the air made you shiver, and then his fingers were there—bare skin on bare skin. he didn't enter you immediately. instead, he used his middle finger to trace the length of your outer lips, dragging it slowly from your perineum up to your clit.
you cried out, your hands gripping his shoulders, your nails digging into the fabric of his shirt. "so wet," he observed, his voice a velvet caress. "it's almost embarrassing, isn't it? all this noise, all this bratty behavior, and you're practically dripping for me."
he pushed one finger inside you. he sensation was overwhelming. be entered slowly, testing the tightness of your walls, feeling the way you clamped around him. you let out a broken sob, your head falling back against his shoulder. "now," valarr whispered, his finger beginning to move in a steady, agonizingly slow rhythm. "since you're so fond of distractions, let's make a deal. for every question you answer correctly from the last chapter, I'll give you exactly ten seconds of what you want. if you get it wrong… i stop."
"please," you whimpered, "just... please, val."
"answer the question, sweetheart."
he began to move faster. the sound of it filled the quiet room—the slicking, wet noise of his finger sliding in and out of your drenched heat. you felt the air being pushed out of you in short, jagged gasps. he found your g-spot, hooking his finger upward, and you nearly blacked out from the intensity of the pleasure.
"the primary catalyst for the collapse" he demanded, his voice firm, commanding.
"the... the devaluation of the currency!" you screamed, the words tumbling out of your mouth as you chased the peak
"correct," he murmured.
he accelerated. his finger became a blur of motion, hammering into you, the friction creating a heat that felt like it was consuming you from the inside out. your right hand was locked onto his shoulder, your left hand reaching down to grip his wrist, not to stop him, but to pull him deeper. you were hovering on the edge, the tension in your lower belly coiling like a spring, your clit throbbing with every thrust
"and the secondary factor?" he asked, his voice a low hum against your cheek
"the... the war in the south!" you wailed, your hips bucking wildly. "the war in the south! oh god, valarr, please, i'm close, i'm so close—"
"one more," he whispered, his finger sliding deeper, hitting your cervix with a blunt force that made you gasp. "who was the presiding monarch during the transition?"
"i... i don't... i don't remember!" you sobbed, your body shaking, your muscles tightening in anticipation of the release. "i don't remember! just let me cum! please, please, val—!"
you were right there. the peak was a shimmering wall just inches away, and you could feel it crashing down on you. your breath was a series of broken hitches, your vision blurring.and then, in one swift, clinical motion, he pulled his fingers out. the sudden emptiness was violent. you froze, your body still vibrating, the orgasm denied at the very last millisecond.you let out a sound that was half-scream, half-sob, your chest heaving as you stared at him with wide, betrayed eyes.
valarr didn't look bothered. he slowly brought his fingers to his lips, licking the cream of your arousal from his skin with a deliberate swipe of his tongue. he watched you do it, his eyes hooded and dark.
he leaned in, pressing a tender kiss to your cheek, the contrast to his previous ruthlessness making your head spin. he gently turned your face toward him, forcing you to look at him. your lips were parted, a pout of pure frustration and longing on your face, your eyes shimmering with unshed tears of desperation.
"maybe now you're going to learn to listen, sweet girl," he said, his voice returning to that composed, golden-boy perfection.
he didn't help you up. he simply tapped your thigh with his hand, a silent command.
"stand up. go back to your chair."
you didn't move for a second, the ache between your legs pulsing with a heavy, throbbing need. you felt ruined, empty, and more attracted to him than you had ever been in your life. slowly, you slid off his lap. as you stood, you felt the cold air hit your damp skin, and the uncomfortable, heavy wetness of your panties clung to you, a constant, dripping reminder of your failure.
you walked back to your chair, your legs feeling like jelly. you sat down, the mahogany desk once again separating you from him.
valarr leaned back in his seat, crossing his legs and picking up his pen as if nothing had happened. he looked at you—really looked at you—and a small smile played on his lips.
"now," he said softly, pointing to the next page of the textbook. "let's start from the beginning. and this time, i suggest you pay very close attention."
𖥔 ݁ ˖ masterlist
𖥔 ݁ ˖ taglist: @valarrmylight @icebearcucumber @wooceanic @baeylei @sunshineflowersandkisses @darylandbethfanforever9 @pinkdoeweirdo @comzetogether @g-l-o-b-e-w-h-o-r-e @madefor-softerskies (let me know if you wanna be added or removed🤍)
Summary: Your marriage to your much older husband has faired far better than you ever thought it would. Though, sometimes you wish there was less...cleaning involved
Pairings: Hyperspermia!Baelor Targaryen x Reader
Warnings/Tags: Unspecified age gap (big and girthy), smut (light spit kink)
Word Count: 2.1K
Notes: blame eve and the brainworms for this
Prince Baelor was hesitant to remarry. In fact, he was perfectly content to be on his own after his wife's passing. He already had an heir, there was no rush. But then your father had offered your hand and when he'd laid eyes on you he couldn't refuse.
Your inital fears had vanished soon after your wedding. He was older, yes, but he was kind. Stories of cruel kings becoming crueler husbands were common to to noble born girls. Hushed lessons taught by worried mothers in an attempt to save their daughters from a shared fate.
Your wedding day was full of nerves, stomach turning as your maid from childhood dressed you for the last time. You were conscious of each footstep down the aisle, desperately trying to make your way to the alter without fumbling on your dress or your own two feet. Everything had occurred exactly how you imagined it.
Your wedding night? That was completely different that you had been told. Your mother had sat you down the night before and told you everything to expect. She also reiterated that it would hurt, but it was important to smile while you performed your wifely duties. You were not to make too much noise, not to move unless he instructed and to be patient until it was over. Your heart hammered in your chest as Baelor undressed you,
But after your down had slipped to the floor, he'd kissed your shoulder and lain you on the bed. Your whole body stiffened as he spread your legs. But instead of the head of his….member stretching you open his fingers gently pressed into the sensitive skin of your thighs, holding you open as he pressed a kiss to the sensitive bud between your legs. You could feel his smirk against your skin as his tongue ravished your body.
When he did finally push into your entrance, you were pleasantly surprised that it actually felt good instead of the searing pain your mother described. You body was pleasantly loose from Baelor's earlier actions, which helped your body accomodate him.
And after you'd gotten a taste of this new activity, it was hard for Baelor to deny you. There was just one problem-
"Lady Dyanna," your sister in law turns to you as you call out for her. The two of you are enjoying your tea on the balcony overlooking Kings Landing, "Because of my union to Baelor we are now sisters, correct."
"Yes, princess."
"May I ask you a question then? One that may be considered too…vulgar for me to ask another," your face warms.
An amused smile unfolds on her face, "Of course, princess. Though it was a while was many moons ago, I remeber what it was like to be newly married to the son of a king. What plagues your mind?"
"When you are finshed with your relations," you look at the foor unable to meet her eye, "How are you meant to deal with the mess afterwards."
Dyanna chuckles, "A simple cloth will suffice. You may ask your maids to warm the water as well. It well help soothe the ache that sometimes occurs. Though you want to be careful not to wipe away too much or you may be preventing the future heir from settling in your womb."
"This I know," you pause, unsure of how to say your true intention, "I mean moreso - when you are walking around afterwards. How do you manage the…leaking."
The older woman tilts her head, confused, "Well I remain in bed for the rest of the night so that is not as much of an issue."
"You've never had morning relations?"
"Not never," she says, a bit nostalgic as she thinks back to her youth, "Though I can't say I recall not being able to solve that issue with a cloth before I left my chambers."
"W-well I do," you sputter, "But sometimes it's quite a lot and it's uncomfortable when I walk. Especially if we've also had relations the evening before as well-"
"Relations in the evening and the morning? I didn't realize Baelor was quite so ravenous."
"It's not always him who initiates," you murmur, stirring your spoon in your tea, "In fact it's usually not him who initiates."
Dyanna laughs, "Oh, how I miss my youth. Though, I do not blame you. They are a handsome set of brothers are they not?"
Baelor has been busy this past week. He doesn't call you into your chambers until early the next morning. He's sitting at the desk in his room when you arrive. He smiles at you when the squeak of the door on its hinges announces your prescence.
"My prince," you say in greeting.
"My love, I am sorry to wake you so early. I missed your presence while I was away," he beckons you over with one hand as he stands, silver rings glinting in the light, "Did you sleep well?"
Your body follows easily, drawn to him. You shake your head as you fall into his embrace, "My chambers are far too cold without the blood of a dragon near."
"My apologies, my princess," he chuckles tipping your head up, and gently pressing his lips to yours, "The hunt lasted longer than inteded, but I am rested now."
His hands grip your waist firmly to pull you closer before reaching back to peel you out of your night clothes. You hesitate, stepping back.
"My lord, perhaps we should wait until this evening for those activities."
"What's wrong, my love?" he frowns, emphasizing the lines between his brows that you adore.
"Nothing," you shake your head, "I may have embarassed myself during my meeting with Dyanna and I need time to heal my pride, my lord."
"What happened?"
Your face warms, "I'm not sure I should discuss these matters with you."
"I am your husband, and the prince of the realms, you can discuss anything with me, my love," he tucks a stray curl behind your ear.
You sigh, "I had a question for her about…relations and now I fear she may believe me to be too enamoured with it."
Baelor chuckles, sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling you along with him.
"You are aware that Dyanna and Maekar have six children. There is nothing we are doing that they haven't done already."
"I know that," you say with a groan, buried your face in your husbands neck, "You should have seen the way she looked at me when I told her of my problem.
Your husband tilts his head, "Problem? You did not speak to me of any problems. Pray tell, I have not been hurting you have I?"
"No, no," you shake your head, reassuring him, "I have no complaints of our relations itself, husband. It's afterwards that I am sometimes I encounter a nuisance is all."
"I see," he nods, "Care to elaborate on this nuisance?"
You avert your gaze to the wall behind him, "It doesn't concern you, husband."
He smiles, "If it concerns my queen, then it concerns me."
"After we finish," you sigh, "Sometimes when I walk about the castle, I can feel you dripping down my leg. I simply asked Dyanna what she does, but it seems as though she does not have this same issue."
Your husband nods. He's had his suspicions about his condition. He may be king but he has taken part in his share of celebrations after a particularly well won tournament.More than a few of his past acquiantences have brought this very same topic to his attention before.
"My love, I believe I have a solution to your nuisance."
He stands to undo his robes. You lean back on your elbows watching his clothes fall to the floor. You bite your lip in anticipation, pulling his body on top of yours.
Your legs fall open for your husnband, your mouths moving languidly against each other as he his fingers reach the coarse hairs at the apex of your thighs. You sigh when his long fingers skim across your folds, diping into your entrance to spread your slick. He teases your sensitive bud with a light touch.
"Baelor," you whine which makes your husband smile as he kisses your neck, "Do not make me wait."
"I thought you were prepared to wait until nightfall, my love," the heel of his hand stays pushed up against that spot that drives you mad while his fingers slip inside you.
"Changed my mind," you pant, pulling him closer you you, "You would keep your wife waiting, my lord?"
"Never, my love."
Your back arches off the bed as Baelor pushes into you. He grips your leg, hooking it over his shoulder as your hips meet. His nose nuzzles along your jaw making his beard hairs tickle your neck.
"How's that feel, my love?" he murmurs planting a kiss on your collar bone.
"G-gods, Baelor," you groan, "So good."
He moves slowly, watching the way your face contorts in pleasure as he drags his cock inside you. His hand slips between your bodies to slow circles that drive make you moan.
He knows your body well, works it like like an instrument tuntil you're clawing at his back and shouting his name. He manages to stave of his own release but only for a few moments, just enough to drive into you once more filling you to the brim.
Though he tried his best, some of spend starts to leak out of you once more.
"Shh, my love," he coos, as he stands, trying to doge your attempt to keep him close, "I'm not going anywhere."
He sinks to the floor, grateful for the rug cushioning his aging knees. He wraps his arms around your legs, tugging you towards him.
"Baelor!" you gasp out, "What are you-"
"Why do you act as though I have not done this before," he chuckles, pressing a kiss to your mound, "This is my favourite place to be while unwind at the end of the day."
"But you've already...finished."
"I am quite aware, darling, worry not about me."
He spreads your legs apart, groaning at the sight of his seed leaking out of you.
"Wish you could see how we look together, my princess," he teases, leaning forward kiss your inner thigh, "Perhaps we should move the mirror to the bedroom."
He doesn't wait for your response, too entranced by the sight of you. He licks broadly, moaning at the taste your joined mess. You squirm in his arms, still sensitive from your release. He chuckles, digging his fingers into your thighs, holding you in place.
"We're divine together my love," he groans, licking at your entrance, "Want a taste?"
He meets your eye, grinning when you nod hesitantly at his words. He uses his tongue to scrape at your walls, collecting your shared juices with an obscene slurp and gently holding your ankle in the air to keep you from kicking his head.
He crawls up the bed to where you await with wide eyes, anticipating his neck move. He holds your head in place and forces your jaw open his thumb.
You don't even flinch when he spits into your mouth. You close your eyes, licking your lips with a moan when you swallow.
You're summoned into the Princes chamber later that night once more. Baelor is already in his bedclothes atop of the covers. You rush over, settling yourself on his lap.
"How was your day, my prince," you greet with a smile, running your fingers through his hair.
He preens, "Much better now that you're here, my love. How was yours?"
"Much better now that you're here," you laugh, repeating his words.
"And tell me, how was my solution to your nuisance today?" he chuckles. His hands start to lift your night dress, exposing more of your tanned skin.
"It worked," you smile, toying with the hem of his shirt, "Though I must admit I missed the reminder of you."
"Oh?" he quirks a brow, "How so?"
"I felt…" you pause, tilting your head trying to think of the right word, "empty today."
"Empty,?" Baelor repeats. You giggle, feeling the start of his interest poke you in the thigh.
You nod, "I missed the feel of my prince leaking down my leg during the day. Though I did enjoy what we did this morning-oh!"
Your yelp turns into a moan when Baelor flips you over and your back hits the mattress.
"Careful now," his voice is husky in your ear, "keep speaking like that and I'll have no choice but to put another heir in you, princess."
What are Ormund’s kinks? What does he like about princess?
What He Loves (and What He Wants to Destroy)
Her Beauty
This is the most obvious, the most surface level, but it matters to him immensely. Not just that she's beautiful—that she's his beautiful thing. The Valyrian features drive him mad. She looks otherworldly, unattainable, like something out of a legend. And he has her. Every time he looks at her, he's reminded that he possesses something rare and precious and utterly foreign to his grey stone world. She's a dragonlord's daughter, a Targaryen princess, the blood of Old Valyria—and she kneels at his feet and calls him husband. He loves showing her off almost as much as he loves hiding her away. That tension is central to him: he wants other men to see what he has and envy him, but he also wants her covered, hidden, his alone.
Her Innocence
This is the cornerstone of his obsession. She came to him untouched, unknowing, sheltered. She didn't even understand what was happening on their wedding night. She didn't know what his body would look like, didn't know what sex would feel like, didn't know enough to be afraid until it was already happening.
He loves that he is her first everything. Her first kiss that meant something. Her first touch. Her first climax. Her first penetration. He loves that her body has never known another man, that her mind has never been filled with another man's words or promises. He loves that when she thinks of desire, she can only think of him. When she thinks of pleasure, she can only think of him. When she thinks of love, she can only think of him.
And at the same time, he loves corrupting that innocence. He loves being the one who teaches her about sex, who introduces her to pleasure, who shows her things she didn't know her body could do. He loves watching her confusion turn to arousal, her shyness turn to desperate need. He loves that he gets to be both her protector and her corrupter.
Her Shyness
This is connected to her innocence but distinct. She stammers. She can't meet his eyes when he says something suggestive. She buries her face in his shoulder when she's embarrassed. She can barely voice her own desires even when he's coaxing her.
He loves this. He loves making her blush. He loves watching her struggle to find words. He loves pushing her just far enough that she's flustered and breathless and completely off-balance. It makes him feel powerful. It makes him feel desired because her shyness proves that she's affected by him, that he has the ability to unsettle her, that she's not indifferent or cold or merely dutiful. She's shy because she feels things when he looks at her or touches her, and he relishes that evidence of his effect on her.
He also loves that her shyness makes her vulnerable. A bolder woman might argue with him, might challenge him, might see through his manipulations. But his shy wife second-guesses herself. She assumes he must be right. She apologizes even when she's done nothing wrong. Her shyness makes her pliable, and he values that immensely.
Her Gentleness
She hates violence. She's kind to servants. She's soft-spoken. She would rather spend time with her dragon than with people because people are overwhelming, not because she dislikes them. She's never hurt anyone, never schemed against anyone, never wished harm on anyone.
He loves this because it makes her the opposite of him. He's a military commander, a man who has seen battle, a man with a vicious temper and a capacity for cruelty that he's only beginning to show her. Her gentleness is a balm to him. It soothes something in him that he doesn't fully understand. When he's been dealing with the harsh realities of ruling—the politics, the punishments, the difficult decisions—he comes back to her and she's soft and sweet and gentle, and it makes him feel clean again.
Her Love for Him
This is the most important thing, and the most complicated. He genuinely believes she loves him. He's worked very hard to make her love him—the courtship, the letters, the gifts, the tender moments, the way he holds her after he's hurt her. And she does love him, or at least she believes she does. She says it freely. She seeks him out when she misses him. She lights up when he enters a room.
He needs this. He needs to believe that she loves him, because it justifies everything else. If she loves him, then he's not a monster. If she loves him, then the control is just protection. If she loves him, then the isolation is just devotion. Her love is the foundation of his self-image as a good husband. Without it, he would have to face what he really is.
And he also loves it because her love makes her stay. She's a dragonrider. She could climb on Aegarax and fly away and never come back. The only thing keeping her in Oldtown, in his bed, in his control, is that she believes she loves him and he loves her. That's a fragile chain, but it's holding, and he cherishes it because it's the only chain he has that she can't see.
Her Body's Responses to Him
This is more physical but no less important. He loves that he can make her feel pleasure even when she doesn't want to. That her body responds to him regardless of what her mind thinks. That she can be hurt and confused and frightened, and still arch into his touch and cry out his name.
This proves something to him. It proves that she's meant to be his. That their bodies are compatible in some fundamental, animal way. That no matter how much she might question him or fear him or even hate him, she'll still want him. It's the ultimate reassurance that he hasn't lost her, that he can't lose her, because her body belongs to him even when her mind might try to rebel.
---
Kinks:
Scent Kink
When she's not there, when his hunger for her becomes unbearable, he takes her dirty clothes and presses them to his face and breathes her in. He's done this since before they were married. During their betrothal, a lock of her hair was all he had, and he used it shamelessly, imagining the day she would finally be his. Her scent grounds him. It calms the beast inside him when it threatens to tear loose. Sometimes, when she's been particularly defiant or when another man has looked at her too long, he retreats to his solar and presses her hair to his face and breathes until the red haze recedes.
He's fixated on the scent of her skin, especially in intimate places. After they've been together, he buries his face in the crook of her neck, the valley of her chest, behind her ear, her cunt, and just inhales. She thinks it's affection or a small quirk
Corruption Kink
He is obsessed with the fact that she came to him pure, untouched, knowing nothing of the world or of men or of her own body. He loves her shyness. He loves that she still sometimes turns her face into the pillow, that she doesn't know the words for what she wants.
He also has a dark fixation on the idea of "ruining" her for anyone else. She will never know another man's touch, but more than that—she should never even want another man's touch. He wants to shape her desires so completely around him that she cannot even imagine being satisfied by anyone else. He wants her body to belong to him so thoroughly that it would reject anyone else.
Authority/Father Figure Kink
He wants to be her father as well as her husband, and that runs deep in his psyche. He was thirty-eight and she was eighteen when they met—he has lived an entire lifetime already, had a first wife, fathered four children, ruled a city, fought in battles. She was barely more than a child, sheltered and naive and completely unprepared for the world. He loves that gap. He loves being the one who guides her, teaches her, protects her. He loves it when she looks up at him with those big eyes, seeking his approval, desperate to please him. It makes him feel powerful. It makes him feel necessary. It makes him feel like a god.
In bed, this manifests in specific ways. He calls her "good girl" constantly—it's not just praise, it's a reminder of their dynamic. He instructs her during sex, telling her what to do, how to move, what to say. He positions her body the way he wants it. He sets the pace, the rhythm, the intensity. He decides when she comes and how many times and in what manner. He frames everything as a lesson: "Let me teach you," "You're learning so well," "Do you trust me?" She is his student, his ward, his young bride, and the conflation of paternal authority with sexual dominance is deeply erotic to him.
He also infantilizes her outside the bedroom—calling her his "sweet girl," telling her she's too young to understand the ways of the world, making decisions for her because she "doesn't know what's best." This isn't just control. It's genuinely arousing to him. The more dependent she is, the more she needs him, the more she looks to him as the ultimate authority in her life, the more satisfied he feels.
Praise Kink (Giving)
Ormund derives immense satisfaction from praising her. "Good girl," "my sweet girl," "you did so well," "I'm so proud of you"—these phrases are constant. But it's not just about making her feel good. It's about conditioning. He knows that she craves his approval, that she was raised by a mother who was often distracted and a father who was absent, that she has always wanted someone to look at her and say well done. He exploits that need ruthlessly. He withholds praise when she's been "bad," and he showers her with it when she's been "good." Over time, she learns to associate obedience with love and defiance with the terrifying withdrawal of his affection.
In bed, praise is a tool. He talks her through every act, narrating her pleasure, telling her how beautiful she looks, how well she's taking him, how proud he is of her. He wants her to associate sex with his approval so strongly that she cannot imagine one without the other.
Ownership/Possession Kink
He doesn't just love her—he owns her. Her body is his property. Her pleasure is his to give or withhold. Her orgasms belong to him. Her womb belongs to him. The marks he leaves on her skin—bruises from his fingers, beard burn between her thighs, the evidence of his possession—are deeply satisfying to him. He likes to see her wearing his marks the next morning. He likes knowing that even when he's not inside her, she's carrying proof that he was.
He's also possessive in more symbolic ways. He wants her to wear his colors. He wants her to bear his name. He wants her to carry his children—not just for the sake of spares, but because pregnancy is the ultimate proof of ownership. A child in her belly is a permanent, irreversible mark of his claim.
Breeding Kink
He's already fathered four children with his first wife, but the idea of putting a child in her—this young, beautiful, Valyrian-blooded princess—is almost unbearably arousing to him. Every time he finishes inside her, he thinks about it. He pictures her belly swelling, her body changing, the knowledge that everyone who looks at her will know that she's his, that he's claimed her in the most fundamental way possible. He talks about it during sex sometimes, murmuring against her ear about how beautiful she'll look carrying his child, how he's going to put a son in her, how she was made for this.
in the crucible of war, tying the two strongest houses in a holy matrimony is a scheme easier than any other. you’ve known ormund hightower your entire life, but he is also the man who has broken your heart... in a play of power and game of love, how will you protect your heart from him?
genre/warnings:
suggestive, marriage of convenience, unrequited love, slight enemies to lovers, hurt/comfort, yearning, age gap, mentions of pregnancy, kidnapping, fluff, tyrell!reader (reader is ormund's second wife), takes place during the dance of dragons, spoilers! from house of the dragon season 3
notes:
gif by @/alysmond. wc. 5.5k ! so ormund hightower makes an appearance, james norton is hot and i just watched house of guinness... so here's some brainrot concocted in my brain <3
They said... the best fairytale is the one that begins with a wedding.
The lady of the roses and the lord of the high tower. There was no union more perfect in the eyes of the Reach as the drums of war began to echo across Westeros. You were the vision of genteel grace and elegance while Ormund stood beside you as a stalwart protector.
Men mourned the loss, for the fairest maiden of Highgarden was no longer theirs to dream of, while women looked on with envy, wishing for a husband with the strength and stature of the Lord of Oldtown.
If only they have known…
Had it been ten years past, you would have been the happiest woman in the Seven Kingdoms.
And if fairytales begin with a wedding, then yours was doomed from the start— because long before the day you wed him, your story had taken root in heartbreak of your own making.
You had known Ormund Hightower all your life, loved him when you were young and foolish enough to believe that your innocent heart mattered to him. For years, you had molded yourself into his ideal—you kept yourself pretty, perfected your manners, and stayed up late reading tedious books just so you could casually strike up a conversation on subjects he cared about.
“Only you would throw yourself in the studies of the arts of war. What a charming young lady you are.” He would smile and be amused, and you would bite the inside of your cheek, genuinely believing you were winning him over.
You had carefully crafted your image as a prim, intellectual lady, dedicating every ounce of your grace and intellect to a singular, desperate goal: enticing him.
And you really thought you were at the forefront of his thoughts too—
“I present my victory to you, my lady. And at my behest, name you as the queen of love and beauty.”
The day you were crowned by the dashing heir of Oldtown right after he won the tourney before the entire court was the day you truly believed your girlhood dreams had come to life.
However... Ormund Hightower was apparently a man of distinct taste— and the young flower of House Tyrell was not on his list of potential brides, despite his fondness of you.
“Any good man would be delighted to be the object of your affections, no more so than I.”
It was the night after the news had broken of him asking for the hand of the vivacious Lady Tarly. He had a crooked smile, even as you stared at him with heartbreak shining in your eyes.
“Alas, I am a man soon to be wed. We must cease these meetings, so I ask you not to call on me any longer.”
Your heart died then, and stayed cold for the next ten years.
But fate, working its cruel irony, returned Ormund to you just as the war of succession for the Iron Throne began to tear the realm apart. Although the man before you was no longer the posh new lord of Oldtown, but a seasoned man hardened by politics and a wife who died in childbed.
“Declare Aegon the rightful heir and commit five thousand of your men. In exchange... my protection and the hand of the Lady Tyrell.”
Your good sister, the Lady of Highgarden, who was the regent for her infant son, had wished to remain neutral amidst the ongoing civil war. But the Hightowers were kin to the queen dowager and had been fiercely loyal since ancient times. Confronted with Ormund Hightower’s formidable host and the threat of dragonfire, she simply could not refuse his offer.
However, you had not forgotten the man who had broken your heart.
. . .
“Who would have thought that you would remarry? Your poor wife must be weeping in her grave.”
That was the first thing you said to his face after ten years, and he was entirely unfazed and amused instead.
“Of course, no one is more delighted than I to accept this most generous proposal,” you followed, your voice dripping with sweet venom as you paced before him. “But I wish to settle an arrangement first.”
Ormund leaned back, an intrigued glimmer in his dark eyes. He had a small smile and gave you a nod, gesturing for you to continue. “And what might that arrangement be, my lady?”
“I wish to maintain my freedom. I expect to be allowed to live on my own terms, and that includes being permitted to keep my own counsel, travel as I see fit, and take my own companions.”
Ormund’s lips twitched, as he tilted his head. “Companions? Do you mean lovers?”
You lifted your chin and looked down at him with haughty defiance. “I suppose so. Because frankly, I cannot see either of us engaging in romance in our otherwise unfortunate union.”
How was it that the man who once meant the world to you be the one you felt nothing for when fate twisted its narrative so you could become his wife?
“The rose has grown rather sharp thorns, I see.”
For the first time, you saw how Ormund’s eyes lit with distaste, even if he was ever amused. “As much as I could imagine, I couldn’t possibly allow that. At least for old times’ sake, shouldn’t you grant me the grace of fulfilling the role of your lord husband?”
“Let us speak freely here. If I recall correctly, it is my house’s bannermen you seek, and ten years is a long time,” you scoffed. “We might have been fond of each other once, but we are, at present, not.”
“Oh, but I am,” he countered smoothly, “still very fond of you, Lady Tyrell.”
Ormund finally rose from his seat and approached you with ease. His blue eyes narrowed, and a wicked, knowing smile curled his lips.
“And I have no intention of sharing what is mine, least of all with men lesser than I am. If it is a lover you want, then you will find I am more than sufficient.”
He stepped into your space, a particular yet pleasant smell—from his collection of pomander, no doubt—filled your senses. Leaning down, he whispered directly into your ear:
“At least let me prove to you that we don’t need romance to find… a common ground.”
This man was far more cunning than you had ever given him credit for, seamlessly crafting a trap for you to fall into.
But if he thought he could effortlessly master you like a piece on a chessboard, he was sorely mistaken.
He might have broken your heart a decade ago, but now, you held the shards.
Ormund Hightower, however, seemed intent on making good on his word.
He lavished you with his wealth, stood beside you like a devoted and gallant husband, and before long, even the smallfolk began singing praises of your match—utterly charmed by the sight of their Lord and the new Lady Hightower.
And he wanted the exclusive rights to your bed? Fine. You would grant him lordly dues, but—
—seven hells, you would have never expected that sex with him would be this great.
One time, it had started with him pinning you against the walls of your chambers, devouring your lips like a man in heat. The other time he took his time, worshiping every inch of you until you were weeping his name into the silk pillows, begging for a release he purposely delayed.
And now—
“Haah...”
The breath hitched in your throat as you sank down onto him, the heat and friction from where the two of you were joined striking like a sudden fever. You sat astride his hips, your skirts pooled around you, anchoring him beneath you.
Ormund’s calloused hands were gripping your waist as he let out a grunt, trying to steady himself against a shifting tide. He looked up at you, his blue eyes hooded, blown wide with a hunger that melted away the facade of composed lord from the war council.
This was him entirely at your mercy—
You rolled your hips with a fluid, agonizing grace that drew a ragged groan from deep within his chest. You kept your chin tilted high, meeting his lustful gaze with a mocking smile.
“Is this all it takes to render the Lord of Oldtown into submission?” you taunted, your voice trembling slightly with the pleasure of him, though you forced the words out like a dare. “A woman’s touch?”
Ormund’s jaw clenched, a breathless grin on his face. “Since when... have you become so sharp-tongued?”
“Since I realized pretty words are wind and noble lords are fickle liars,” you provoked, leaning forward until your tangled hair brushed his cheek, your breath hot against his ear. “Now, are you content to let me rule your bed just as Highgarden rules over you?”
Crafty little lady. That was his breaking point.
With a low roar, Ormund seized control. He didn’t unseat you—instead, his hands locked onto your hips like iron clamps, guiding your body into a bruising rhythm that completely shattered your cool. He drove up into you with fierce thrusts, proving with every deep stroke just how formidable he truly was.
The smug defiance bled out of you, replaced by needy gasps of pain as he chased your peak, drowned in his carnal dominance until the world blurred into a haze of white-hot heat and mutual ruin.
. . .
When it was over, the heavy silence of the chamber returned, and you woke to find yourself tangled in his arms.
Ormund lay with his eyes shut, his broad, bare chest pressed against you, holding you fast.
His hair was disheveled, his eyelashes were long, and for a moment you saw your first love again, who stood tall amidst the rose gardens.
How is a man well-known for his faith lure you into thinking of sins?
You immediately tried to pull away as your pride demanded that you re-establish your distance. However, when you moved to swing your leg off him, a sudden ache between your thighs made you wince slightly.
Ormund noticed instantly as his eyes fluttered open. He shifted beside you, his voice unusually soft in the dim light. “Are you sore?”
“I am perfectly fine,” you snapped, brushing his arm away as you reached for the sheets to cover yourself, trying to regain a semblance of independence.
You had expected him to either offer an argument or wear that infuriating smirk. He did neither. Instead, he quietly rose from the bed, and you watched him, expecting him to leave you be.
However, a moment later, Ormund returned to the bedside. He gently pulled back the linen sheet and before you could protest, the soothing, comforting heat of a warm towel pressed against your inner thigh, wiping away the slick remnants with tenderness.
You froze, the sharp retort dying in your throat.
His touch was gentle, devoid of the lust from moments ago and completely stripped of the smugness he wore by day.
“Do not coddle me, Ormund,” you croaked, your voice tight as he pressed another clean, warm towel gently over your lower abdomen for comfort, before pulling the sheets over you.
“You ride like a wanton, yet you are far from used to it,” he sighed softly, as if lamenting. “I would have been gentler, if I had known.”
You fell silent as shame coiled in your chest—a mirror of when you were just a young girl vying for his attention only to face the news of his impending wedding to another woman.
But he is taking care of you now, and you have become his lawfully-wedded wife. And in this quiet gesture, a dam broke in your memory— of a young man who draped his coat over your shoulder as you basked amidst the roses of Highgarden.
“You must be cold. Go inside already,” he would say, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.
You used to dream of his touch, his love, his everything. It was bittersweet how he was yours now, but you were torn between heartache and a desire to pay him back in full for what he had inflicted on you—the bitter, humiliating pain of not being chosen.
“Must you hate me that much?”
You blinked up at him, caught off guard. Ormund met your gaze with a certain sternness you had rarely seen from him.
“...to the point of hurting yourself?” he went on, his brow furrowing as he looked down at you. If you were bold enough, you would presume that it was concern that you saw in his eyes.
Yet… it only made that part of your heart clenched instead.
Why now? Why only after you had hated him enough to last a lifetime? Why only after you had spent nights crying yourself to sleep that he finally turn his eyes on you?
It was so fucking unfair.
“You presume too much, Ormund Hightower.”
Your response was biting cold, yet so soft and whispery. He blinked, a flicker of surprise crossing his features.
“Rest assured, in this very contractual marriage of ours, I have no intention of feeling anything for you,” you continued, your lips curving into a cruel smile. “Other than with my body.”
To your relief, not a single muscle in his jaw twitched, burying whatever thoughts your words had stirred in him.
He shook his head lightly, finally breaking your gaze, a ghost of a smile returning to his lips, though it never reached his eyes.
“So be it then,” Ormund murmured, his voice dropping to a low baritone that carried no warmth, only the absolute finality. “How regrettable though. One may mistake you as the rose, whereas you have long since become its thorns.”
Without waiting for your answer, he straightened, turning his back on you to dress, leaving you alone in the quiet wreck of the bedsheets.
You have done it. You had ensured that his affection would forever remain beyond your reach.
That may be so, but it did not mean the physical hunger between you regressed in the slightest
You had laid with him a few more times afterwards. Each encounter in his chambers was an exercise in numbing hearts— he took you with a demanding dominance that left you breathless and slick with sweat and pleasuring you as if you were the only woman he worshipped.
Yet, as soon as the sun rose, Ormund was back to his cynical self, his crooked smile and calculating gaze ever keen on you. He kept you at an arm’s length though since that night, strutting through the halls of the Hightower as the proud lord he was.
You truly believed you could kill that fragile part of your heart that still yearned for him, matching his coldness with your own pride.
Until the turn of the moon, at least.
“My lady... this is strange.”
The pale morning light filtered through the arched windows of your solar as your maid, Ellyn, tugged firmly at the laces of your corset. You stood before the tall silver mirror, waiting to be cinched into your dress.
“What is?” you asked, feeling how her fingers slipped on the laces.
Her hands smoothed over the small of your back as she tried once more to force the edges of the bodice together. “The laces simply won’t meet. It is as though it has shrunk.”
“Do not be foolish. Pull harder.”
“I am pulling, my lady, but...”
Ellyn hesitated, her eyes shifting to your reflection. Slowly, a realization dawned to her as she stepped to the side. “Oh, my...”
You looked at your reflection then, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.
There, beneath the unlaced corset, your normally slender waist held an unmistakable curve—a slight protrusion in your belly that had not been there a moon ago.
“Bless the Mother,” Ellyn whispered, her hands dropping away as a smile broke across her face, entirely unaware of how your breath had caught in your throat. She beamed at you, asking:
“My lady... your courses— when did you last bleed?”
. . .
“We will march for Tumbleton.”
You were pulled from your daze at the dining hall when Ormund’s voice broke your thoughts.
“You, however, are to remain in Oldtown,” he continued, adjusting the signet ring on his finger. “You know the city and the ledgers. I need a steady hand to rule it in my stead.”
His words passed by at first.
“I’m bringing my ward Daeron and his beast. I have also arranged for the merchant boy to have his hair dyed to stand in his place—”
“A double?” you asked, almost in disbelief. “If anyone notices the deception—”
“They won’t,” Ormund interrupted smoothly, a cold smile touching his lips. “People see what they expect to see. Silver hair, a fine cloth, and the right escort would do to make one a prince. It keeps the boy safe, and more importantly, it keeps our leverage intact. I’d wager sooner or later they’re going to demand his head.”
It was this exact cunning that had captivated you. He was a man who saw the board three moves ahead, possessing an intellect forged for the cruelties of war. The fact that your child would have him as father brought a wave of reassurance, somehow.
But at the same time, dread creeped in— with the news of his departure, the secret beneath your skirts suddenly felt twice as heavy.
Ormund paused, his sharp eyes narrowing as he caught the hollow look in your eyes. His lips crooked.
“No counsel to give? You already wear the expression of a widow grieving a husband lost to the war.”
The barb pierced through your fog, sparking a sudden flash of ire as you gave him a look. “Do not flatter yourself.”
“That’s more like it.” He rose from his seat with a low chuckle. He didn’t see the ghost that seemed to settle over you, nor the way your hand instinctively wanted to press against the fabric of your skirts.
There were barely two days before his banners moved out, and somehow you didn’t have it in you to let him go without any parting words.
“May the Seven guide your path.”
The hollow blessing tasted like ash in your mouth, but it caught his attention. Ormund paused and turned back to face you.
However, there was no warmth in his expression—only an expressionless stare that bore straight through your soul.
“I thank Her Ladyship for her blessing,” he said, his voice dropping into a formal cadence. “Though I find it unnecessary.”
Three weeks had passed since then, and even the air in Oldtown was thick with the apprehension of war.
With Ormund riding out to lead his host, the governing of the city fell upon your shoulders. While it was your first time doing so, you found that you possessed the head and patience for it.
And thankfully, it kept you busy enough to keep the ghost of him out of your thoughts.
Yet at the same time, unbeknownst to you, your devotion to the city made you a conspicuous target.
It happened on a gray morning while you were overseeing the distribution of rice near the harbor. Before your household guards could even draw their steel, men in dark cloaks had surrounded you and cut down the soldier closest to you—
“Lay down your swords!” you screamed, trembling as the smallfolk were sent into a cries of horror after the man’s blood splattered across the cobblestones.
The crowd erupted into a panicked frenzy, scattering like birds before a hawk. Your remaining guards hesitated, their blades shaking in their hands as the cloaked men closed the circle around you.
From the shadows of the docks, a man stepped forward. He wore a dun-colored cloak, his brigandine bore the banners of Targaryen black and red. Men loyal to the Queen Rhaenyra.
“Yes, yes...” the leader sneered, his voice cutting through the screams of the fleeing smallfolk. “Tell them to keep their steel sheathed, Lady Hightower, or we will turn these docks into a slaughterhouse.”
“You dare bring violence to Oldtown?” you demanded, your voice finding its steel despite the frantic pounding of your heart. “Lord Ormund will have your heads on spikes before the moon turns.”
The man laughed, a harsh, grating sound. “Oh don’t you know, my lady? Lord Ormund bit off more than he could chew. Even as we speak, he lies dying in a pool of his own blood in Tumbleton.”
The world seemed to tilt beneath your feet, leaving you hollowed out by an icy shock. Without thinking, your hand flew to your abdomen, your fingers pressing firmly against your velvet gown, trying to find something to hold.
Dying. The word echoed in your mind like a funeral knell. The fortress of ice you had built to protect your heart shattered. For all your vows of indifference, the thought of him bleeding into the dirt tore a jagged wound through your chest.
Your captain of the guards stepped in front of you, his sword raised. “My lady, we can take them. Run for the gates!”
“If a single blade is drawn, my men will cut these peasants,” the leader warned. “We will burn these docks, and every innocent soul on them will die because of your pride. Come with us quietly, or watch Oldtown bleed.”
You looked at the terrified faces of the very people you had spent weeks watching— the women holding their children close, the old men trembling behind the grain carts.
For years, Ormund had protected them as their lord. Even if he is now— No matter how, you couldn’t let his city fall.
You placed a firm hand on your captain’s arm , forcing his blade down. “Lower your sword,” you commanded quietly.
“But my lady—!”
“I said, lower it.” You stepped past him, lifting your chin, refusing to let these dogs see you tremble. Looking at the leader in the eye, you spat, “I will go with you. Spare the city, and let these people go.”
He gave a mocking bow. “A noble choice, Lady Hightower. The realm will remember your piety.”
A rough hand seized your arm, dragging you towards a waiting carriage. The smallfolk of Oldtown wept aloud as they watched their lady—the sweet rose who had looked after them these past few weeks—spirited away into a cage.
Only when the heavy door slammed shut and the iron bolt clicked into place did the stark reality finally crash over you.
Tears welled in your eyes, spilling down your cheeks as you cradled your belly and struggled to breathe under the crushing weight of the very possibility that the man you had once again fallen in love with might well be dead.
There were many things, in truth, that Ormund favored in you.
You always smelled of sweet roses— out of everything, that was probably what he liked the most.
The vast gardens of Highgarden suited you, and he remembered the girl you used to be, the one who had been too timid to look him in the eye at first, but who had beautifully worked herself up to be able to do so.
He knew of your affections— he has always known. It flattered him, though none but himself and the Gods would ever know that he, too, harbored a quiet fondness for the innocent Lady Tyrell.
His little rose. In truth, he had believed that someone so young and sweet as you shouldn’t be bound to a man like him. His late wife—rest her soul, for he had been fond of her too, though it was never a blind, consuming love—had been different. She had been compliant, and more than ready to submit herself to her wifely duties, and she was who he needed when he first took on the mantle of the Lord of Oldtown.
The Gods are cruel, as all men know, especially when his dutiful wife died in a tragedy and he had to turn to House Tyrell to aid his house in its conquest for the throne— only to find you, his rose, still very much beautiful and unwed.
However, that sweet rose has grown thorns. So sharp the thorns that he has almost forgotten how soft the petals are.
You no longer stuttered and conducted yourself with pride that both vexed and captivated him. In the beginning, he had been intrigued by the woman you had become because he was convinced that the gentle little lady of his memories was still there, waiting to be coaxed out.
That was why on the day he took you to his bed and realized the truth—that you were merely performing and he had been anything but gentle—he drew the line.
But you merely looked at him with eyes as cold as winter.
“Rest assured, in this very contractual marriage of ours, I have no intention of feeling anything for you.”
Every time those words echoed in his mind, it felt as though a dagger were piercing his lungs.
. . .
“Lord Ormund! My lord! Thank the Gods you’re back!”
Tumbleton had been a bloodbath, and he barely survived it himself—a blade having pierced his armor and a hair’s breadth from his heart. But the market city had fallen, the Blacks had been broken there with the betrayals of two of their own dragonriders, and in the grand game of thrones, that was all that truly mattered.
However, the moment he stepped his foot back at Oldtown after six weeks, the atmosphere in his own home were grim— his household servants were openly relieved, some almost weeping, as if he was a ghost returned from the grave.
“They told us you were dead, my lord,” the head guard told him somberly. “We thought all was lost.”
“A blatant lie made to weaken our morale,” Ormund hissed, his hand dropping to the pommel of his sword as his wound ached. “Tumbleton has fallen, and I’m far from the grave.”
Still, he sensed something dreadful had occurred by how mournful the maidservants were—
“My lord!”
Before Ormund could demand what had happened in his absence, a shrill voice cut through. Ellyn, your faithful handmaiden, pushed past the other servants, her eyes were red-rimmed from days of crying.
She fell to her knees, clutching desperately at the hem of his traveling cloak.
“You must help her, Lord Ormund! You must bring her back!”
A cold knot of dread coiled in his stomach. He looked down at the trembling girl, his brow furrowing deeply.
And the words she uttered next, as she looked up at him with tear-streaked cheeks, made his blood run colder than when he saw dragons burning Tumbleton.
“The lady! Three weeks ago, while the city was fooled by the news of your death, the false queen’s men took her away!”
They had taken you to Tumbleton.
The market city was ravaged beyond repair. For three weeks now, they had held you hostage in a makeshift holdfast. They gave you barely enough bread and water to keep you alive, and as the days bled together, your hope withered to nothing.
Your unborn child, who grew heavier by the day beneath your heart, was the only thing left to give you the strength to survive this madness.
And as if your situation weren’t desperate enough, through the timber door of your cell, the muffled voices of your captors reached your ears. They were conversing in frantic, hushed tones.
“The smallfolk are rioting in King’s Landing. They’re storming the Dragonpit. The Queen is fleeing!”
“Then what of us? What of the woman?” another rasped.
“Leave her. If the Hightowers find us here, they’ll flay us alive. Set the fire. Let the ashes cover our tracks.”
Alarmed and struck by a sudden, feral terror, you flung yourself against the door.
“Let me out!” You screamed for help, your voice raw, hitting the wood until your knuckles bled.
But the only response was a thud, followed by the crackling of fire and pitch. Smoke and heat began to seep through, as the chamber was slowly being consumed. You were trapped.
Realizing you would soon meet your demise, the strength left your legs, and you collapsed into the dirt, trembling with tears.
I would die, Ormund already did, and I have never told him.
You bitterly regretted never telling him that you were with his child.
As the heat grew unbearable, your mind drifted away to the sun-drenched rose gardens of your home, where you and Ormund Hightower had first met.
He is devilishly handsome and gentle. Your first love who had broken your heart once, but still owns it to this very day, when you would breath your last.
The black smoke filled your lungs, choking the breath from your throat. Your vision began to tunnel, the edges of the room blurring into darkness as you surrenderred to the Stranger.
Then, through the flames, a sudden, violent crash echoed— the sharp ring of steel slicing through. Through your fading, tear-blurred sight, a figure burst through the burning doorway.
You could have sworn you saw the shimmering edge of Vigilance cleaving through the smoke, its blade gleaming. That was the Valyrian steel your husband wielded.
Was it a cruel figment of your dying imagination?
But then, the heat of the fire was eclipsed by the fierce, solid weight of heavy arms wrapping around you, lifting you from the ground. And right against your ear, came a trembling voice you recognized:
“I have you,” Ormund whispered, his voice cracking with a raw emotion you had never heard from him before.
“Hold on to me. I have you, dearest.”
The next time you awoke, you were in his bedchambers in the Hightower.
The suffocating stench of smoke and pitch was gone, replaced by the familiar, comforting scent of the crisp sea breeze blowing off the Whispering Sound. The moment your eyes fluttered open, you saw him.
He was staring down at you, his dark eyes ringed with exhaustion, but shadowed with a profound relief. He was only in a loose linen tunic that showed the bandages wrapping his chest.
“Ormund...?” your voice was a broken rasp. You reached out a trembling hand, terrified your fingers would pass right through him. “Are you... are you truly here? T-they told me you were slain—”
His eyes softened, and he smiled. Not the crooked one or a smirk, but the sincere, tender smile you had fallen in love with ten years ago.
“I’m here,” he assured, his deep voice and scent wrapping around you as he took hold of your hand.
Your first tear fell, and your voice broke into a sob then. Ormund pulled you gently but fiercely into his arms, tucking your head beneath his chin, and you clung to him, burying your head into his chest, weeping for the horror you had survived and the miracle of his embrace.
Slowly, he pulled away. His hand moved from your hair to cup your jaw, tilting your face up. The sorrow in his eyes flared into something primal— and he pressed his lips to yours in a deep, passionate kiss.
He drank you in as if you were the only life-giving water in a world reduced to ash, and you kissed him back with everything you had left. You had the man you loved returned to you, and he had the sweet rose he cherished safe in his arms.
When he finally pulled away, both of your breaths coming in ragged gasps. The tender silence stretched between you, but then Ormund’s gaze drifted downwards.
His large, warm palm rested against your belly, a knowing look in his blue eyes.
“Must you hide so many things from me?” he asked softly, his gaze boring into yours with an intensity that made your heart skip.
“I... I was—”
“Would you continue to do so if I told you that now, it is you who holds my entire heart and soul in the palm of your hand?”
You didn’t even dare to blink, and he held your gaze and a bittersweet smile touched his lips.
“I have always longed for that lady amidst the field of roses,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a rough, impassioned whisper. “Even though she knows nothing of it, even though I know she is too pretty for the likes of me, and even though I have broken her heart... I still selfishly wished I could have her for myself.”
“Ormund...” Your lips wobbled, ingesting every word as the tears pooled fresh in your eyes.
“So know that even if roses bear thorns,” he continued, his thumb brushing a fallen tear from your cheek. “I would gladly suffer a thousand cuts from now on, so long as I am the only one who gets to hold you.”
That was everything you needed to hear. You surrendered yourself to his embrace again, letting him kiss the crown of your head.
Dragons might continue to dance and the kingdoms would burn, but in that fleeting moment within the walls of the Hightower, the bloodstained game of thrones ceased to matter—
For the lord had reclaimed his lady, and their story might lead to a fairytale after all.
he's against the wall. one boot flat, one leg thrown out, wrist over his knee. the lamp is the only source of light around you. golden, warm, the type of light that warms his skin. shorts pulled up but not zipped. not even close to zipped. he didn't bother because he's looking at you.
you're on the floor.
carpet against your cheek. shirt in two pieces. one half somewhere behind you, the other under his boot, you think. skirt rucked up around your ribs. thighs still open because closing them isn't available to you just yet. carpet burn on your left knee. bruises starting on your hips where he held you pinned down because you didn't want to be still and he didn't care. you're wet. not from you. from him. you can feel it cooling on the inside of your thigh, still leaking, thick and slow and too much, always too much. you're swollen. the ache comes in rolling pulses, and you clench around nothing again, missing him already.
bb chased you.
you asked him to and he did. through the dark, through the corridors. no soft hands, no is this okay. just his footsteps behind you getting closer and closer until they stopped and his hand was in your hair and his mouth was on your throat and your back hit the wall so hard the plaster cracked. he fucked you against it first. then the floor. then flipped you over and did it again. you stopped counting after a while. you stopped speaking too. at some point you think you started crying and he didn't stop because you didn't want him to. you never do, and bb knows it.
now he's sitting three feet away from you in the lamplight with his shoulders loose and his mouth soft, his eyes on you like you're the most interesting thing he's ever seen. no shyness. no uncertainty. no ducked chin. just the flat satisfaction of a predator that caught what it wanted and devoured it exactly as he pleased.
your legs are shaking. you can still taste him in the back of your throat. the ceiling won't stay still no matter how hard you squint. his cum is dripping out of you onto the carpet in slow puddles and neither of you is doing anything about it.
you need to move. you will move, you think. eventually. in a minute. maybe in twelve. when your hands work again.
bb tilts his head against the wall. watches you try to blink off your daze. doesn't say a word.
Summary: The moment Baelor sets his sight on you, he cannot look away.
Word Count: 7.5K
Warnings: SMUT, afab reader, age gap (reader around early 20s), baelor is down bad and he makes you his wife, this is kinda romancey before the filth, fingering, oral (f!receiving) he's a munch, piv, lil bit of manhandling, praise, breeding kink, creampie, swearing, pentames, marriage, not plot heavy, if I've missed anything lmk??
Author's Note: MINORS DNI!! hello besties, heheh I hope you enjoy! ugh I could watch him play with his rings all day. lmk what you think, any comments, reblogs and feedback are really appreciated - thank you <3
Hesitant in remarrying after his Wife’s passing, Baelor underestimated just how fast he would fall for you. Utterly and irrevocably.
The Heir to the Iron Throne was under a tremendous weight of pressure to marry again, weighing him down for many moons until he met you, a new lady at Court in King’s Landing.
At your young age, but years into blossoming womanhood, your parents had sent you to the Red Keep to find yourself a match and secure a noble alliance with a larger House. Your house was much smaller than the Lions, Stags, Wolves, Roses and so on.
They had expectations that perhaps an Arryn or Fossoway would suit you nicely, a benefitted match joining your smaller House with a greater noble House.
What they did not expect however, was to receive a raven delivered scroll from the Hand of the King just one moons turn after your departure stating that you were to now be a Princess of Westeros, future Queen and Wife to Baelor ‘Breakspear’ Targaryen himself.
Baelor was taken aback upon noticing your presence within the Keep for the very first time.
His daily duties had him stretched thin on top of the strain in which the Small Council befitted him. ‘An Heir and Spare’ they say. The Crown Prince already fathered two sons but he understood the importance of securing his line’s succession. The King was ill. Anything could befall his beloved sons at any moment, living in this world of violence, sickness and sorcery.
Fretting over decisions for the good of the realm and House Targaryen, he found himself seeking respite within the gardens of the Red Keep. Leaves rustled against the cooling breeze on this hot day. Birds were chirping soundly and the florals flourished after drinking in the sunlight.
Exhaling slowly, Baelor felt relief within his solitude as he strode through the gardens until he reached the Godswood. It was quiet. Nobody else in sight.
And then he spotted you.
Back against the hard bark of the Heart Tree, your focus was etched into the words of the small, leather-binded book between your smooth hands. Your skirts fanned around you and your skin glistened with a sheen of sweat from the heat.
Baelor’s steps fell short, eyeing you. He did not recognise you.
Lost in a daze of the story before you, your features contorted endearingly at whatever was progressing within the pages. Humming in seeming frustration you snapped the book shut, mumbling to yourself, “Why ought he do so? What a cumberworld!”
Finding the corners of his mouth twitch up, Baelor realised he had been staring for more than a moment necessary. Walking closer, your head lifted to his direction, catching his movement.
Embarrassment rushed through your veins as you scrambled to stand, book still in one hand and fluffing your skirts out with the other, upon noticing the zinc alloy Hand Of The King Pin secured onto the man before you. The pin twisted up in scaly plates which the sun reflected off.
Curtseying before him, he noticed the way your plump lips quivered as you spoke.
“Your Grace.”
Soft and subdued, your voice was calming in his ears. He hadn’t stopped smiling, he realised. The closer you drew, the closer he could see every feature of your face. Young, seemingly Valarr’s age and filled with unyielding beauty.
Whichever Lord in the Red Keep had claimed you for his Wife was very lucky indeed, he thought.
“My Lady,” Baelor returned, nodding his head in greeting. “I did not mean to disturb your reading.”
“Not at all, Your Grace,” you rushed out, worried. “I apologise if I have halted your intentions here.”
Baelor could not help but let his mixed gaze linger on you. His eyes were shining against the sunlight as he took you in. One iris so bright blue it reminded you of the Sapphire Isle waters and the other iris so darkly brown that you felt yourself becoming lost in it. The hairs on the back of your neck raised under his watch.
“I came to seek some respite, it has been a busy day.”
You noticed the way his brows pinched together slightly, recalling his troubles. “I will take my leave and let you seek what you need then, Your Grace.”
He wished that you had stayed, a fresh breath amongst his chaotic air.
The second time that the Crown Prince saw you was at a feast hosted in the throne room of the Red Keep. He watched you with intrigue, a young lady trying to navigate her way around the nobles with a visible nervousness through your soft smile as you gently conversed amongst the Lords and Ladies. He thought he had never seen anybody so gorgeous and radiant before. Your features struck him to the core and he could not deny the pull towards you.
Baelor leaned further into his seat comfortably, turning slightly to reach his youngest brother’s ear. “Who is she?” He nodded towards your direction and you instantly stood out in your light pastel coloured gown amongst the dark fabrics of those surrounding.
Maekar’s eyes drifted to where Baelor motioned and he hummed shortly.
“How the fuck would I know? There are always new, young ladies in Court ready to pass their maidenhood to whichever lord gives them attention first. You should know,” Maekar smirked slightly, a knowing glint in his eye.
Baelor only chuckled lightly before stating, “you know none of those ladies have captured my attention, Brother.”
He mulled over whether you were already wed.
Many noble ladies had practically been throwing themselves at Baelor these past few moons, since it became aware amongst the people of Court that he was being made to seek a new wife. Whether it was simply because they thought him handsome, thought him strong and brave or were after the titles that came with being his wife, he did not entertain any of it.
Always presenting themselves to him in tight, uncomfortably high pitched voices, decked out in the most outrageous jewels originating from Qarth and Myrish fabrics draped into gowns, their busts forcefully pushed too far up to reach their collarbones and waterfall of bootlicking compliments flowing towards him.
It had been years since his Wife’s passing and yet, he had not felt a single fraction of attraction or connection with anyone else since.
He settled back into his meal, eyes wandering over to your direction at any opportunity presented, watching you like a Dragon observing a lone sheep before making haste and devouring.
After dinner was had, the tables and seating arrangements were pushed aside by the Red Keep’s staff to make way for social enjoyment and dancing. The Prince of the Realm did not hesitate to approach you with long strides in his poised steps, eager to greet you again.
The group of nobles you were conversing with quickly came to a silence, much to your confusion. You followed their stares which were lingering behind you and slowly tilted your head around to see what had made your peers' words stop.
The Heir to the Iron Throne stood before you, posture straight, yet relaxed. His look was transfixing.
“Y-Your Grace.” Head bowing and body leaning to curtsey, your pulse began to thump through your figure as you lifted your gaze back up to meet him.
“May I have this next dance with you, my lady?” His vocals were deep, articulate and husk. He extended a hand, gracefully awaiting your response.
The group behind you broke out into small gasps. The Heir to the Iron Throne was not known to dabble in such activities since his late wife, no matter how many ladies attempted to be in this very position, which you were blissfully unaware of - being new to Court.
“Of course, Your Grace.” You were in no position to deny the Crown Prince. Your small, smooth hand lifted to meet his extended one with a flush of heat rising to your cheeks. You had certainly not expected this.
He smiled slightly at your bashfulness, large hand taking in the warmth of your smaller one as his thumb moved over your knuckles whilst escorting you in small steps towards the centre of the throne room.
All eyes were burning into you both and you couldn’t help but shake at the unexpected attention. You were far from used to many a people watching your every move.
Baelor felt the tremble of your hand in his and quietly rubbed his thumb gently across your knuckles in an attempt to soothe your uneasiness. Your heart felt like it was going to leap out of your chest.
“No need to fret, my lady.” He began lightly, “I simply wished for an opportunity to speak with you upon seeing your beautiful self.”
His kind words had triggered fluttering within your belly. “T-thank you, Your Grace. How kind of you to say.”
“May I?” He requested permission, motioning with his spare hand, to take hold of your waist. Ever the gentleman.
You nodded lightly, shivering as his arm slithered around your middle, effectively pulling you towards him whilst he raised your already connected hands into the air. His brawny body loomed over you and your chest was near bouncing against him due to your rapid heartbeat. It took all his strength and honour not to look down.
“Do tell me your name, my lady.” He spoke with a smooth, low voice, calming against the hustle of the throne room and others dancing around you to the flow of the music.
Your smooth, youthful skin glowed against the candlelight and his blue and brown crinkled eyes locked with yours deeply as he began to sway with you to the instrumentals reverberating through the Crown Hall.
Your name and House rolled off your tongue as you waited for the visible disappointment to reach his handsome, bearded face. But it never came. And you were surprised.
His heterochromic eyes only twinkled in the flames of the candles situated above on the chandeliers whilst he gazed at you through his dark lashes and you thought him to be strikingly alluring.
Many noble lords attempt to court you until they came to realise the lower level which your House remained at. Men were greedy, power hungry and title seeking. Pretty enough or not, if you were a lady of noble birth who sat lower than the great house of Westeros, many higher Lords would brush you off as if being a common whore.
But Baelor only smiled at you as if your lower status was of unimportance to him.
He recalls the exchange of scrolls with your father, the request to send you here in order to secure a match in marriage. After many moons of pressure from the small council, it seems like The Seven had sent you straight to him.
“Why?” You suddenly asked him with your tender lips pursing plumply and he so wondered what it would be like to lay his own on yours.
Baelor’s mouth moved into a questioning line, a little perplexed. “Regarding?”
“You have many higher noble women to choose from and share a dance with, Your Grace. Many ladies who would be suited better for you.” The hesitancy in your vocals only made Baelor pull you closer and speed up his pace with the increased beat of the music.
“My sweet lady,” he began with a light laugh. You flushed further at his words, becoming breathless amongst the ascending dance movements. “I am the Blood Of The Dragon, Hand of the King and Heir to my Father’s Throne. I have already provided future succession and hold the realm together through many allegiances. Nothing is of consequence to me at this point in my years of living. I have freedom to dance with who I please. And I wish to dance with you.”
Baelor sought you out every day within the Red Keep after that night. Your pretty face, soft voice and gentleness consumed him. He was wrapped up in your kindness, consideration, knowledge and the fanciful interests which you endeavored in.
When he was with you, the responsibilities, pressure and stress of ruling the realm in his Father’s stead seemed to all dissolve and disappear. When he was with you, he did not feel like a Crown Prince of the realm, but simply a man. A man adoring and growing to love a woman as sweet and precious as you were. A man who felt comfort with your presence, gentle and reassuring but inquisitive words.
He knew you were far younger and much more lacking in experience than him but that only spurred on his courting you. He liked being the first man to show and teach you new things that nobody else had before. He liked expanding your perspective on Westeros. And he liked watching you lose composure every time he caressed a part of your body with tender, considerate hands.
Being around you, he felt like a young man again. Excitement running through his veins, shared stolen touches and an unyielding yearning to have you in his arms and never let go.
Passion had sparked between you both and you couldn’t help but nervously reciprocate the Heir’s advances towards you.
Nobody had ever cherished and nurtured you so dearly and genuinely before. When you spoke of any concerns, something you held close to your heart or even just the events of your day, he did not just hear you. He listened to you. Acknowledging every syllable and thought to leave your pretty mouth.
He had begun to seek you out everywhere (much to the Council’s disarray who found their Hand gradually passing more of his duties onto them). From interrupting your daily tasks, library and embroidery lessons to interrupting late noon tea with the other court ladies to sweep you off to the Red Keep gardens for a walk with him. The ladies incessantly held their giggles and gossiping back until the Crown Prince whisked you away out of ear-shot.
Then came the gifts. Treasured jewellery from Essos. Silk gowns from Lys. Ancient books from his personal library within the Keep. And a new bouquet of flowers by the bedside in your chambers every single day when you returned to meet slumber.
After weeks of stolen touches, laughter, deep discussions, sly flirtations and a shared fondness for each other… Today, Baelor had something a little different planned for you both.
Large hand resting on the small of your back, he guided you towards the courtyard of the Red Keep. However, the usually bustly area was completely void of anybody. No members of the Royal Court. No goldcloaks, no Kingsguard following Baelor, and no serving staff were to be seen.
Walking through the halls, you drew closer and suspicion began to fill your senses. Not the bad type of suspicion but the type which had an excited knot forming in the pit of your stomach and made your heart flutter in anticipation.
“What have you arranged this evenfall, My Prince?” You couldn’t help but ask with a growing grin.
Seven Hells, how he loved it when you called him that. Yours. He wanted to be and terribly so.
“Something special for us, my sweet lady.” There was a certain lilt in his voice which indicated something important forthcoming and it made the knot in your stomach tighten.
Gods, how you loved it when he called you that. His sweet lady. It affected you just the same as the very first time he uttered those words to you.
Further down the halls you noticed soft flickering lights, shadows dancing across the stone walls and pillars.
A small gasp escaped your throat as you walked between the stone pillars of the courtyard.
Your right hand lifted to your heaving chest as emotion overwhelmed you from the sight before your eyes. Baelor quickly swerved to your left side, delicately swiping your left hand up into his right one. Your fingers intertwined and you squeezed around his large, rough palm. He squeezed back slightly harder, callouses catching on your smooth palm. A sign of nerves finally overcoming his typically well-composed self.
“This is ever so beautiful, truly.” You gaped at the sight before you and your heart was aflame. He had organised this, for you.
Flamed torches hung against the shaped pillars with candles littering around the floor besides a vast amount of bright, sweetly scented, blooming floral arrangements which created a pathway into the centre of the courtyard where a small table with two cushioned chairs remained.
A crystal flagon of wine sat atop the table next to two golden chalices, flower petals and a silver candle holder organised beside it with small plates of fruits, nuts, crackers and cheeses.
The tiny flames flickered around the flowers on the tiled, flower covered floor, mimicking the shining stars above.
“I know.” Baelor’s affectionate gaze did not leave you as you gushed over and complimented the scene. He smiled and gestured towards the centre, “please sit, my dearest.”
His dearest. Your mind was starting to whirl. You obeyed his instruction, hand never leaving his and pulling him along to follow.
Baelor had the Kingsguard positioned further down each of the halls, under strict instruction to block entry way to the courtyard with no exceptions. He did not want any disturbances.
After three cups of Arbour Gold, nibbling from the placed plates, various topics of conversation, flirtatious remarks and laughs, your head felt tipsy and your heart was thrumming ecstatically.
Comfortably perched on the cushioned seat, your gaze drifted towards the dark night sky, floating across the beam of the moon and the twinkle of the stars.
“I have never felt so at ease and appreciated with you.” You admitted through hazy eyes, still admiring the night above.
“And I, you.” He returned with a small smile, mouth opening to speak further but his words became caught in his throat.
Hearing the hesitation, your gaze drifted back down to meet his and you smiled softly. “What else, My Prince?”
Pausing for a moment, Baelor contemplated his next words. He had spent many late nights in his chambers, preparing for this moment and all of those practiced speeches and words relented as soon as he saw the way you peered at him. So lovingly. So wholly. Like you didn’t see him for all his titles but just him, Baelor, alone.
“I never thought…” he drifted off in thought before straightening his posture to gaze into your orbs. “I never thought that I would be able to find affection with another, after Jena. But you, My sweet Lady, have brought life back into my withered heart. Since I laid my eyes on you for the very first time, I knew that I had to know you. And knowing you now, my heart has never felt so full.”
“Baelor,” his name was whispered breathlessly on your lips and it clung to him, seeping into his bloodstream. You had never used his first name before. He took it as a good sign. Titles and societal boundaries diminished in seconds.
“My dearest, I fear that I can no longer live as I do without you by my side. Without you as my future Queen. The realm is in need of your gentleness and empathetic views. And I am in need of your love. I am pining for you and you alone. There is no one else that I wish to spend the remainder of my life with.” He confessed, bearing his heart on his sleeve. His mix coloured eyes were glistening, tears on the edge of his lash line whilst your own tears already spilled.
Hot on your cheeks and head dizzy from the golden wine, you carefully lifted your fingers to wipe away the wet saltiness.
Before you could respond, the Crown Prince had maneuvered to the floor on his knees and reached to envelop your hands in his. As he rested on his knees before you, tenderly gripping your hands, you smiled through your overwhelming tears of love and devotion.
Bringing your hands to meet his mouth, his smooth, warm lips pressed against each of your palms in a kiss. “Be mine,” he pleaded, looking into your crying eyes. “Be my Wife.”
“Yes.” You laughed lightly, gripping his hands tightly, “and be my Husband.”
The realm was full of delight and celebration.
At first, upon your betrothal announcement to the Heir to the Iron Throne, there had been some uncertainty from the Small Council.
“She is not from a well-known noble House, Your Grace.”
“The Smallfolk here do not know of her, Your Grace.”
“She is not of a strong bloodline, Your Grace.”
“Her dowry is little, Your Grace.”
Baelor did not care. “I have sacrificed much for this realm. There is little consequence in whom I marry now. I have already provided two healthy heirs and there will be more now, as you all requested. Speak ill of my betrothed and you will find your tongues missing the next morn.”
After that, the Small Council became ever gracious towards you. As did the Court, upon hearing that the Crown Prince would cut out the tongues of any bad word against you - not that there was many from your noble peers.
You were kind, playful and clever. The Court had taken a liking to you upon your arrival.
And soon, the wedding ceremony followed. It was a lavish celebration. Baelor never left your side despite the hounds of nobles trying to converse with him, to which he politely dismissed them wanting all of his focus on you. His bride.
There were performances, celebratory activities, dancing and a great feast following your martial vows in The Sept. Lords and Ladies alike travelled from all across the realm to attend the Crown Prince’s second wedding, and to see if his youthful bride was truly as beautiful and kind as claimed.
“Time for the bedding!” A drunken, foolish lord from the Iron Islands shouted out late into the night, amongst the celebrations. The crowds roared with enthusiasm, eager to see the Crown Prince bed his new, young and beautiful Wife. The realm’s new Princess.
Your happy expression fell as the words reached your ears. Lips turning downward into a worried pout as you looked up at your new Husband.
This was something you had not considered with much thought. Being from a small House, the bedding ceremony’s importance was not that of the greater noble Houses. And with Baelor already having been married perviously, the thought of a public bedding ceremony was resting at the very back of your mind. You suppose that was very silly of yourself now.
“Husband, I-I-” you were at a loss for words.
Shaking his head, you had never seen such a fury rise within Baelor. “I will not let any man lay their eyes upon you in such a manner,” he reassured you, taking your hand tightly in his. The cool metal of his rings provides a grounding sensation amongst the chaos and his words calmed your rapid heartbeat.
The Grand Maester approached you both, slyly leaning over to His Grace’s ear. “Shall we prepare your chambers, Your Grace?”
“No,” Baelor gritted out in frustration. “We shall not.”
“But I do think it wise-”
“Rest assured, Grand Maester,” Baelor cut him off, “there will be proof of consummation in nine moons time.”
Swallowing at your beloved’s words, a foreign heat rushed to your core as you clutched Baelor’s strong hand.
And so, your new Husband whisked you away between the crowds of royals and nobles after ordering the Kingsguard to prevent any persons from following you both to your newly shared marital chambers.
Being the epitome of chivalry and justice, Baelor had never once pressed his lips to yours during his time courting you. He knew that your young maidenhood was untouched, no man ever claiming you in such a way before. He hadn’t even attempted to steal a kiss from you no matter how dearly he wished to, especially when he confessed his feelings and asked for your hand. He hadn’t even enlightened you when you leaned into him like you desperately wanted it too.
The door to Baelor’s chambers slammed shut and suddenly you were pushed against it. The hard wood met your back, a harsh gasp left your throat in surprise and all honour left your husband. Baelor was a starved man, itching to feel every inch of you.
His large hand gripped the side of your face, resting on your jaw, fingers peaking between your styled hair at the back of your neck. The contact was so sudden, all air left your lungs as his other hand grasped at your waist, kneading through the fabric as he held you in place.
“My Prince,” you blurted in shock, gazing at his lustful expression. His scent filled your senses, fresh mint, burnt wood and something sweeter surrounded you.
The hair of his beard tickled your face as he drew closer and finally, after weeks of wondering what it would be like, he pressed his mouth to yours.
It was tender, delicate and warm. Your arms snaked up to reach his covered shoulders, pulling him closer whilst you were melting into him.
His tongue dipped out slowly, wet and spongy against your untainted lips, begging for an entrance. Parting your lips under his ask, you began to move yours against his, following your natural instinct as he started to explore your mouth and move with you.
You couldn't help the gentle moan which vibrated onto him. The Dragon had set you alight with his flame and you wanted more.
“Seven Hells,” he grunted against your lips as he reluctantly departed, catching his breath. “The Gods have known how long I have waited to do this.”
“You’re not the only one.” With fluttering eyelashes, you slowly pushed him back further into the room and his grasp on you loosened, allowing you to move him in the direction of the giant four-postered bed.
His lips curled up at your movements and implication. Tonight you wanted him just as much as he wanted you.
“Lay down, Husband.”
Baelor felt like combusting at your command. Blood rushing to his cock, his breeches tightened whilst he sat on the edge of the plush bed to lay back.
You approached him with a sultry look which he hadn’t seen on you before and you shifted your heavy skirts up, knees finding the padded mattress as you moved to straddle him.
“Fuck.” The word left his mouth as he took in the sight of you climbing over him until your pelvis met his. He groaned at the weight of you pressed against his hardening length.
You rested both hands beside his head whilst his large hands dipped under your skirts to caress your smooth, soft thighs. Whimpering slightly at the new feeling of his touch, you leaned down to meet his mouth with yours again.
You may have been a maiden but some of the Ladies you spent time with at Court were not shy about discussing their marital beds. And you listened, learning things which you did not think possible, with Baelor in mind. You expected that a man of his age had expectations and you wanted to impress him. To show him how much you wanted it too.
But you knew him. He was your Baelor. And you knew that he would not fret over the skills and movements you had yet to learn to please him.
His lips were hot against yours, mouth moving hungrily and eagerly tasting you. His hands slowly reaching over the warmth of your thighs to grip your hips tightly and push you onto him.
Moaning at the hardness and sudden friction, your hips jolted at the contact, causing Baelor to grunt. He was painfully hard now, a wetness seeping into his breeches from his leaking tip. It feels like he has waited his whole life to see you like this.
“Grind your hips onto me,” Baelor directed between kisses and you obeyed, small whines escaping you whilst you moved your clothed heat over his hardness.
Calloused hands moving round to cup your arse, he kneaded the flesh, enticing a breathy moan from you. His touch felt passionate and needy and you wanted more, an ache growing deep within your core.
“Just like that, My sweet Lady. My sweet Wife.”
“I-I want more,” you pleaded as he grabbed your cheeks harder, a soft smack making you gasp at the slight sting it left behind.
Before you could process anything else from being too wrapped up in these new heightened feelings, his arms left your skirts, quickly grabbing your torso and flipping you around.
You hit the bed with a quiet bounce, panting as you watched the Crown Prince top you before sinking lower and leaning off the edge of the bed. Your brows furrowed in confusion as he was on the floor leaning on his knees but his strong hands quickly distracted you, wrapping around your ankles, pulling you to the edge - you let out a small squeak in surprise.
“Lift your hips for me,” he ordered, reaching for the thin fabric of your smallclothes and swiftly pulling them down your legs as you complied.
“Oh,” he muttered airless, taking in the sight of you. Heat rose to your cheeks and you bashfully tried to snap your legs shut, never having anybody see you like this before. He only gripped your thighs tightly, pulling you open again to offer your hot, weeping, slick cunt before him. “Gods be good.”
Heat rushed through your body as Baelor took in the sight of your spread legs, tongue darting out of his mouth to lick his lips.
“Do you trust me?” He asked, gazing at you with passion and need burning in his blue and brown eyes.
“Of course,” you spoke earnestly, awaiting his next move.
Lifting his arm, his long, strong fingers moved towards your sopping heat. Slowly, he dragged his index from your wet hole up to your bundle of nerves and you shuddered pleasantly.
“I have barely touched you and you’re already dripping for me, sweet girl.” The low, measured tone of his vocals nearly made you squirm in embarrassment. Was that not normal?
“I-I’m sorry, Y-your Grace.” You fumbled to apologise, not knowing any different, having not laid with a man before.
“No, no, My Wife. And no more royal formalities. You are perfect,” he hummed, rubbing soothing circles on your inner thigh which made you keen. “Let me show you how perfect.”
Baelor had dreamt of this moment, eager to please and devour you, and he shifted your legs so that they rested over his shoulders. His breath was hot on your inner thighs whilst his wet tongue stuck out to drag along your skin, his beard scratchy, making you tingle at the contrast.
A soft whine escaped you, not that you were complaining but you couldn’t help the curiosity that was consuming you. You instantly felt nerves rise within, he knew exactly what he was doing… and you did not. He had done this before and you were lacking.
The ladies at Court had never mentioned their Husband’s head between their thighs.
“What are you doing, Husband?”
A smirk filled his features as his tongue licked up your thigh, leaving a wet trail before responding, “showing you how much I have desired to have you like this.”
As soon as those words left his mouth, his head was swiftly buried in your heat, hot tongue licking up your slit as he groaned, effectively tasting your juices. You expelled a guttural moan, back arching and hands finding their way to grip his short, soft hair. The heat of his tongue licking up your sweet, dripping folds was sensational.
Baelor was aching hard whilst his mouth worked on your soaked cunt, dipping his tongue into your entrance, he had you chanting his name like a sorcerer casting spells.
“Baelor, oh Gods! Mhmmm! B-Baelor, please!” The soft scratching of his beard made his tongue feel all the more euphoric and you never thought it was possible to feel such a way. You clung to his head harder.
He lathered your sweet pussy with his spit, having drunk every drip of you and quickly pulled away, much to your dismay. After a beat, his fingers were back at your heat again and you mewled when his middle finger slowly slipped into you.
“That’s it sweet girl,” he panted, drawling, beginning to work his finger in and out of your wet, velvety walls, “you’ll take what I give you. I need to make sure you’re able to take my cock.”
His words hit your core and you clenched around him, gasping for air. The feeling of his finger curling inside you was doubled as he added another digit and your moans filtered through the air with the squelch of your wet folds as you adjusted to the intrusion.
Baelor continued to pleasure you with his fingers, mouth eventually coming back down to meet your mound with his tongue latching onto that sensitive bud of yours. His fingers curled up, hitting a specific spot within and you threw your head back, relishing in his touch and tongue flicking your bundle of nerves. Your eyes flutter shut, hands finding their way back to his dark, greying hair, pulling him closer to your core, wanting more.
“I never want to taste anything else again,” he mumbled against you, lavishing in your wetness.
Baelor let out breathy groans as you clung to him harder, the vibrations shooting straight against your throbbing heat. Ever so tenderly, he began to spread his fingers inside of you, scissoring you open. Your moans halted slightly as you tried to accommodate the foreign feeling of being stretched open.
His eyes drifted up to you in concern whilst his fingers continued to open your tightness. His length was throbbing in his breeches, begging to be buried deep within your pure pussy, but your discomfort made him pause.
His mouth retracted from your core, gaze drifting over your breathless form. You peered down at the lack of movement, catching your breath. His mouth was covered in your slick, coating his beard and it stirred something within you.
“Please do not stop,” you begged through heavy lids, lashes fluttering against your hot cheeks. “I need you desperately Baelor, I need you deep inside me,” you confessed, giving way to your carnal desires.
And that was all he needed to continue his actions, pumping in and out of you slowly, spreading his fingers within your wet walls as his lips connected with your clit again, sucking your bud until you saw stars. A pleasurable tightness in your lower region, building up so intensely that you thought you might faint.
Your breathy cries of pleasure filled his ears whilst he increased the pace of his fingers, feeling you clench around him.
“Husband,” your voice croaked through moans as you arched your back and pushed your hips up to meet his face. “I-I’m feeling so-”
And then Baelor went harder, sucking your bud whilst flicking it with his tongue, his strong fingers curling up in you so deliciously and repeatedly that you suddenly screamed out, reaching a heightened peak of consuming pleasure.
Waves of pleasure washed over you and tingles spread throughout your body, your soaked cunt throbbing as you leaked all over the Crown Prince’s face and he groaned against you in appreciation, drinking you up and slowing his movements as you came down from your high.
“What the fuck was that?” You murmured, chest heaving in blind euphoria.
Baelor chuckled, slightly shocked at the bad word rolling off your pretty lips, raising his arm to wipe the remnants of you from his mouth and glistening, thick beard.
“That, was the first of many, My sweet Wife.”
He began unbuttoning his doublet as you lay there breathless, stripping the top layers of the expensive materials cut to fit him seamlessly. Despite his older age, Baelor was extremely muscular and his skin was taught around his arms and abdomen until the slight pudge of his lower belly poked out. And it aroused you. Muscular with a soft stomach. He looked like he had been carefully curated by The Seven, themselves.
“Can you manage to stand, My Love? I wish to see all of the beauty that you bare.”
Shifting onto your elbows you pushed yourself up gradually, body still reeling over the new sensations that you just experienced. Baelor’s hands went out to guide and support you. Your legs were shaking as you stood before him and he pressed his lips against yours hungrily.
You could taste yourself on him and you whined when his tongue mixed with yours. His arms wrapped around you, fingers untying the laces at the back of your dress which held it together. Soon after undoing the lacing, he parted, hastily pulled your dress down, lifting you out of it to leave you in one last layer. A thin cotton underdress.
The torch flames within Baelor’s chambers illuminated your every curve through the fabric and he groaned deeply, “I need you, sweet girl.”
Before you knew it, you were stark naked, sprawled out onto the bed with your head beneath the plush pillows as his mouth worked on your breasts, sucking gently and kissing your hardened nipples. Massaging you with his hands, he was drunk on your satisfied moans and tender hands gripping his sturdy shoulders.
Baelor’s hot skin was pressed flush against yours and it felt incredible.
“You were sent to me from the Gods, I have no doubt,” he confessed, worshipping your body. “The most beautiful woman to grace this Realm.”
“I love you,” the words tumbled from your lips and he abandoned your breasts to kiss you feverishly, uttering the same words back to you between kisses.
“I want your cock to fill me up, dear Husband.”
Baelor’s self restraint exited his body at your crass words, his leaking tip aching and wishing nothing more than to dive into your soaked, warm depths.
Immediately, he was rid of his breeches, letting his long, girthy cock spring free to hit his belly before he was back on you, hot mouth attached to your neck, sucking on the sweetest spot which made you mewl.
“I-is it supposed to be that big?” You asked nervously, through your pleasured moans.
“Not usually for other men.” He couldn’t help but grin into your neck. His sweet maiden. His sweet Wife.
Trailing his fingertips down the valley of your breasts, across your stomach and onto your mound, you trembled. The pad of his thumb found your sensitive bud and began drawing slow circles against you. You whined at the sensation, bucking your hips back into him as he laid between your legs.
“Please let me feel you already!” You were desperate to feel his body connect with yours.
“So needy,” he began, leaning back to take his length into his spare hand whilst his other continued to focus on your clit. “You’re going to take me so well.”
Spreading your legs wider to accommodate him with more room, your fingers fiddled with the silken bedsheets, watching his hand move along his cock before shifting closer to tap his swollen mushroom-shaped tip at your still soaking entrance.
“It may hurt at first,” his concerned, mix-coloured gaze never leaving yours as he continued, “do tell me to stop if it becomes too much.”
Heart swelling, you nodded gratefully.
He resumed his movements with his thumb on your bud as his cock head dragged between your folds, picking up your slick. The sensation caused a needy whine to escape your throat.
Baelor pressed forwards, his tip slipping into you and you hissed slightly at the sharp intrusion.
Slowly, he pulled back before sliding into you a bit further and you gasped, clutching the sheets tighter. He persisted slowly, rolling his hips back and forth, inch by inch, as you adjusted to his thick girth.
The circular motion of his thumb rubbing your nub provided the perfect relief of the tight stretch around his length.
You exhaled blissfully, and Baelor could not get enough of the sight before him. Your hair was sprawled out amongst the pillows, eyelashes fluttering, breasts bouncing slightly with each slow thrust he made whilst his cock was slowly delving further into your depths.
“Seven Hells,” he grunted at your tight, sopping maidenhood, “I am the luckiest man in Westeros.”
A smile reached your lips at his words until he was fully sheathed inside of you, the air leaving your lungs as you struggled to catch your breath at how deeply you felt him inside of you.
“S-So deep,” you babbled amongst moans as he began to roll his hips whilst setting and increasing his pace.
“You’re taking me so well,” he let out a guttural groan between thrusts whilst you creamed around his long, thick cock, “you were made for me, sweet girl.”
Soon enough, his cock was repeatedly bruising your womb, thrusting into you at an animalistic pace whilst your knees were hooked over his strong shoulders and your hands tightly gripped his muscular biceps at either side of you - nails digging into his flesh.
“Fuck,” Baelor grunted, thrusting into you deeper, harder, “I want to fill you with my seed.”
You cried out into moans as he hit a particularly deep, spongy spot inside. All you could do was lay helpless as he pleasured and fucked into your throbbing, drenched core.
Your pussy clenched tightly around him after his words and he noticed, a small smile appearing on his face as beads of sweat dripped from his forehead.
“Oh,” he chuckled lowly, voice rasping, “you like that? You want to be stuffed full with my dragon seed.”
“Y-yes!” Your mewls only increased with his pace and cock slamming into your womb. “Let me give you more heirs, My Prince.”
Baelor’s balls tightened as they slapped against your arse, his hips stuttering and he quickly disregarded one of your legs on his shoulder to strum the pad of his thumb against your clit again.
His groans of pleasure mixed with your moans and the wet slapping sounds of where you both connected filled the air shamelessly. The Court could not see your marital consummation but they would definitely hear it.
The same pleasurable tightness from earlier was returning, building up from deep within your core and your whines became louder.
“B-Baelor,” you gasped out, feeling him so deeply, as if his cock was in your throat. “I’m g-getting that feeling again.”
“Good,” he breathed heavily, “that means my seed will take and you will be swollen with my little dragon in time.”
Breasts bouncing rapidly from his unrelenting thrusts, the tip of his cock kissed the deepest spot within you and with the speed of his thumb on your sensitive nub - your body convulsed underneath him, shaking euphorically and tingling with utter bliss.
“That’s it, sweet girl.” He coaxed you through it. “My beautiful Wife. You’ve been so good for me.”
Screaming out his name as you reached that heightened sensation for the second time, you shook along with the waves that crashed over you whilst he continued to fuck you through it.
You moaned lightly, coming down from your heightened senses as you gazed at his agape face through heavy lashes. “Fill my cunt with your seed. Let me give you another dragon.”
Baelor’s pace quickened at your words, hips slamming into you whilst his cock pulsed inside your soft, clenching walls. Groaning deeply, his cock was nestled at your deepest point, spurts of hot white seed shot into your womb, rope after rope whilst his hips stuttered.
The thick wetness shot into you caused you to whine softly as he slowed, filling you with his dragon seed. He dripped out of your hole as he rolled his hips to a halt, still buried within you and head tilted back back in pleasure.
After a moment, he came to his own senses, warm hands carefully lifting your leg back down. Slowly, his thick length pulled away from your seed-filled cunt and you let out a whine at the loss, now feeling empty.
Baelor was breathless as he collapsed beside you, hand reaching for your own as he pressed a kiss to your damp shoulder.
“Are you well, dear Wife?” His voice emphasised concern for you after the abuse he thoroughly conducted to your maidenhood.
“Unbelievebly so,” you uttered, laughing lightly, despite the soreness around your core, chest still heaving. Your body was reeling over the pleasure you had just experienced.
Flipping onto his side, he now faced your naked form with a smile, lifting your connected hands to tenderly press a kiss to your knuckles.
“Maybe a daughter this time,” he suddenly spoke, fondness shining through his orbs. “There are too many sons in this family. She would be a fiery version of you with the Blood of the Dragon.”
You couldn’t help but giggle into the hot air, “hopefully not too fiery.”
Pulling your Husband back closer to crash on top of you, you locked your lips with his in a heated kiss.
